They Say/I Say -- Live and in-person

     This is funny when I think about the incident that took place today.  I am so proud of myself for exercising the They Say/I Say -- live and in-person.

I took my vehicle into Wal-mart for an oil change.  (I know, I know, THEY SAY never take your truck to Wal-mart but I SAY I have some research to do along with some shopping.)

THEY SAY may take an hour, hour-and-a-half at the most.

I SAY okay.  With my notebook in hand, I go to McDonald's for my research.  I place my order; A club sandwich, fries and soda.  Last time I was in a McDonald's was more than two years ago.  I didn't know they offer club sandwiches.  I wonder what I am about to eat.  I search for warning labels to discover there aren't any.  No nutritional print-out, poster, nope.  Nada.  Zilch.  I take my tray to a table and again, I search for nutritional labels or anything else that will explain to me (or warn me) about what exactly I am about to consume.  Once again, I find nothing.  How interesting, the paper liner on my tray announcing that "April is McReady Month".  I have never heard of this and so I scan the paper liner.  Oh, I get it, McDonald's is now targeting those afraid of tornadoes. . .interesting.

I search the grocery aisle to discover all the "fast food" on the shelves. . .

An hour-and-a-half later, I step to the service area and. . .

THEY SAY no, your truck is not ready yet.

I SAY how much longer?

THEY SAY not much longer.

Two-and-a-half-hours later. . .

THEY SAY we are working on it but it may take awhile.

I SAY let me speak to a manager.

THEY SAY (begrudgingly) okay.

A few minutes later, the store manager arrives.

I SAY I don't mind an hour or two but this is a bit ridiculous.  It's been over two-and-a-half-hours and your employees are just now starting on my truck.  Does it normally take over two-and-a-half-hours to do a simple oil change?

THEY SAY oh, we are sorry.

I SAY my time is is valuable.  I am a dissatisfied customer.

THEY SAY oh, let me fix this problem.

Manager steps around the counter, picks up the paperwork, checks the time to realize I was not lying about the length of time.  He jots something on the paper and then steps back to me. . .

THEY SAY your oil change is free of charge.

I am proud of myself.  and now I hear THEY SAY quit procrastinating on your essay Paula and get back to work.

I SAY okay, okay, I will get back to work.

Some McFacts

     I am finding some interesting facts about McDonald's.  Yes, McDonald's does target children with the toys inside the Happy Meals.  "McDonald's averaged 10 million Happy Meals sold in an average week.  After the introduction of the Beanie Baby their sales skyrocketed to 100 million sales in just one week" (Schlosser).
     According to Eric Schlosser, in his essay "Fast-Food Nation: The True Cost of America's Diet" a ". . .survey of American schoolchildren found that ninety-six percent could identify Ronald McDonald.  The only fictional character with a higher degree of recognition was Santa Claus.  The impact of McDonald's on the nation's culture, economy and diet is hard to overstate.  Its corporate symbol - the Golden Arches - is now more recognized than the Christian cross."
     Schlosser then goes on to say that "Americans now spend more money on fast food than they do on higher education, personal computers, software or new cars.  They spend more on fast food than on movies, books, magazines, newspapers, videos and recorded music - combined" (Schlosser).

Hit list. Are you on it???

     When McDonald's first opened for business, their main target was young adults.  Young adults were the ones going to the movies and grabbing a quick bite to eat with their friends.  The meals were roughly the size of today's Happy Meals and that was enough to satisfy these young movie buffs.
     Over the years, the meals grew larger (and so did the eaters).  McDonald's was no no longer satisfied in targeting only the young movie goers for these people were now addicted to fast food, grown up and now having children.  So, McDonald's added a new population to their "hit list"-- the children.  Commercials were centered on happy children eating happy meals playing with happy toys on the happy playgrounds.  Yes, McDonald's once had a playground on virtually all of their locations.  To top it off, McDonald's even offered these children birthday parties.
     Then, as the years passed by, McDonald's started a new hit list of which Americans were no longer their sole targets.  McDonald's ventured overseas.  Overseas meant finding more victims to commercialize upon and hats off to the Golden Arches for finding such a niche.  Yes, the Asians have fallen prey to the McDonald's in China.  For a measly $1500.00 a couple can be married under the Golden Arches.  This festival event comes complete with cheeseburgers for all the guest and even a wedding cake made of pies.  These cardboard boxed pies are stacked into the design of a wedding cake of which guests may feast upon.
     Americans need not fear for McDonald's is back to targeting the Americans.  Just today, the news captured my attention as the news anchor announced the one-day-only McDonald's hiring of 50,000 Americans.  Here's a population that I never thought of targeting-- the unemployed!  I have never worked at McDonald's but I think I will call them in the morning to find out if they offer benefit packages such as free meals to those working.  I will ask if the health benefits are for those who are employed with the company for more than just a few years.  Maybe they offer fitness packages as well?  But, then, the news anchor went on to inform me that McDonald's does have a 90% turn-over rate.  I wonder why?

Oh, The Temptations

     My first reaction to Zinczenko's essay "Don't Blame the Eater" was that of an opposing view.  After all, shouldn't individuals be held accountable for their own actions?  Are not the choices one makes up to the individual?  Shouldn't parents be held accountable for teaching their children proper nutrition?  Moreover, isn't it up to the government to regulate proper nutrition within the public schools?  Aren't there health classes in the schools providing nutritional information?  So, why not blame the eater?  Oh, but as I am doing more research and digging deeper into the skills of the advertising industry, I am finding out more ways to agree than to disagree with Zinczenko's view.  There's a cleverness used in advertising that even the most educated person can fall prey to and succumb to the temptations of not only the golden arches but also something as minuscule as the candy dish sitting upon the desk of a coworker.

Do You Want That Super-sized???

     In his article, "Don't Blame the Eater," David Zinczenko shares his own personal struggles of being overweight.  He grew up eating fast food because not only is fast food so cheap but it is widely available with few to no alternatives. . .especially for latchkey kids.  Zinczenko states that the child obesity problem is all of ours.  He tells of the growing amount of diabetes of obese children and he states the actual medical results.  The funding has increased from "$2.6 billion in 1969.  Today's number is an unbelievable $100 billion a year."  Besides the lack of alternatives, according to Zinczenco, "is the lack of information about what, exactly, we're consuming."  He then points out the fact that prepared foods are not covered under the Food and Drug Administration labeling laws.  Zinczenko believes that the fast food industry is targeting children without issuing warning labels of the health hazards.  He goes on to say that people need to be informed in order to make good choices.

Duh! or Huh?

     In Stanley Fish's essay, Why You Won't Find The Answer in Strunk and White, Fish writes about the difficulties in understanding the well-praised book The Elements of Style by William Strunk, Jr. & E.B. White that was published in 1959 by Macmillan Company.  Fish acknowledges that "Strunk and White's advice assumes a level of knowledge and understanding only some of the readers will have attained; the vocabulary they confidently offer is itself in need of an analysis and explanation they do not provide."
     I agree with Stanley Fish.  While highly educated English Majors may understand the contents and say Duh! while reading it, many other students (such as me) read the book, scowl and say Huh?  For years, the book sat upon my shelf and every so often, I would grab the book and flip it open in hopes of fixing that bad sentence I just wrote.  Each time I flipped the book open, I was disappointed all over again.  Now the book sits untouched on that same shelf.
     In 1986, Mamillan publishing company strived to get it right when they published "The Elements of Grammar" by Margaret Shertzer.  Aspiring writers who struggle with the difficulties of grammar rushed to the bookstores in hopes of learning and improving our writing styles.  Well, Macmillan, you published another disaster and failed me yet again.

The Blame Game

     In the essay, Don't Blame the Eater, the author David Zinczenko makes a strong argument of not placing overeating upon the indulger.  Instead, he blames the calorie-packed foods being served at the fast-food joints.  Fast, easy and convenient foods are what makes people fat.  He then goes on to do the calorie counting at the golden arches.
     While I agree with Zinczenko on not blaming the eater, I disagree with pointing the finger at the fast-food industry.  As I see it, good healthy eating habits begin in the home.  Yes, blame the parents.  Parents need to shoulder the responsibility of teaching nutritional values to their children.  As a parent of two boys, I know the stresses of working full time and attending college and cooking nutritious meals can be overwhelming but I find it easy to stock my kitchen with healthy foods.
     Here is where I could go on a rant about the parents in California suing McDonald's because their children are screaming and crying for Happy Meals with toys.  These parents want the toys taken out of the Happy Meals.  I say, keep the toys and tell your children to be behaved.  Come on parents--PARENT UP!

I Dream of Better Days

     The American Dream for me has somehow turned into a nightmare.  Each morning I hit the snooze button in hopes of avoiding the inevitable--that of going to my job.  Each morning as I climb out of bed I remind myself that there are bills to pay and for now, that is enough motivation to get myself into the shower, get myself dressed and then rush off to the warehouse where I trudge through eight hours of sheer misery.  The warehouse in which I work has two ways of controlling the elements; doors open or doors closed.  There are no heaters installed for the winter weather nor are there air conditioners to help me tolerate the summer heat.  Eighteen-wheelers are constantly backing to the docks, their exhaust fumes filling the air as my crew does the loading and unloading of cargo.  The cardboard dust from the boxes lingers in the air.  Those with allergies need not apply.

I Needed to Know Him

     As a child, I imagined having an older brother, someone who is exactly like the big brother shown on the television.  The commercial blared at me, capturing my attention; "Be a Big Brother," it advertised.  "Help mentor, tutor and guide our youth."  I envisioned having a big brother of my own, one who was so gorgeous that all my friends will stare and flirt with him while he changed the flat tire on my car.  I hoped my big brother would be masculine enough to beat up my loser boyfriends and protect me from the evils of the world.  I knew he existed.  I heard his name mentioned once.  I secretly asked my sister about him.  She wrote down my brother's full name, told me to look him up when I turned eighteen years of age, and in the meantime, never mention his name again.  The summer after my eighteenth birthday, I went searching for my big brother thinking that together he and I could live the life I so desperately wanted to live.  When I found him, my illusions shattered and my heart splintered.  I felt as if a thief broke into my soul, stole all my dreams, then stuffed them in a postage-paid envelope, and mailed my packaged future away without a return address.

Confessions of a Jackpot Junkie

     The only parts of my true identity that I bring with me as I step inside a casino are my driver's license and social security card and that is because both forms of identity are needed to claim a jackpot.  The only people who will know of my true identity are my gambling partners who accompany me along with the casino cashiers who issue me the winnings.  Everyone I meet along the way, whether they are my opponents at the high stakes card tables or the talkative people who sit next to me at slot machines will know me as Anna Jones.  (I will even go so far as to show them a fake ID).  Hiding my identity is only one of the many strategies I use in being a Jackpot Junkie.  In the past two years, I have learned that other gamblers are not my friends, I have learned how to play the gamblers psychological warfare on other Jackpot Junkies and, worst of all, I have learned how to "sandbag" on my own gambling partners.  (Sandbagging is hiding winning money from your partners so you can line your own pockets with the cash).  To up my odds of winning, I (along with one of my gambling partners) took a job at a casino to learn the operations of surveillance and security measures within the casino.  I have also learned that dangers lurk within every casino and gambling wreaks havoc in so many ways on a Jackpot Junkie's life.

Waiting for the Morning

     Tonight I am sitting inside a Minneapolis train station as a blizzard rages across the Minnesota sky and I am not dressed for it.  I inwardly curse myself for not having grabbed my parka or snow boots before leaving the house two months ago.  Mother's words and her actions slammed me so senseless that I did not stop to think about the weather.  I merely grabbed a few belongings before stepping out of the door.  Tonight I sit on this hardwood bench because the concrete flooring is too muddy, too wet and much too cold for me to stretch upon.  I am waiting for the morning because tomorrow is my birthday.  Tomorrow I will be 14 years old.  Tomorrow the blizzard will have passed and I believe that life is somehow better for a 14 year old.  However, tonight I am shivering cold, I am frightened and I am still 13 years old.

Comes the Rider of the Black Horse

     My attorney leaned across his mahogany desk and then firmly spoke, "Paula, this is your way out of a bad situation.  I suggest you take it."  I remained stoic as he continued speaking, "This path will not be easy.  There will be repercussions.  I will lead you through the court system but that is as far as I can go.  After that, you are on your own."  I must have sighed, blinked, or even moved the corner of my mouth to indicate in body language that I was not confident in the undertaking because his voice became louder, his words more pronounced as he stated, "Take the path out, Paula.  Any path will be better than the road you are on."  I stood, thanked him for his time and then turned to leave.  I reached for the doorknob but before I could turn it, I turned around to face my attorney.  "They will kill me."

Temptation on Ice

     The ice and snow blasted across Oklahoma leaving me stranded inside this house for days.  I am usually a homebody, a person who enjoys staying home to catch up on reading and writing, but after three days of paging through books and trying to write a short story, boredom set deep within my soul.  For a few moments, thought seriously about taking my son's Mercedes out on the ice.  I found ways to justify this by telling myself, "After all, it is a junk Mercedes" or "The car has insurance" and even "I bought him an Acura for graduation".  I thought about spinning the tires out of the driveway and then skate the Mercedes onto the main road where no other driver dared to venture.  I thought of how I would mash on the gas pedal to allow the car to slide sideways but then I remembered that the braking system on this junk Mercedes needed replacing.  Yet, the more I thought about spinning 360's without brakes, the more I thought about how brakes are not needed or used on ice.  I reached for the car keys.  I had those keys in my hand but before I could step outside, my brain switched gears with my conscious asking me "How would you explain to Justin that you wrecked his Mercedes?"  I closed the front door, stepped to the kitchen and placed the car keys back inside the cabinet.  I decided to clean the house instead of wrecking the car.  Wrecking a Mercedes seemed more adventurous but, then, I knew I could not wreck the image of being a responsible adult because even though a Mercedes can be repaired, a parent cannot easily fix a shattered image.  I reached for a broom.
     As I began sweeping the floor, I thought about the house in which I live.  I know a house is a reflection of the person who resides within the walls and soon I found myself doing some much needed soul searching.  Yes, I built the house addition, I picked out the oatmeal colored carpet and even painted the walls white.  Is this a reflection of me? I asked as I as I plugged in the vacuum.  Maybe it is not so much the building of the house that reflects the true me but more the contents of the house in which I filled the rooms.  I turned off the vacuum and started searching for the item -- the ONE item that reflects my true self.
     My living area is filled with musical instruments.  A drum set in the corner, a piano along the wall, a guitar next to the piano, a banjo in the opposite corner and yet, these are not me, they are a reflection of a stage in my life in which music played a part.  Ditto for the record player, the albums, the CD player and the shelves of music Cd's and even music books.  As I dusted down the walls, I thought about the paintings but no, even though I am an art lover my walls are filled with the Vincent Van Gogh paintings in which my son purchased.  The Sistine Chapel is a painting I purchased for my son's 13th birthday at his request.
     I started a load of laundry while my mind flashed through all the appliances within my home.  No, I am not a washing machine or dishwasher as those items are meant to clean and I hate cleaning.  I also believe that a little bit of dirt in one's life is a good thing --much like an untold secret.  I am not a toaster or a blender or a coffee maker because those items are too easy to use and I am much too leery of people who enjoy putting something (as in thoughts, beliefs, or morals) into me only to take it all back out for their own enjoyment.  I am not the stove top, the oven or the microwave for even though I enjoy cooking, I sometimes burn the ingredients and I hate getting burnt by recipes of friendships gone sour.
     I stepped inside my office and glanced around taking notice of the massage table, the massage chair, the charts on the walls, the office desk with the books and computer.  No, nothing here that reflects me.  This office resembles work and though I am a workaholic, I enjoy playtime more.  The office did not need cleaning ans so I closed the door.
     Maybe I am a door?  A door is used, nope not me.  Maybe I am a light switch?  Turn me on and I light up your life, turn me off and I leave you in the dark.  Nah that seems too simple to be me.  I stepped to the next room which is the bathroom but that room reflects too much cleanliness along with items used for cleaning: toothbrushes, toothpaste, soaps, shampoos, toilet paper, washcloths and towels and though I could clean up some of the messes in my life, those items are not the real me.  I stepped in front of the mirror thinking that is a reflection of me only to discover the mirror reflects the physical me and I am soul-searching.  On to the next room I went.
     I opened the door to my bedroom.  My eyes first captured sight of all the books stacked upon rows of book shelves.  I do hold my emotions in, so I could be a book shelf.  I stepped closer to the books thinking maybe there is a book on this shelf that most resembles me but no, these are books written by strangers who are unaware of my existence so no, they did not write about me.  I turned around to the bed thinking perhaps I am a blanket for I do tend to cover my true thoughts and feelings from people but I am not a blanket either for a blanket covers and warms those within and I do have close friends in which I share the warmth of love and friendship and I do uncover tidbits about myself.
     As I turned to step out of the room, I discovered the the Kandinsky painting that is hanging a bit too low on the wall.  I meant to higher the painting but never had the time.  Well, today I have the time.  I reached under my bed for the toolbox, drag out the box, flipped open the lid to discover that I and that toolbox have a lot in common.  A toolbox is used to store tools in which to "fix" things and I happen to have that "fix-it" personality.  Things in my life that are broken do not need tossing out, those things just need fixing.  Yep, everything from that broken chair in the corner of the room to that toxic relationship that is going nowhere I should toss out of my life and yet, I keep these things and people in my life thinking that I can fix whatever needs fixing.
     As I drill another screw into the wall in which to hang that Kandinsky painting, I realize that not only do I use those tools in which to fix things around the house, but I resemble the tools used in fixing things.  Like that hammer used to drive that nail home, I have been that hammer and I have been that nail for I have hammered my beliefs into others and like that nail, I too, have been used to hold things together.  Like that screwdriver and screw, I have been screwed and (much to my dismay) I have to admit that I have screwed other screws in my life and will even go so far to admit I have screwed up my own life in some areas.  I have used the tape measure in measuring my friends and their loyalty.  I have used the leveler to level out the imbalances of those friendships.  Like that wrench I used to stop a water leak, I have turned leaky pipes within my family relations in hopes of stopping of flood of emotions form bursting through at family gatherings.  Then there are the pliers.  I have used pliers to wist wires together in hopes of binding two things together that may or may not need to be held together though at the time, I thought these two needed to be intertwined.  There are the wire cutters in which I have cut through the same wires when the wires of friendship needed to be cut.  The crowbar is the worst of my personality because I use it to pull the bent nails from my life and I hate the sound of screeching nails as they are ripped out from the boards, much like those toxic friends in which I have to pull away from my life.
     As I am digging through the toolbox of treasures I discover a tire gauge.  I do not know why this is in the box because it should be kept inside my truck.  I put on my coat and gloves and step outside to my truck.  There, inside my glove box, is my tire gauge and so I step back inside the house, to the kitchen cabinet to retrieve the keys to the Mercedes.  Back outside to the winter weather I go, snow crunching beneath my boots as I step to my son's car.  I unlock the door and then search the glove box for the tire gauge.  There is not a tire gauge inside his car and so I neatly place the one in my hand inside the glove box.  I sit on the driver's seat, put the keys inside the ignition and justify starting the Mercedes "to be sure the car will start in such cold weather".  The car does start.  I sit long enough for the heater to warm the air and defrost the windows and then I reach for the shifter in which to put the car in reverse. . .

Radish Sandwiches

     My father was a strict, stern man.  A serious man with a firm hand.  He seldom smiled--I am not sure if this was because he did not enjoy life or if his past haunted him.  He was raised in an orphange, joined the Army (he preferred the airforce but his color blindness excluded him from that field).  He served in the Korean war, came back to the States and spent time as a firefighter.  He later became an over-the-road trucker.  I did not see my father much because he spent months at a time trucking through Canada and Alaska.  My father did not speak much.  In order to know what he was thinking, a person would need to learn how to read his eyes.
     One spring day, after the school bus dropped me off at the end of the quarter-mile driveway, I trudged through the slosh of the melting snow, scooting my boots along the snowbanks and kicking snow into the air.  I stepped across the railroad tracks and looked to see the house in which I lived.  In the driveway next to my house was my father's 18-wheeler.  Uh oh.  In my first-grader mind, I flashed all sorts of scenes: would he be mad because I was playing in the snow?  Is he going to spank me? Maybe he is sleeping?  Maybe I will be spanked for getting my snowmobile boots all wet and clogged with snow?  I stepped to the front door, glanced at my boots and decided to use the back door.  The back door entered into the utility room where I could remove my boots and hope that father would not notice.
     I removed my boots, removed my snowmobile suit and hung up my hat and scarf.  I quietly stepped through the hallway in hopes of not waking my father and as I entered the kitchen, I discovered my father sitting at the kitchen table eating a sandwich. I quietly stepped up to the table and whispered a "Hello."  I looked at my father, glanced at his sandwich and then back to him.
     "Are you hungry?"  Throughout the years, there is a couple of things I learned about my father: one is that he did not like to eat alone and the other thing is - is that he always offered food to people.  As an adult now, I realize that these actions of his stemmed from having grown up during the Great Depression.
     "What are you eating?"
     "A radish sandwich."  For a moment, I sat at the table watching him eat another bite of the sandwich.  After he finished eating that bite, he instructed me to get the radishes out of the refridgerator.  I stepped to the fridge, opened the door and looked for whatever radishes might look like.  "The radishes are in the bowl of water," my father informed me.  I reached for the bowl of water containing the small, round red things that I thought he was talking about.  I carried the bowl to the table.  By now my father had two slices of bread out of the wrapper and I watched as he buttered both slices.  He took the paring knife from his plate, reached a hand inside the bowl for a radish, and then I watched as he sliced the radish.  I watched as father neatly layered slices of the radishes onto the bread.  He took the salt and pepper shakers, shook a bit onto the sandwhich, placed the other bread on top and handed it to me.
     As I took the sandwich, a couple radish slices fell out.  "Hold the sandwich tighter," he instructed.  "Or go ahead and squish the bread down to hold the radishes in place."  I squished the bread, well, actually I flattened the bread.  I took a bite of the sandwich.  I felt my father watching me as I ate that first bite.  I tried to keep my table manners in check.  I took another bite and before I had even swallowed, I started asking my father questions.  "Why do you keep the radishes in a bowl of water?"
     "Keeps them fresh and crispy."
     "Oh."
     The conversation went on for the length of me eating that sandwich.  This conversation was one of the few I ever spent with my father.     

Paint the World Ugly

     Ever notice all the Uglies wandering around the world today?  You know, all those people who have this way of painting your world ugly by negative comments and actions that seem to throw you into a bad temper?  Uglies are people who trash everything beautiful in your life and then leave you holding the bag of trash.  Well, today I am one of those Uglies and I am going to trash everything.  Yep.
     I hate today.  I hated yesterday even more but I know next week will even be worse so I might as start ranting today.  Now, I know that there are justifiable "hates" in the world as in the robbers who burglarized my home.  Yes, I hate them.  Then there are the unjustifiable hates as in hating the robbers who burglarized my home because the specialists say I should hate their actions but not the robbers.  I hate when people tell me how I should hate.  Sure, I do hate the robbers' actions but I also hate the robbers for only ugly people would do the evil act of stealing from me and I hate ugly people.  I hate the specialists for telling me that "beauty is only skin deep".  My reply to that is "Yes, but ugly is to the bone."
     I hate waking up before the alarm goes off which happened to me this morning.  I hate when I cannot fall back to sleep knowing I need the much needed sleep.  I hate sleeping pills because they do their job of making me sleep and I hate being made to do something.  So, since pills are not my thing and sleep has eluded me, I crawl out of bed, stumble to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.  I hate that I did not set the coffee maker the night before but, then, I am up early this morning, which means my coffee would not start brewing this early anyway.
     I hate that I have not gone grocery shopping which means I do not have food inside the house in which to fix a good breakfast.  I hate that I am not on food stamps as this means that I have to purchase my own food.  I hate those that are on food stamps because this means that my taxes are buying food for them.  That just seems so unfair to me and I hate unfairness.
     I hate that I have to clean the house.  I should be grateful now that my son is off to Baylor, which means I do not have to clean up after him anymore and yet I hate that he is not here to clean up after me.
     I hate when the telephone rings after ten o'clock in the evening or before seven o'clock in the morning.  This morning my phone rings and I hate to answer but I do answer because I am thinking there is some god-awful emergency.  I do not have caller ID as that cost money and I hate giving the phone company more money than is needed for their services.  Ditto for the plumbers, carpenters and electricians who hate when a single woman (such as me) calls in the inspectors before paying the bill.  Besides, I justify now having a caller ID because I like surprises as to who could be calling so early.  Oh, the voice on the line is that of my brother who is on his way to work.  No emergency here except that he wants to unload his ugly trash on me.  Not today because my bag of trash is uglier than his sack of crap.  My brother hates working at Wal-mart.  Yeah, well, I hate Wal-mart and I do not even work there.  I hate my brother for hating his job; at least he has a job.  I hate all those employed people who sneer at the unemployed as if we are incompetent to be inside the workforce.  I hate all the unemployed for griping about not being able to find a job.  I hang up the phone even while my brother is still speaking.  I hope I ruined his day.
     I am on my way to the nearest fast-food chain and I hate that I have so far to drive.  Yes, the nearest Town from me is at least ten miles in all directions.  I hate waiting in line at the drive-thru and I hate that my radio station is not playing sing-along songs.  I hate that I have to reach my left arm out the window into the freezing cold air just to push a button.  This place ought to install a honk-your-horn-for-service device.  I hate that I have to repeat my order to the metal box but I am sure the voice behind that metal box hates when I reply, "No, I said I wanted. . ." and then I repeat the order verbatim.  I hate when the voice suggestive sells "Would you like to try an apple pie with that this morning?"  I want to scream "Hell no!  If I wanted apple pie this damn early I would have ordered an apple pie!"
     While in town, I hate the fact that I have to spend my money on tools.  I remember that my ex-husband took all the tools with him after the divorce and that fact has me hating him all over again.  I hate myself for not changing the locks fast enough to stop him from weaseling in and taking the tools that I would have gladly thrown at him.  I honk at the vehicle in front of me with the hand that holds the sausage biscuit because the driver in front of me is oblivious to the fact that the light has turned green.
     I hate hardware stores.  I hate auto-parts stores even more.  Of course, I could shop at Wal-mart or better yet, call my brother and have him pick up these tools with his discount card and now that I think of this option, I hate myself for having hung up on him.  I hate the checkout clerk who cannot count my change back to me and instead, pushed the money along with the receipt into my hand.  As I step outside, I see the smoker so rudely tossing his burning cigarette butt to the ground.  I hate smokers.  Besides the awful odor, smokers are costing this country thousands of dollars in medical care.  I hate the nonsmokers for telling me that I should quit smoking because smoking might kill me.  Yeah, well, I have a reply to that one "My NOT smoking might kill you."
     On my way home, I hate the driver in front of me for driving the speed limit.  Come on, drive faster.  I hate the person behind me for tailgating and then passing me after I passed the car that was in front me.  What a jerk!
     I check the snail mail to discover bills.  I hate bills.  Instead of retrieving the bills, I leave them stuffed inside the mailbox in hopes that the mail carrier will return to sender.  I hate the junk mail enclosed with those bills.  I know I should heed my father's advice when he told me to send that junk mail back with the payment.  Yeah, well, once I get the money to for the bills I will do just that.
     I hate the thought of using my new hammer and screwdriver to do fix-it stuff around the house.  I hate home ownership.  I hate the homeowners who say they own their homes and yet do not even have the house paid for.  Those folks are not homeowners.  They are mortgage holders.  I actually own my own home.  Yes, my house is paid in full and I hate myself at tax time because owning a home means I do not have a tax write-off.  I hate people who itemize everything on their tax forms and then receive huge tax deductions, which results in a gigantic tax refund.
     I am not sure which is worse: owning a home or owning a car.  I hate owning a vehicle because owning a vehicle means that I have to pay the high cost of fuel to run the damn thing.  I hate getting oil changes.  I hate having the tires balanced and rotated.  I hate changing flat tires along the side of the highway.  I hate wasting money on car tags.  I hate paying the insurance bill just to verify I am allowed to drive the vehicle.
     I hate myself for not stopping by the grocery store on my way home but I hate grocery shopping.  I hate the overwhelming decisions that go along with grocery shopping.  The dreaded aisle for me is the cereal aisle.  Who needs all those unhealthy choices?  I hate standing in the checkout lane behind the couple with screaming babies.  I hate waiting on the people in front of me who have their carts stuffed with chips and soda and frozen pizzas and I hate watching them swipe their food stamp card.  I think those on food stamps should have to purchase healthy foods and limit their intake of such foods because I hate fat people.  I hate skinny people too.  I know skinny people eat just as much as fat people but their metabolism works at a much faster pace.  I try revving up my own metabolism by drinking as much caffeine as possible and still I am a few pounds overweight.
     My telephone rings again.  This time I do not answer it as I am busy hammering away at a nail.  My brother leaves a message saying that he has just found out he has a funeral to attend next week.  I hate funerals because I hate when people die.  Of course, I hate when people live too because people suck.
     The phone rings again and I hate that too.  I hate when the phone rings on my day off.  This time the voice on the answering machine is that of my best friend Cindy.  She is inviting me over for supper.  I hate that I have to call her back.  I hate myself for telling her that I will be there but a free meal is a good thing for someone who hates grocery shopping.  I hate Cindy.  She is too perfect.  Cindy has a perfect figure with perfect poise.  I hate her perfect husband and her perfect children.  I hate her perfectly clean house and I hate her perfectly manicured lawn.  Yes, Cindy lives in a perfect world.  I can change all that by dumping my ugly trash on her.
     I hate hating.  All this hating is giving me a headache of the serious kind.  I hate that I have to take an aspirin to get rid of the headache that is getting worse by the second.  I hate that I just tripped over the bags of ugly trash that I overloaded with my uglies.  What am I going to do with all this trash?  Ah, think I will just burn it all and then take a nap.  I hope when I wake up my world is painted a different color.

I Am An Essayist?

     I remember that second essay assignment in English Comp I.  The professor said the essay had to be a personal essay with a minimum of three pages.  Ha!  I can do that.  The key word for me was minimum.  I felt so proud of myself as I handed in fifteen (yes, FIFTEEN) pages of a personal essay a true story of an event that shaped my life (and not for the better).  What a shock for the professor when I plopped it on her desk.  What a shock for me as she handed it back without a grade and exclaimed, "I said an essay, not a short story."  I argued that my pages were that of an essay.  She said an essay is "true".  I responded with a scowl that the essay I handed in is true.  "But it is a short story, not an essay."  This conversation had me following her into her office where she would sit me down on that wooden chair next to her desk (I later wrote a short story about that chair referring to it as an electrocution chair).  So there we sat, inside her office as she explained over again exactly what an essay is and what an essay is not.  Focus and discipline, she said, were the two things I lack.  I left her office pouting and promising myself to look up the words "discipline" and "focus" in my dictionary.
     I looked up those words and since then have dreaded writing the essay.  I want to blame myself for having A-D-D with a type A personality along with my love for caffeine knowing all these are a lethal combination when it comes to writing an essay.  I thought about going to my doctor and asking for a prescription that included focus and discipline but decided against it because I like myself.  Therefore, instead, I cut back on the caffeine.  Well, I cut back just a little bit.  I also promised myself to try harder at staying focused and disciplined when the task of writing an essay enters my life again.
     On writing the personal essay, I have since discovered that I do like to meander into unexpected places instead of taking a straight path from A to B.  After all, where is the fun in shooting straight?  Unless one shoots an arrow or fires a gun, why make a straight shot?  As long as I end up at the same destination, who cares what roads I take to get there?  I enjoy the scenic routes, yes, even in writing.
     Now that I am rereading page thirty-eight in the book "The Art of the Personal Essay", I found a line or two that has me wanting to show this page to that same professor.  "The essayist must be a good storyteller."  I have the urge to go sit on that wooden chair inside her office and plop those fifteen pages back on her desk and say "There!"  But, then, she would probably hit the button and have me electrocuted.

I Failed.

     I failed to be who he wanted me to be which resulted in a disastrous marriage.  I do not blame him for our divorce, as I am wise enough to know that both a marriage and a divorce take two people.  However, I blame myself for the farce of a marriage I seemed to live for maybe; just maybe, I portrayed to be someone I was not.
     Like the start of most marriages, we were friends, lovers, companions and we had that wedding bliss.  We thought we knew each other and what the other person expected of us, though we could keep our friendship flourishing and our marriage adventures happy and spontaneous.  For a while, we managed to do just that.  So, what the hell happened to us?  Looking back, I realize our marriage fits so perfectly into the saying by Bill Watterson, "Know what's weird?  Day by day, nothing seems to change. But pretty soon, everything's different."  After ten years of loosing myself, I found myself filing for a divorce.
     Before the marriage, Charles and I had much in common:  Horse training and showing, music, swimming, favorite foods, place of employment and even trucks.  However, I failed to see the differences in these common similarities.  Though we were both into horse training and showing, he was training roping horses and showing in rodeos while I was an English rider and showing in Hunter Jumper classes.  His music was country; mine was classic rock.  He liked the Chlorinated pools while I preferred Baquacil.  He enjoyed the home-cooked meals while I enjoyed the local restaurants.  We worked at the same factory though he was a mechanic and I was a line keeper.  So, in all honesty, the only "things" we had in common is that we both drove Chevy trucks and pulled our horse trailers.
     I cannot say exactly when our marriage started falling apart.  Was it when I became pregnant and Charles insisted I quit my job?  Was it when he heard about Christopher Reeves having an accident while riding Hunter Jumper? (An accident that left Christopher Reeves paralyzed).  I remember that day vividly as Charles and I and our two boys sat at the dinner table.  I mentioned to Charles that our newest horse is showing great promise in Hunter Jumper.  I asked him if he would build me a couple of jumps higher than those I already used.  He did not answer but he did leave the table and head out of doors. I assumed he was going outside to build those jumps.  Instead, he loaded up the horse and took it to the nearest sale barn.  (Only after our divorce did I find my English riding equipment).  Or maybe we started heading for divorce court the day I started talking about the latest short story I wrote and he rudely interrupted me telling me he was not interested in my writing.  Or maybe he was thinking about a divorce at the New Year's Eve party we were hosting at our home and one of his friend's brought a guitar over.  His friend asked me to teach him how to play "Free Bird" so I did all the while noticing that glint of disapproval in my husband's eyes.
     Whatever the reasons, I slowly discovered I was becoming a person I did not enjoy being.  I was not training and showing horses anymore, instead I was working out at a fitness center, getting my nails manicured, my hair styled more often than needed knowing my husband preferred a "Barbie" image.  My truck and trailer were sold for a family car.  My writing was pushed aside for more important doings such as cooking and cleaning and dishes and laundry.  The chores I despised seem to take precedence over the career-oriented person I once was.  The worst happenings within my marriage is that I never thought, never dreamed of being that wife who would live in denial.  I used to laugh at the news when the media announced that some woman had no idea her husband was a rapist or mass murderer.  How could she not know?  What a fidiot! (My made-up word for fucking idiot). So, when I suspected my husband was doing drugs, I confronted him on the matter.  He denied it and I believed him.  Once I found some white powder in a plastic baggie hidden inside the bathroom, I confronted him with the evidence in my hand.  Again, he denied it saying that the powder was from the factory and that he needed to have it tested for whatever chemicals may be inside it.  I believed him.  Well, sort of, sort of not as I did start monitoring his behavior.  Then, when I found another baggie of the same stuff, I wised up a bit. I scheduled an appointment with a psychiatrist for surely, Charles would not lie to a professional and certainly, the psychiatrist would see through a lie and inform me of the truth.  Charles said he was not involved with any drugs, the psychiatrist assured me Charles was telling the truth and so I left the office feeling foolish for having suspected the worst.  On my drive home, I reflected on the white powder and my husband's behavior.  I decided that perhaps I was creating images inside my mind for maybe I wanted to turn him into a monster; maybe I wanted a reason for a divorce.  How could I be so stupid in thinking that Charles, of all people, would do drugs?  After all, the man held down a good job and even invented robotic machines for the Japanese.
     When I found yet another baggie of white powder, I decided I could no longer play the role of a naive, stupid, Barbie doll of a housewife any longer.  I had a friend on the police force run a check on the powder.  The report came back as 350 dollars worth of crack cocaine.  I was devastated.  I filed for a divorce not so much for reasons of drug abuse but more for the reason that I had believed him over me.  I believed his lies over my own better judgment.  For once, I truly hated myself.
     I wish I could say that my divorce was a success but I even managed to fail at that.  I did not pay attention to the details, instead I rushed through the whole process thinking the faster I get away from this man the better for my children and me.  I thought more about the safety of our children and myself than the future.  I did not file for any monetary gains.
     I remember the judge asking me if I did everything in my power to hold this marriage together, I replied, "yes".  Only after I left divorce court did I realize that I lied because from a Christian standpoint, I could have tried forgiveness one more time.  I shook that thought away in a hurry.  As I drove away, I can honestly say that I felt nothingness.  I thought about Taoism and the motto within that belief, "From nothingness do we begin and from nothingness do we begin again."  That day, I realized I failed at marriage (the future would assure me that I failed at the divorce) but I was okay at beginning at nothingness as long as the path I chose would lead me back to the real me.

My Passion? Well, I Must Admit--I Love My Truck!

     What people love the most in life varies.  Some people love their spouse the most, or their children, or their parents, or their pets, and not always in that order.  Workaholics may like their jobs and even enjoy their jobs, but do they love their jobs?  I doubt it.  If you ask me what I love the most in my life, I have to admit (crazy as it sounds coming from a girl) I love my truck.  My truck is a dependable workaholic loaded with excitement.
     A week after my divorce, I soul-searched for what it was I wanted in my life.  I knew I needed something dependable, reliable, and versatile.  Where could I find such qualities?  I pulled a sweater over my head to keep the autumn chill off me before stepping outdoors to feed the horses.  As I entered the barn, I calculated the hay bales and discovered there were not enough bales to last through the winter season.  It was then that I decided I needed a truck.  I abandoned the barn, got inside my car, and scouted for a new truck.  As I drove from one dealership to another, my mind toyed with all the options available.  By the time I arrived at the next dealership, I knew what kind of a truck I would take home with me.
     "It's a Chevy Z71, half-ton. . ." the dealer was speaking.
     "Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever that means." I so rudely interrupted, I am out for good looks and low maintenance."  I stared at the black Chevy and for the first time in my life, I felt love-at-first-sight.
     My new truck and I have an unspoken agreement: that as long as I feed it fuel and change the oil on a regular basis, it will take me from point A to point B.  Of course, I will need to get the tires balanced and rotated, and clean the windshield; but those are occasional things and I can handle those few occasions.
     Because my truck is so handsome with its smooth grey leather interior, its rugged black exterior, and its masculine tires, I am not afraid to show it off to my friends.  As a bonus, it has all the gadgets that a girl such as me loves to play with, the cell phone holder, cup holder, even a visor with a mirror!  I can push buttons and it responds in an instant.  If I am too hot, I push this button.  If I am too cold, I push that button.  It comes with a six-changing CD player and there is no voice complaining about my bad choice in music.  It does not even remind me that I am an awful singer.
     My truck is a four-wheel drive with a built in GPS system which means I never have to stop to ask for directions as I travel across the United States.  Together, my truck and I have weathered all sorts of places, a hailstorm in Kansas, a tornado in Chicago, and a blizzard in Montana.  My truck has carried me through some scary situations, the deep sandy beaches of Florida, the steep grades of Arizona, Utah and Colorado.  We have even made it through the swamp marshes of Louisiana and Mississippi, along with the ice-covered roads of Minnesota.  I love my truck.
     One of the best qualities my truck has is that it is a workaholic.  It hauls my hay bales from the open fields to the barn, it hauls my horse trailer from the driveway to the rodeos, and it hauls my boat from the backyard to the lake.  My truck even hauls my other rides, like my ten-speed bicycle, my four-wheeler, or my motorcycle, without getting jealous.  My truck carries my toolbox and helps me stretch a barbed-wire fence; it pulls my friends out of ditches, and takes my trash to town.  It does all these without griping about having to do the chores on my Honey-Do list.  I have even put a plow on the front end of my truck to help it push my way through the snow.  Another great feature about my Chevy truck is that it waits patiently while I spend hours shopping and then it is gentleman enough to carry my bags home for me.  If ever I step out of the store and forget where I parked, I can push my truck's panic button and it will honk and flash the lights until I discover its location.  Once I am inside my truck with all its safety features, I feel so secure.
     I love my truck!  It is exciting, entertaining and enjoyable.  My Chevy truck does not leave me home alone on a Saturday night, it does not mind waiting for me while I finish getting ready, and it even enjoys the girls night out.  I can drop the tailgate and party anywhere, sporting events, theme parks, and rock concerts.  If I get too sleepy to drive home, my truck doubles as a hotel.  I can sleep in the bed with my sleeping bag; I can put on a camper; or I can pull a motor home.
     My truck takes me on adventures: fly fishing in Utah, white water rafting in Colorado, and ice fishing in North Dakota.  After spending a weekend playing in the mud, I can take my truck through the automatic car wash without it griping about how the sign is not politically correct.  After all, the sign should read, "Automatic Vehicle Wash".
     When the cash-for-clunkers program was in effect, my brother telephoned me to inform me my truck would qualify.  He insisted that I should check into it.  I was outraged!  I mean, I moved away from my parents, I divorced my husband, my boys are in college, and my pets ran away.  I have discovered that I can live without all of them, but give up my truck?  I do not think so.  I love my truck!

Pathways

       I applaud Robert Frost for taking the road less traveled.  However, I chose the path with more adventures.  When my heart is thumping, my knees weak, my palms sweaty and my nerves so shaken that I feel nauseous, I know I am on the right path. (Or maybe I am just addicted to the excitement, the anticipation and the adrenaline rush that accompanies exploring new territories).  New experiences nourish the soul and open doors for mental stimulation and growth.  A person needs to explore uncharted waters in order to reach one's full potential.  A person should not live inside a cave because a life without discovering new horizons is a dull, stagnant misfortune.