The factory

Yesterday was National Nightshift Workers Day. It brought to mind the time in my life when I worked second shift in a copper mill. It was real manual labor for Manuel Labor, I guess you could say.

I took the job thru a temp agency, after being unemployed for nearly a month. It is the only time in my working life I have been unemployed. And the only time in my life I have worked thru a temp agency. And all this followed the only time in my life I have ever walked out on a job. Funny how those go together.

I hated the factory at first. Hated it. There was a feeling of dread every day as the hour to leave for work approached. I worked 4 PM till midnight. Usually six nights a week. Sometimes seven. And only occasionally five.

The summer was hot. And the winter was cold. There wasn’t much in between. In cold weather, there were only a few space heaters located here and there inside the plant. Warmth could only be found standing directly below one of them. Or standing next to one of the large machines which gave off heat. We worked in several layers of clothing.

And in the summer? Inside a metal building with hundreds of machines running… Let’s just say I never had to worry about being overweight. There were only small fans for cooling, which did nothing more than circulate the hot air. And even that, only sparingly. I drank 20 ounce Mountain Dews in two sups. I weighed 163 pounds when I left that job.

I’m not sure why I hated the job so much. It was new, and different. I was new, and lost. That’s never too much fun. The hours no doubt cut into my free-wheeling Charlie Sheen-like lifestyle. (Actually, I got off at midnight, so it wouldn’t have affected it that much). It was monotonous. At times, I felt trapped. There was a sense of hopelessness. I just knew it wasn’t what I wanted to do and where I wanted to be forever.

But I learned a lot during my time there. About work, people, and life. I learned to operate a forklift. And a hundred other work-related things. It felt good to work with my hands. To sweat. For eight hours. Or more. I miss that sometimes.

It was also while working there that I rediscovered reading. We would get two fifteen minute breaks and one twenty minute lunch break every night. A lot of people would go outside to smoke, eat, talk, or some combination of the three. I would stay inside and read. I started going to the bookstore every week or two and buying new books. Reading led to writing.

Since leaving, I have come to appreciate my time there. I have a lot of respect for people who punch a clock and work 40, 50, 60 hours a week in that type of industry. It was a unique experience. One that I wouldn’t trade. I even miss it occasionally. Especially some of the people.

I could talk about the people all day. Fondly. Clocking in everyday at 4:00. Clocking out every night at midnight. Five, six, seven days a week. Working. To survive. To provide. To be able to afford a new car. Or a short vacation. Or just to have a little extra money to spend on the weekend. When there was one.

I remember one girl who was working there trying to save enough money to pay for college. She’d been there five years when I left. There was a young single mother working to support her and her daughter. There were several single mothers.

There was a 40-something-year-old lady who had just gone thru a divorce and been forced to go back to work. Sometimes she’d bring food and share with me at supper. There was the plant bookie. A former Air Force cadet. A volunteer fireman. I could go on.

There are thousands of places like that all over the country. I feel like that is the soul of America. Hard working. Real people. Real problems. Real life. Men and women. Black and white. Young and old.

On my last day, one of the crane operators walked over to me and shook my hand. We’d never said more than a line or two in passing. But I’ll always remember his words that day. He said, “It’s been good working with you. You’re a hard worker. But more than that, I can tell you’re a good man.”

That meant a lot to me. Still does.

Yesterday was also National School Nurse Day. I don’t have a story for that. Honest.

“There are people in this country who work hard every day. Not for fame or fortune do they strive…”

Three day weekend

Happy birthday to SurrenderDorothy! I get the feeling she and I could carry on entire conversations filled with nothing but Seinfeld references. Not that there’s anything wrong…

Also, Pablo turned one Saturday. Well, Saturday marked one year since I got him. So that’s when we celebrate his birthday. If you want to get him something, he likes Betta Bio Gold pellets. And distilled water.

There’s nothing quite like a three-day weekend. To recharge your batteries, allow you to escape from reality for just a bit, and make you wish you were independently wealthy. Which I might already be if I had signed up for google ads when I began blogging.

The weekend started off with Cinco de Mayo. Yet another example that Americans will pretty much celebrate anything. The highlight of the night was DNC, who will from thenceforth be known as Axl, karaokeing to “Sweet Child O Mine.” He also unveiled his Axl Rose Snake Dance, which he’s obviously been working on late at night in front of the mirror in his room. You think you know someone…

And no, I haven’t googled the video. And no, I haven’t been practicing the dance myself. In my red bandana. Nor will I be. And no, I’m not in love with Erin Everly. Nor was I ever. Just in case you’re wondering.

Sunday afternoon, BE and I headed up to Carnton Plantation, which was turned into a field hospital and burial ground during and after the Battle of Franklin during the Civil War. We toured the grounds and the house.

Here are a couple of pics I took. The first is the view of the house from the cemetery. And the second is a picture of the gardens located there:

Monday, we drove up to the national forest. It was a beautiful day to be outside. A little overcast so that it wasn’t too hot. We stopped off at the Pine Torch Church and cemetery. Then drove up to Sipsey River where we hiked for a bit before driving on to Kinlock. Here are a couple of pics I took while hiking in the Sipsey wilderness area:

Made it home in time to watch 24. It was entirely too predictable that someone was going to call before Logan shot himself. I think it would have been much more of a surprise if they’d let him go thru with it.

Anyhow, that’s what I’ve been doing. I love road trips. And three-day weekends. And life.

“Her hair reminds me of a warm, safe place where as a child I’d hide. And pray for the thunder and the rain to quietly pass me by…”

Three years ago today…

Today is my three-year bloggiversary. I began blogging May 5, 2003. Actually, today would have been a good day to post my State of the Blog Address. Unfortunately, I posted that six weeks ago. But if you want to read sort of a summary of my blogging history, you can read that.

The difference in this past year and the first two years of blogging for me has been night and day. I thank each and every one of you for reading and commenting. Somewhere along the way, blogging has reminded me that I love to write. And that’s a pretty cool thing.

I decided to do a combination Friday Flashback/bloggiversary post today. Tried thinking of my favorite post. Which led me to change up a few of the selected posts on the sidebar. I asked a couple of people what their favorite posts of mine would be. Some of the posts mentioned were Miss Nona, When two become one, My Town, and this one.

This is one of my favorites, too. I titled it “That City.” It was originally posted June 29, 2005:

That city will always be her.

I have let go of the past. I have come to realize and accept what will never be. But I still remember. Everytime I drive thru that city, I am reminded all over again. She haunts the city streets. I can feel her. Everywhere.

Even before I reach the city, I think of all the times she must have made this very same trip. And it always gives me the same feeling. An odd mingling of emotions. Same place, different time.

I always wonder the same things while I am here. Where did she live? Did she walk these very streets that I am walking now? I pass a convenience store and wonder if she ever stopped there. I stop to eat at a little corner cafe. I wonder if she ever came here. And I wish that now was then. And that she was here.

The people I pass, the faces I see, I wonder if they ever knew her, one person in a sea of a million. Did the wind ever blow her hair into a mess? I imagine that it did, and I smile. Did she ever go to the movies alone? I think how that should never have happened, and it makes me a little sad.

I wonder if she ever got lonesome while she was here. She surely must have missed home. When she thought of home, did she ever think of me?

Before I know it, the day is drawing to a close and it is time to go. Leaving the city is a little bit like leaving her, losing her, all over again. Because part of her is still here, and always will be. I miss her more when I am here than when I am not. And yet I keep coming back again and again and…

I have picked up most of the pieces, the ones that I could find anyway. I have learned to live with my mistakes. I try and concentrate on the present, and the future. On what is, and what might be, rather than what will never be.

But that city… that city will always be her.

“Well I guess it’s been a good year for roses and aggressions. For flowers and freeways…”

Mister Clean

Jerry: “Let me ask you this. When she comes over, you cleaning up a lot?”
George: “Yeah.”
Jerry: “Just straightening up, or are you cleaning?”
George: “Cleaning.”
Jerry: “You do the tub?”
George: “Yeah.”
Jerry: “On your knees, Ajax, scrubbing, the whole deal?
George: “Yeah.”
Jerry: “OK. I think you’re in love.”
George: “Tub is love?”
Jerry: “Tub is love. So there you are. You’ve got a nice girl and a clean apartment.”

Sometimes I wonder if I’d ever clean if I didn’t have company. Of course, I would. But knowing someone is coming over is the kick I need to get started. And probably assures that cleaning happens more often. Which is a good thing.

The amount and depth of cleaning is directly related to the type of company. Mom, dad, or sister, I make sure there is no underwear lying in plain sight, and close the shower curtain. For extended family, such as aunts, uncles, and cousins, I usually vacuum, use the feather duster downstairs, and close the shower curtain.

For friends, it all depends on how long they are going to be there and the likelihood they will need to go upstairs. It can range from just picking up a few things downstairs to a fairly thorough cleaning. And close the shower curtain.

But the ultimate clean, the most I ever clean, is when I’m having a girl over. It’s major I’m talking vacuuming, sweeping, moppping. Sink, stove, kitchen, bathroom, bedroom, living room. Endust, 409, Comet, Pine Sol, and on and on. Until eventually I find myself on my knees in the tub, wearing an old t-shirt and yellow latex gloves, singing Bryan Adams and Richard Marx love songs, high on Tilex fumes. Or at least that’s how it was last night.

George: “But it’s a great building. It’s two bedrooms!”
Jerry: “Two bedrooms? Why do I need two bedrooms? I got enough trouble maintaining activity in one.”

Also on the agenda for the coming weekend is reorganizing my spare bedroom. Maybe. I’d like to convert it into an office. Right now it contains an ironing board, small desk, bookshelf, and assorted other items. Along with several boxes that have yet to be unpacked from the move. Most of which I probably don’t need. I mean, if I haven’t needed them in seven-plus months.

How did I accumulate so much stuff? I remember when I moved out of my parents house, I was begging for stuff to put in my first apartment. Cruising the streets hoping someone had thrown out an old couch. My living room furniture consisted of one couch and a red bean bag. My aunt had given me the couch. It had a pastel floral pattern and a couple of tears in the cushions.

I moved out in my early twenties. A lot of my friends commuted to college, as did I. And almost all of us moved out within several months of each other. Almost. It started when Little Joe’s mom and step-dad came home from a camping trip and found alcohol in the house.

He apparently used to have these parties when they were gone. I really wouldn’t know. They were sort of Nintendo-playing-drinking parties. Where you’d stay up all night and then go to school the next morning at 8 AM. I heard.

Anyway, he never had anymore of those parties after that. Just immediately started looking for a place to live. He never said, but I always assumed he was strongly encouraged to do so.

This was supposed a post about cleaning. Not sure how I got off on moving out. Although something Pia wrote yesterday reminded me of something I’ve always believed. That it’s good to move out and be on your own, at least for six months or a year. Rather than go straight from your parents house to a spouse. Think you’re missing a part of life if you don’t.

It’s one of those little rules or beliefs you have about life. Not really sure where they come from or maybe even what you base it on. I call mine Bone logic. Never got a chance to talk about them or share them. Until blogging came along.

I’m not sure how to end this post. I just keep smelling my hands every few minutes a la Mary Catherine Gallagher. To see if they smell like Comet.

I also do gymnastics. Superstah!

“Tell me what we got. Tell me it’s a lot. Tell me it’s the real thing…”

Handwashing in the 21st Century

Another in a series of posts from the world’s 4th most respected expert on restroom etiquette… I write these not only to inform and entertain, but also to spark discussion on these topics. Often some of you might have ideas or habits that I find useful in the restroom. And vice versa.

Today’s topic is proper handwashing in public restrooms, from a germophobic viewpoint. After all, some people refer to me as a germophobe aficianado. Well, except for they use freak or lunatic in place of aficianado. The four phases to proper public restroom handwashing are the entrance, washing, drying, and the exit. We’ll look at each of the four in depth in this post. Did you have any doubt?

Upon entering the facilities, it is important to notice two things. The type of faucet, and the method or methods of hand drying that are available. If unable to determine the faucet is hands-free (i.e. motion detecting), you will need to make arrangements for turning on the faucet without actually touching it. While this may initially sound tricky, it is usually not that difficult. The preferred method is to take some paper towels, if available, and use them to turn on the water.

Washing is actually the easiest of the four phases. Simply soap up, preferably with warm water. You should also use a paper towel to avoid touching the soap dispenser. Once you are done washing and rinsing, leave the water running.

The key to washing, and maybe to this entire post is this. From the time you are done washing your hands until the time you exit the facilities, no part of your skin should touch anything in that restroom except for a paper towel!

And now it’s time to dry off. The paper towel you tear off when entering the restroom may serve a four-fold purpose. Turning on the faucet, dispensing soap, turning off the faucet, and last but not least, it is your germ-shield for getting more paper towels to dry your hands. Be sure to go ahead and roll a few paper towels down before you wash. Then, all you have to do is tear them off when you’re ready to dry.

Some restrooms have the automatic paper towel dispensers that do not require you to turn a handle or pull down a lever. I call these restrooms… Xanadus. Once you locate such a restroom, commit it to memory. And go back there, again and again.

For restrooms with hand dryers that are not motion activated, you will need to use a paper towel, tissue, or your elbow to turn on the dryer. Assuming you are wearing long-sleeves of course.

There is one additional situation we have yet to discuss. And that is, a restroom with no paper towels available. I call these restrooms sanitary nightmares. Or, Sheol. There are several options to handle this most unpleasant of circumstances.

Some people choose to venture into a stall and use tissue in place of the paper towel. Now on this topic, I speak not by commandment, but of my own personal preference. Since I never sit in the public stalls anyway, it follows that I would not use the tissue in them.

However, if you do, be sure to tear off and throw away the first several yards of tissue. This helps to ensure that no one else has touched it and that it hasn’t been exposed to the bacteria-charged aura of the restroom. This also goes for the first paper towel or two. Tear them off and throw them away. Then you will will be more likely to get a clean, fresh one.

In lieu of paper towels, others might use the sleeve of their shirt or some other bit of clothing. This is acceptable since (1)you really have no other viable options and (2)you can always burn your clothes later. Still others, when presented with a restroom with no paper towels, simply leave and look for a better-equipped comfort station down the road.

Now it’s time to make your escape. Before throwing away the paper towels, or whatever you have used to dry off with, you should use them to open the bathroom door. I know, you used them to dry off, now you’re touching the door handle with them. Gross, right? But that’s OK. Other people have done much worse in there. Trust me. This is one of the million reasons you don’t want to touch the handle with your virgin hands in the first place.

Once you open the door, then and only then may you dispose of the paper towels. While using your foot to hold the door open, put the paper towels in the trash can. If the trash can is located too far away, then just throw the paper towels towards it. If you miss, you miss. This is not your fault. It’s their fault for putting the trash can too far away from the restroom door. Get as close as you can. That’s all you can do.

And there you have it. You’re out of the restroom and on your way to enjoy the rest of your day. Another successful handwashing job completed. See how simple that was? That’s how I roll. Or, wash.

I hope you have found this entry helpful. By following these and other simple rules, you too will be well on your way to a habitually neat, clean, and very normal existence.

“You are an obsession. You’re my obsession…”

A friend’s guide to the galaxy?

Kramer: “Alright, that’s it. I gotta move in with you Jerry.”
Jerry: “I don’t know, Kramer. My only concern is that, livng together after a while, we might start to get on each others nerves.”
Kramer: “Alright, listen to me. I’ve got a great idea. You’re a heavy sleeper, right? Why don’t we switch apartments?”
Jerry: “Or I could sleep in the park. You could knock these walls down, make it an eight room luxury suite.”
Kramer: “Jerry, these are load-bearing walls. They’re not gonna come down!”

I was over at Little Joe’s house a couple of weekends ago, on a Saturday night. A guy who we’ll refer to as… Wolfgang was over there. I would consider Wolfgang more of a friend of a friend. Normally, Wolfgang has his wife with him at least 80% of the time when he’s around. But not this night. I was just about to ask where she was when he blurted out, “You know I’m getting divorced, right?”

No, obviously I hadn’t heard. “Yeah,” he continued. “I’ve been staying here since Wednesday.” Apparently, the falling out had just occurred within the past few days. We sat there the better part of the night listening to Wolfgang go on and on about how his wife, we’ll call her… Lorena, had gone off the deep end.

This is a precarious situation. I’ve lived long enough to know that you don’t say anything bad about a friend’s significant other while they are still in the relationship. Or while there’s still a chance they might get back together. No matter what you think of her, how she acts, what type of whorish reputation she might have, or how thick her moustache is.

So while he was calling her everything but a white woman, I knew I had to be careful what I said. So we sat and listened as he went on for a couple of hours. And by listened, I mean, ignored as much as possible. For all we knew, they might be back together by the next day.

Meanwhile, I was thinking about my friend whose house it was. How uncomfortable was this for him? Obviously it would be somewhat inconvenient. How did this come about? How long would Wolfgang stay? What would I do if a friend asked me if they could move in with me indefinitely? Will Laura ever come back to General Hospital?

I don’t have all the answers. I guess there really are no rules. It’s a real life situation you just sort of figure out, or make up, as you go. This is why I think it would be helpful if we had a Friend Handbook to go by. That way, Little Joe could have gone, “Ah, OK, says here on page 38 that I am required to allow you to stay, if and only if you have no family within a 40 mile radius. And you’re only allowed to stay a maximum of one week.”

Jerry: “You wanna go with me up to the Bronx and see if there’s any flyers on George’s car?”
Kramer: “Sure!”
Jerry: “I coulda said just about anything there, couldn’t I?”

Here’s another situation. A few weeks ago, a friend called me around 9:30 on a weeknight. I was already in my bed clothes. Which, let’s face it, I probably would have been in my bed clothes had he called at 4:00 in the afternoon. But that’s not the point. He said his girlfriend was dropping him off at an exit on the interstate and he needed a ride home.

Well, I didn’t give it a second thought. Immediately put some pants on and got ready to go. I’m quite sure that’s what the Friend Handbook would have said. Page 77: “If a friend gets dumped off on the side of the road by a girlfriend/boyfriend/lover/spouse, you go get them.”

Apparently, they had gotten into an argument in the car. And she told him they could either talk about it, or she would drop him off and he could call Bone to come get him. He called Bone.

George: “So that’s it. All of my darkest fears, and everything I’m capable of. That’s me.”
Jerry: “Yikes. Well, good look with all that.”
George: “Where you going? I thought I could count on you for a little compassion.”
Jerry: “I think you scared me straight.”

Zoom forward to last week. I’m having dinner with yet another friend. This friend is single, early thirties, etc. He tells me he’s dating someone. Fine. Then he decides to drop this bomb on me. “You know, this is the first time I’ve ever really dated a girl.” Do huh? How am I supposed to respond to that? That’s not even in the handbook.

As my weekend wound down last night, I found myself over at Little Joe’s again. Entirely too late. It was nearing midnight as I was getting ready to leave. This conversation, or something very close to it, ensued:

“Where’s Wolfgang?”
“I don’t know. He’s been gone all day. Do you think I should try to call him?”
“Why?”
“He’s been gone for nine or ten hours. I figured he’d be back by now.”
“Aww, you’re worried about him.”
“No. But what if he’s in the pokey?”
“The pokey?”
“You don’t know what that is?”
“Yeah, I know what it is. But no one calls it the pokey anymore.”
“Oh. Well what do you call it?”
“Prison. Jail. Cooler. Slammer. Big house. Lock up. Marriage. But not Pokey.”
“Well, excuse me.”
“OK, Marshal Dillon. Why would he be in jail?”
“He said he had to go see his ex-wife about something. Last time he went over there, she pulled a gun on him.”
“Wow. I’m startin’ to worry that my car is gonna get keyed over here or something.”
“Why? She likes you.”
“No, she did like me. Now she’s a completely different person. When you break up with a girl, she turns psycho.”
“Really? I don’t think I ever experienced that. I guess none of my girlfriends ever liked me that much.”
“Well, call him. I wanna see what he says.”
“But if I call, it’s like I’m checking up on him. I’m not his daddy.”
“Hey, he’s staying under your roof, he has to live by your rules.”
“Eh, he probably just had a booty call, or fell asleep or something.”
“Or both. Well, I gotta go. If my car blows up when I start it, call the police.”

It was funny listening to my grown male friend agonize over whether or not to call and check up on this other grown man, his new (and hopefully temporary) roomate.

To call or not to call? That is the question. Where’s your trusty Friend Handbook when you need it.

“Just three miles from the rest stop, and she slamson the brakes. She says I’ve tried to be but I’m not. So could you please collect your things…”