i can do the grocery shopping at lunchtime if need be or just run in and pick up a few items.  that’s what i did last week, i ran in to pick up a few items, so few i used a hand basket instead of a shopping cart.

i don’t know what it is with me and shopping carts, but every first cart i select, no matter where i am, is always defective.  the wheel wobbles, the cart tilts, a wheel won’t roll or it’s spinning in a circle when it should be going straight. there’s always something wrong with it!

i even try to fake out the shopping cart devil by selecting a cart and then picking another one.  after testing two or three carts, i know there’s someone up above nudging my tormentor saying, “leave her alone.”

naturally, i’m walking around the store waiting for the handles to fall off the basket, but that did not happen.  i made it to the checkout line, the cashier scanned my items and asked for money.  twenty-one dollars and some cents, not to be exact.  i swiped my debit card and the monitor asked if the total was okay.  i selected yes.  it asked if i would like cash back, i selected yes again, key in the amount or sixty dollars, and waited.

“not approved.”  my first mental response was the machine is broken.

not approved? that means i don’t have enough money in my account to cover this transaction.  i just used my debit card at the art store, something’s wrong.  the cashier told me to try again, i did and still not approved.

as if it would make any difference i reached in my pocket and pulled out a crumpled receipt that showed a recent purchase.  “there is money in the account.”

we tried the transaction three times and it continued to display the not approved status.  the cashier shook her head and said, “it’s not me,” referring to the machine and i said “it’s not me,” referring to my bank account.

i stood there for a minute and decided it wasn’t worth trying to make a run for it, so i told her i would put the groceries back.   she suggested we try the transaction again, sans the cash back.  i agreed because i was already embarrassed, what else could it say? no, really, you’re not leaving this store with those groceries?

we went through the same steps again, minus the cash back and – is this where i type lo and behold – my transaction was approved!

i’m still so embarrassed, but if i was there under false pretense, when the machine said ‘not approved’ the first time, i would have bolted, but on that day i was standing my ground.  i told the cashier i had money and breathed a small sigh of relief  that i at least had $22 in my account, even if i couldn’t get cash back.

oh crap! i can’t get cash back and i have no money to buy lunch. i wondered if it was too late, since my debit card was approved for groceries but not cash back, to run and get a tv dinner.   i decided not to ask her but walked out of the store feeling perplexed and embarrassed.

i can’t even come up with a witty analogy but it’s liken to getting undressed at the gym in a room full of women and you realize you’re not wearing a thong, but your kid’s icarly underwear.

as i walked to my car, i pondered question after question.  did someone hack into my account?  was my identity stolen and if my identity was stolen, i hoped they’d come back and live my life. don’t just take my money and run, punk!  naturally, i’m nervous and when i got back to my desk, i immediately checked my account online.  everything was fine and now i’m really mad.

i went about telling everyone who would listen what happened to me at the supermarket.  not just because i needed to blow off some steam, but because if they listened carefully to my story, they could hear my stomach growling.

after telling this story to erica, she said the same thing happened to her.  the reason being?  stores limit the cash back amount and obviously shoprite forgot to tell the customers, and the cashiers.

i know when i go to k-mart, that’s the case, but at shoprite, we were free to key in an amount with no restrictions.  the maximum cash back amount is now $30.   i assume it was lowered around the holidays or to prevent people like me for using it as an atm.  why offer it though, if they don’t want to give it to us.

i was tempted to call the store and ask to speak to the manager, but decided to let it go.  just for the day, i would be the fool who tried to get cash back with no money in the bank.  i don’t mind being poor, but i hate being embarrassed.  next time i use my debit card and the machine asks if i want cash back, i’m going to say, you tell me.

friday morning i stopped by my co-worker’s office for our daily chit chat and she suggested that if i did not bring lunch, then we should go to this place she frequents. she even offered to pay because she did not want moths flying out of my wallet and onto her food. she never gets tired of that joke. rumor has it that i’m cheap and my shoes squeak. i offered to pick up the tab and she turned me down, so we went dutch. she’s a fun and interesting person to talk to, i enjoy her company even though there’s a 25 year age difference. yeah that’s right, i like older women, on walkers and with medicaid, but not like that, silly. i don’t have any female friends younger than i am. two the same age, that i’ve known since elementary school, but not a one younger.

so we went to one of her favorite places, goodearthpotato.com, but before we left, she was kind enough to print out two coupons, one for $1 off the stuffed potato and the other for a free fountain soda. but when we got there, the woman at the register said i could not combine coupons, i had to use one or the other. again, high-fives all around to the voice inside my head. “what we’s gone do?” i adjusted my body language’s hearing aid, leaned in, maybe i started to tear up and said, “huh?” she asked if it was my first time there and i nodded yes. later, i wondered if the person inside her head mumbled “dummy” because she let me use both coupons. i said thank you.

i’m not a fan of meat, but for some reason i was craving meatloaf, so that’s what i had. a baked potato stuffed with meatloaf, gravy, sour cream, butter and topped with melted cheese. i have to admit, that meatloaf smacked my taste buds around and tugged at my uvula as it eventually settled in the pit of the beast. yum me!

we made small talk as we scoffed down our lunch and agreed that it was the best thing since sliced bread. after we were done, we cruised past her 55 and over senior complex and she showed me where she lives then we headed back to the office.

we had a fun outing and i enjoyed being chauffeured around in her eight cylinder cadillac as she gave me a mini-tour of her town. i mentioned her mode of transportation because some have commented that riding in her car is the equivalent to floating. my car is more of the horse and buggy persuasion, i feel every bump and wallop, so i don’t know what smooth is. but when i was in the front seat of her car, i felt more like a rag doll. a rag doll swallowed up by plush leather and couldn’t help but wonder when she turned and saw my feet dangling, if the voice in her head was swinging to the same beat of my buddy. i know mine was.

I’m somewhat of a heavy sleeper.  I can sleep through bombings, wars, and thunderstorms, but I can’t sleep through dripping water, idling trucks and garbage cans being dragged across the pavement.  Every time the garbage truck catches me sleeping in, I ask myself: Does the garbage really need to be collected so early in the morning?  I don’t think so, but I did a quick search on the web to see if I could find an answer to my question or at least an explanation. Here’s what I unearthed:

“Residential pickup starts at 5 a.m. and goes until the trucks have finished their routes. Commercial pickup starts at 4 a.m. To start trash pickup later would cost more because the process would take longer. Morning trash pickup is safer because fewer people and vehicles are out and about.”

So it’s less expensive, it’s safer and fewer cars are on the street.  I get it, but I don’t buy it.  Garbage trucks bring the noise because of discrimination! Yep, I figured it out.  I’m not going to play the race card, we already know that card has been dealt and played out.  I’m referring to the class or social distinctions “between individuals or groups in societies or cultures” card.

As I mentioned before, I live in the shoddier part of a nice town and that’s fine, substance and covering is all I need…and a new car and maybe some clothes, but other than that, I’m good.  The houses on my block are closer together than the houses a few blocks up.  The further you drive up the hills of Maplewood, the bigger and more spacious the houses become.  Just to give you a visual, three to four houses on my block is the equivalent to one house on another block, not including the lawn.

As you navigate down the hill into the valley where the green grass doesn’t grow, the houses get smaller and closer together.  What happened? Did a surveyor look at the city lines as architects were building houses and say, “Oh crap, we’re running out of neighborhood!  You’re going to have build the last 500 houses on this block a lot closer together and instead of an actual lawn, throw in a patch of grass so they’ll have something to mow on the weekend.”

The houses are close together, but not like where I lived before where I could hear my neighbor flush their toilet.  Too many times I thought of reaching out the window and just handing them a roll of toilet tissue, but then they would know I was listening.  Not on purpose, but to things that annoy me, and seemed to be magnified tenfold.

Every town has a ghetto.  I just wish people didn’t judge you based on where you live, the car you drive, the color of your skin or the clothes you wear. And by people, I mean the Sanitation Department.  I think the garbage truck rolls around “up in here” [a line stolen from DMX] at 5 a.m. because they don’t care about waking the lowly am-ha’aretz, that’s Hebrew meaning the people of the land.

The garbage truck is loud, the garbage men drag cans across the pavement, through driveways and they don’t always clean up after themselves.  I know this behavior doesn’t go on in other parts of town.  I actually witnessed a garbage truck on one of the nicer streets and the experience was totally different.  It was like watching a Special Weapons And Tactics operation in action, that’s right, a SWAT team.

First of all, the garbage truck didn’t drive into the neighborhood, but cut the engine a few blocks back and snuck up on the street.  Then it hid behind a tree and the trash collectors dispersed onto the street in a tuck and roll fashion like Olympic gymnasts of garbage removal. Signaling the coast was clear, the garbage truck crawled from house to house on its underside as its belly was filled with stolen garbage.  Then it left.

Noise?  What noise? If garbage was collected at 5 a.m. up the hill, it would cause uproar in the land. Instead, the tooth fairy of garbage mysteriously extracted trash from the garbage can, undetected, and replaced it with a mint on top of the lid.

If garbage removal can be orchestrated into a sneak attack up the hill where the green grass grows, then how come the garbage men can’t be just as quiet and courteous when they are in the valley?  Because we’re not worthy.  Interestingly enough, when I witnessed this miracle, there were a few things I did take note of:  It was around 10:00 a.m., the sanitation workers cleaned up after themselves and no garbage can was harmed during the operation of that mission.  Had I not seen it with my own eyes, I would not have believed it.

The phone rings.  In the time it takes me to walk to the phone and check the Caller ID, I flip through my mental contact list and try to guess who is calling.  It’s a quizzical game I play with myself, just for fun.

I did not recognize the number, but I answer it anyway because I have a feeling who’s calling.  Is it me or can anyone else do this?  It’s possible when I fell on my head as a kid some of my marbles rolled out, but I picked up a sixth sense while I was down there.  Don’t cry for me, Argentina.

Yes, sometimes when the phone rings I know who’s calling, sometimes I know what they want and sometimes someone will throw me a curve ball and I am dead wrong, but not this time.

It’s the adoption agency.

The previous day I went to the pet store to see what cats, if any, they had for adoption.  The clerk told me the adoption agency just left but to fill out an application and someone would contact me.

Okay hold on, I know what you’re thinking, that I really don’t have a sixth sense, but I should have been expecting a phone call. I see your point, but that’s not entirely true.

My sixth sense learns behaviors, patterns, and sometimes I can even read minds.  The last person’s mind I read was D and since revealing my ability to him, he’s scared to think, hasn’t had a thought in weeks!

Sometimes it just turns itself on.  Why just the other day I gave a correct Jeopardy question before seeing the answer.  Based on the category alone, I knew the answer would be one of the clues, I just didn’t know it would be the first one, turns out I was right.

The kid asked how I answered before seeing the clue. I wonder if you can ring in on Jeopardy before they show you the answer. In any event, I have references.

But back to my story.

The woman on the phone introduces herself and says she reviewed my application and loved it.   How do you love an application?  I don’t know, maybe she enjoyed my facetious answers.  I thought the application was funny and found humor in the following questions:

Do you have other pets?

Yes, I have fish and a hamster.

Where do you keep them?

In an aquarium. [Not together of course.]

I know they mean cat or dog when they say other pets, but I can’t resist the sarcasm and love leaving my comedic calling cards around town.

This reminds of the time I went to the dentist and one of the questions on the application read “What do you want to do if your treatment exceeds $500?”

First gut reaction?  I wrote, pass out. Well it was the truth and the receptionist thought it was funny. No doubt a story she will share with her grandchildren.

After reviewing my application over the phone, she considers me to be a good candidate and tells me that all the cats will be on display until 5:00 p.m.

I ask her how long the adoption process will take, if anyone needs to visit my home and how soon before I can take the cat home.  I can tell from her pregnant pause that she’s baffled by my questions.  She tells me I can take her home the same day.

What, no blood?  No fingerprinting?  No background check? Oh wait, she did call my references. I tell her I will be right down and shortly thereafter I leave.

When I arrive at the pet store the cat we want to adopt is gone and I feel a pinch of disappointment that she was adopted by someone else. I’m not certain if adoption is on a first come first serve, so I look for someone to assist me.  I tell them that I filled out and application yesterday for Blaise and the woman says, “Oh yeah you’re the one with a hamster and fish.”  She then leads me to a room and that’s where I finally meet Blaise.

They tell me what a great cat Blaise is and that she is just starting talk or meow since being dropped off at the shelter two weeks ago.  Blaise was surrendered to the shelter because her owner fell ill.  I’m guessing allergies, but illness was the reason listed for all of the cats up for adoption.

Blaise is two years old; she has a great personality, healthy looking eyes, teeth and a shiny black coat.  She is spayed, has her claws and is up-to-date with her shots.   After spending time with her I decided I wanted to adopt Blaise.

The woman from the shelter gives me several coupons and tells me to go shopping and what I need to buy. I start out with the basic stuff, litter box, a few toys and the cat litter and food are free. I hope they are going to give me the free cardboard box to carry her home in but nothing doing, so I purchase a pet carrier.

Blaise didn’t like being stuffed into the pet carrier and voiced her displeasure all the way home.  I keep the house quiet so she can explore the new box she will be living in.  Crouching down low like the ceilings are 1 foot high, Blaise creeps from room to room until she finds refuge under a bed. My bed.

Eventually Blaise comes out to interact with her new surroundings.  I can only imagine what is going through her instinctive mind when she sees the Teddy, the hamster. She probably thinks, oh this is just too easy.

Sometimes Blaise will walk by Teddy’s cage and the hamster will stop all activity and pretend to be a statue. Other times they will hold their ground and have a stare down. Together they are fun and entertaining to watch. Blaise de-stresses from not being able to catch Teddy by plopping down in front of the aquarium to watch the fish swim.

One thing I love about this cat is that she has no interest in store bought things, but finds enjoyment in homemade stuff, like the string on one of my bed pillows.  She doesn’t care about hanging out in her kitty condo, but prefers to lounge on my king size bed.  Contrary to popular belief, catnip doesn’t excite her either.

It would not surprise me to come home one day to find out she rented the rooms in her condo to stray cats who are hanging out the window smoking catnip.  Maybe that’s why I’m saving all of my receipts for her expenses, I expect to be repaid, somehow.

So far it’s been nice having her around.  The first thing the lady said to me was: this is a lifelong commitment, etc…and I’m thinking, no it isn’t, one of us will die.  Of course, I don’t say that but I nod my head yes.

I am committed to taking care of Blaise.  I enrolled in a free e-course to learn more about cat care and behavior.  I ask questions from those who have cats.

Periodically, I read cat websites to keep abreast on what’s new.  Times have changed though, who knew animals would one day wear clothes, go on play dates, vacation in pet hotels. They even have doctors, psychiatrists and crunch on antidepressants, if need be.

They live like humans and for some, just as well. I didn’t know taking care of a pet was more than just giving it food and water.  In the past, I admit I may have been ignorant, but irresponsible, I am not.

Here’s what happened.

It was a casual trip to the pet store, I went alone and wasn’t expecting to walk out with an animal, but I was there to look.  I asked the woman from the shelter what the procedure was to adopt an animal, particularly a kitten.  She handed me a form and said to fill it out and someone would contact me.

Then she asked me a few of the questions on the application such as if I had any experience with cats in the past?  I answered in the affirmative that I had a cat many years ago.  This is where I messed up. Sometimes when I say I, I mean we.

We had a cat in the house when I was younger.  I remember, and I’m almost certain, it was my brother’s idea that we should get a cat.  We found an advertisement in the paper for a kitten, a free kitten, so we called the number and made arrangements to pick it up.

I was too young to drive, but my brother had his license.  When we got there, the woman showed us the kitten. We met the kitten’s mom, she told us what a sweetheart Punky was, later renamed Pepper, and how she loved being cradled like a baby.

We left with Pepper and drove her home.  When my mom arrived home from work, we “surprised” her and said, “Look what we bought you.”  Fade to black. I don’t remember what happened after that, but Pepper was allowed to stay.

Fast forward.

I got a job and was financially and emotionally caring for Pepper.  She was mine.  I was the one who cleaned the litter box, made sure she had food and water.  I was the one who stayed up half the night crying and holding her after she was spayed.

Not too many years later, my brother got married and moved out of the house.  Pepper was and probably always had been my responsibility.  I loved the cat, she hung out with me, slept in my room, in my bed and people even said, in a backhanded compliment  kind of way, that she exhibited my personality and temperament.  She would often scratch, bite and hiss when she did not want to be bothered, but nevertheless she was lovable.

After having her spayed, that was her last visit to the vet.  She was a house cat, in good health and taking her to the vet for shots never crossed my mind.  Pepper lived for a long time, but eventually she got sick and had to be put to sleep. This is where all conversation ends regarding Pepper, I won’t discuss her.

So back to the application.

“Where do you live?” she asked.

I told her and she seemed to be pleased with the area. I asked her what happens after I fill out the application.  She said someone would give me a call and arrange a home visit.

“Have you had any experience with cats before?”

“Yes, we used to have a cat a long time ago.”

“Well what happened to the cat?”

“She was sick and had to be put to sleep.”

“Where did she go for regular check-ups?”

“I don’t know, the only place I remember her going is somewhere in Hillside.  Yes, People for Animals, that’s it.”

“They only spay there and don’t do routine check-ups.”

“Oh, well then, she never went to a veterinarian.  How long before someone contacts me?”

“We will review your application and give you a call.”

I’m partially satisfied that I got the ball rolling on the adoption process and I leave the store.  Of course, when I get outside I playback -in my mind- bits and pieces of conversations I heard when I was talking to the lady.

I remember hearing someone say that a kitten was adopted this morning and I’m thinking well even though I wasn’t there to adopt on the spot, why am I walking out empty handed?  Why do they need to visit my home.  I had to go back for some answers.

I asked her again, “How long does the adoption process take?  Didn’t I hear someone say earlier that they left with a kitten this morning, why do I have to go through all this red tape.” She said, “That was not me, but the other lady, there are two adoption agencies here.”

I said, “You weren’t going to call me, were you?” She said, “Well I would have called you, but I was a little concerned that you never took your cat to see a vet. Even though she was a house cat and never went outside, they still need to see a vet once a year.  You could open a window and something from the outside could come in and make your cat sick.”

I thanked her for her honesty and left. It didn’t occur to me until after I left that I should have further explained the situation instead of walking out like an irresponsible pet owner.  I was embarrassed.

I had no idea that adopting a pet would be this involved.    People coming out to the house and making routine visits thereafter.  They also said if they don’t like what they see on the return trip they would take the cat back.

I don’t know why I’m worried. I’m certain I will pass the cleanliness portion, in fact, I’m insulted if anyone thinks my house is anything but clean, and would fail because I don’t have a safety lock on the toilet and the cat could fall in.  How can a home be suitable for humans, but not good enough for an animal?

I’d be crushed if, after a follow up visit, they decided to take the cat back because of something I did wrong.  Remember Ellen and the dog she adopted but later gave away.  She cried on TV after the dog was removed from the new owner’s home by the adoption agency.  Well I don’t have a TV show to boo hoo on, but I’d cry me a river on this blog and be messed up for weeks.

You know what really bugs me about all of this?  My daughter is 9 years old and not once has the hospital she was born in called for a follow up visit.  Okay so she was not adopted, but it just seems easier for me to give birth to a cat than it is for me to adopt one.

So if you’re with a pet adoption agency and you are running a background check on me, here are some things you should know. I will:

• Put in a request for 6 weeks of family leave to bond with our new adopted family member;
• Schedule yearly vet visits;
• Hire a certified pet sitter if we need to be away from home for more than 24 hours;
• Provide cat with its own kitty condo;
• Give it emotional and physical stimulation;
• Never yell or spank the cat for bad behavior, but try to reason with it;
• Allow it to watch Jeopardy for only 30 minutes a day;
• Allow it to sleep in the family bed until it feels safe enough to sleep in its own room;
• Get pet insurance;
• Never let you see me sweat.

It took all my strength not to go back to the store and justify why Pepper never saw a vet. I didn’t, instead I drove down the street to PetSmart and filled out an application there and this time when I answered the question, Have you ever had any experience with a cat, I added a mental asterisk to my answer:

No. I have not had any experience with a cat, *not as a responsible adult. And that’s my final answer.

Do. The. Macarana.

This is a stay-at-home vacation, or a staycation, you know the place you pay tons of money to maintain, but are never there to enjoy it. Yeah that place.

I’m a homebody and can stay tucked away inside for days on end. I don’t need to go outside – plenty of sunlight filters through the mini blinds – and if the sun’s shining, I’m good.

One thing I will never understand is people who are home, for whatever reason, and say that after a while they become bored. Whatever.

Anywho, I’m looking forward to a relaxing time at home with a few fun activities thrown in once a day, mainly for the kid’s sake.

What relaxes me probably seems like work to most people, but I don’t mind it. I receive a satisfying dose of endorphines when things are organized.  “Relax your mind, lay back and groove with mine” why don’t ya? If you can name that tune, the one I’m thinking of, in quotes, I’ll mail you $5.

So, what’s on the agenda?

A coworker gave me some chocolate covered Oreos and now I’m hooked.  I found out how to make them from a recipe online and will give it a try. I need to purchase a dipping fork and they all need to be eaten by Sunday.

I’ve been ignoring the lack of organization in my closet.  It’s not too unkempt, but I cringe because the pants are partying with the suits, the suits are hanging out with the skirts and the blouses are all over the place.  That’s not how I roll, everything has a place and it needs to be in it.

I also need to try on everything in my closet to see what has to be given away.  Since losing a few pounds, some of my pants are too big and I need to have them altered.  And the pants that no longer reach past my ankle have to be given away.  I’m like one of the attractions at an amusement park: You have to be this tall to ride this ride. I wish I had a tailor for my oddly shaped body.

Clothes need to go to the cleaners and buttons need to be sown on clothing.  By the way, I hate sewing buttons back on clothes.  They should never come off in the first place.  It’s only on children’s clothing that buttons live for an eternity, but I’m much too tall for a 8T, so I wear grown-up clothes.

Is it too much to ask that buttons be secured with enough thread to survive a blast?  Then the clothing includes a label that says: This blouse was inspected by Inspector No. 435 aka Hope.  Yeah I get it, you better hope you see where the button lands when it falls off.

I will exercise, everyday. I’m home, there’s no reason for me not to, right? I’m going to weigh myself on Sunday and then the day before I return to work, I don’t want to come back fatter. There’s a race track down the street from my house so I plan to start my day with a morning run. Then when I get home 100 seated chair dips for my triceps and 100 reps of the Bicycle for my abs. Anything else I do will be extra, but I at least want to do those three things, daily.

I plan to catch up on some reading.  I was reading 5 books at once, but that’s just crazy.  Each day I’ll set aside a block of time, just for reading and finish one book at a time.

I also plan on taking some pictures.  Beginning on Friday, each day, until the end of my vacation, I will upload a photo in my album, Through the Lens, in the Gallery so be sure to check back.

I’m not sure if we’ll do this one, but I would like to hop on a train, go to the City and walk around.  The Newark Museum, the Crayola Factory and other activities are also options, but they haven’t quite made it to the Plan A column yet.

I’ll also be having lunch with a friend who’s making me pay, I agreed and I haven’t canceled the appointment. I would say I’m in definite need of a vacation.  I know for one thing, I will not be bored.  If anything, I should probably unplug the computer if I plan on getting this stuff done.

Anybody who gets bored at home, doesn’t have enough hobbies.

Isn’t it funny how we can use an expression and associate the correct meaning, but never query its origin, how it came about.   As a future Jeopardy hopeful, I like knowing that Pebbles Flintstone was born on February 22, 10,000 B.C. or that Barbie’s (yes the doll) full name is Barbara Millicent Roberts, and she has parents.  Who’d thunk it?

So naturally I had to research the expression “off the wagon” and this is what I found:  “The origins of this phrase lie in the 1800s, with the temperance movement. During this era, many people felt that alcohol was an extremely harmful substance, and they abstained from alcohol while encouraging others to do the same. The term references the water wagons which were once drawn by horses to water down dirt roads so that they did not become dusty. Members of the temperance movement said that they would sooner drink from a water wagon than touch a drop of alcohol, so when someone failed to keep a temperance pledge, people would say that he or she had fallen from the wagon.” Thank you WiseGeek.

Might I add that while being off the wagon generally refers to a person’s attempt to give up alcohol, it can allude to any number of vices.  My vice? Well that’s not important, just know that I relish the monotonous hum of familiarity and don’t fancy change.  If I’m on the wagon, I’m on the wagon and will ride until the journey is over.  It seems uncharacteristic of me to hop on and off the wagon for the sheer thrill of it – why rock the buggy – but it happened.

Personally, I think I was pushed.

Last week, not only was I on the wagon, but I was steering that bad boy with both hands. So impressed was I, that my eyes admired my arm muscles as they kept the pace with my mental determination, daring not to be the weakest link along the dirt road of triumph.

It was then that overconfidence nudged me on the shoulder, convinced me to run alongside the wagon and do my business, assuring me I’d be able to hop back on, unscathed. So I did, several times.  One slip up turned into two, two turned into four and four turned into six. Six degrees of separation between me and the wagon.  Is that so bad?  Admitting to being off the wagon seems like a letdown, even if for most of the ride, I was straddling the darn thing.

My situation reminded me of an article I read in Psychology Today and the ability to eliminate relationship irritants lies within each of us, it all depends on how we interpret the problem.  That is to say, if your mate snores, you choose its meaning:  It can be an annoying sound for which they must be smothered or you can interpret the snoring as a well-being.  Your partner is safe and at home.

In other words, deny the problem, give it a new name until you can live with it or it goes away.  The article also went on to say that “small problems coalesce into a vast, submerged force when they take on a different meaning in your mind—when you add them up as evidence of a character flaw or moral defect.”

I buy it.

So technically, I’m not off the wagon but positioned by a mere six degrees of separation, and still holding on. That’s my story and I’m standing next to it.

In Berry Gordy’s The Last Dragon, Leroy is on a quest to achieve the highest level of martial arts, known as “The Final Level.”  When a student reaches the “Final Level” they possess “The Glow” and he is one of the best in the world. When his entire body glows, he is the greatest fighter alive.

However, before Leroy can claim his title, he is repeatedly confronted by his adversary, Sho’nuff, who wants to prove he’s a better fighter. In one scene, Sho’nuff and his cohorts arrive at Leroy’s dojo to coerce him into a fight.  Leroy responds, “But I do not wish to fight you.”

Sho’nuff  says, “Well who is it that you wish to fight then?”  One of the female goons smacks Leroy in the mouth, but instead of fighting, he maintains his composure and bows.

Sho’nuff acknowledges the bow, but he wants more.  He snaps his finger, points to his feet and says “Kiss My Converse.”  Leroy looks at the faces of his students and rather than show them the wrong example, he concedes.  But before Leroy can get a good smooch of his Chuck Taylors, Sho’nuff delivers a kick to Leroy’s mouth instead, knocking him on his behind.

Sho’nuff says, “You may not wish to fight me, but you will Leroy.”  As he and his goons leave the dojo, Sho’nuff asks: “Who’s the baddest” and they respond by saying, “Sho’nuff.”

Stay with me, I think there’s a correlation somewhere.

Last night, just after 9:30 p.m., I was, among other things, extremely tired and cranky. I wanted to go to sleep. My eyeballs were already tucked in their drunken REM blanket, all I had to do was stagger to the bed and fall down. I never made it.

Instead I heard a ruckus outside, followed by a loud boom and then some kids arguing. When I peeked outside the window, the scene that played out on the street was “but I do not wish to fight you.”  Everything was under control whereas if they just got back into their car, I could have gone to bed. No harm, no foul. But no. Someone had to get all Last Dragony and request a kiss of the converse. Unlike Leroy who only used his martial arts to defend, the girls in the street were more like Sho’nuff and wanted to be the baddest. So they fought.

Arms were twirling in the air like they were at a double dutch competition, only without the rope. I’m assuming someone was hoping to land at least one of those punches on a face, but it’s hard to tell who you’re hitting when your arms look like a windmill, on crack.

I’ve never been in a fight, but if I was, this is how I would envision it.  The other person is screaming and yelling at me.  Their blood pressure is going through the roof and maybe they’re turning red.  Me?  I’m as cool as a cucumber and in my mind, I’m thinking: you fool, what a waste of energy.

So I’m standing there, not even bothering to work up an emotion and the other person decides to pull back their fist to hit me.  They approach. I punch them first. They fall down. See, I didn’t have to go all windmill on nobody. There is no verbal “wah”, “wah” followed by my arms moving in a circular motion like I’m the karate kid.  I punch. They fall.

Fighting can be so logical; if people were a little more patient, they would have a lot more wins in the W column.  If that doesn’t work, then I have very long arms and can keep them at a distance until the police arrive. But like I said, I’ve never been in a fight, but that’s how I would envision it.

Anywho, instead of only two girls fighting, everybody is fighting. One girl is being dragged across the street by her hands while another one is punching her simultaneously.  Neighbors are outside with flashlights being nosy and inspecting their vehicles parked on the street.

Side: I learned after the first time someone hit my parked car not to leave it on the street.  Now I make sure I park that baby in the driveway where only an Act of God can wreck it.

Some people are yelling for the fighting to stop. Then another person gets hit by mistake and now they’re fighting; so much for being the peace maker.  This goes on for about a minute, but less than two. Then everybody stops fighting, get back into their car and drive away. And cut! Like it was all rehearsed.

I don’t know why the mêlée suddenly stopped, but I knew the police were on their way. It was difficult to tell who was declared the winner with all the windmills in the street blocking my vision.  I say, if people are going to fight, do it right. I prefer organized fighting: a specific date, tickets, a boxing ring, a referee and a better view.  I like closure, now I have no clue as to who won. Perhaps there’s a write up in yesterday’s paper, all is not lost.

Maybe the freedom fighters knew they had three minutes to do their business and get the heck out.  In Maplewood, you have two minutes, or less.  Maplewood police do not play.  I once saw a boy riding his bike up the street toward the park. A few minutes later, the cops had him and his bike in the back of their car heading toward the police station.  Maybe that wasn’t his bike.

They have nothing to do, but scoop up little children who threaten the reputation of one of NJ’s finest towns. I will say we don’t have too much trouble around here.   In eight years this is the third time that the cops have been called.  And just to be fair, I made the first call.

You can read that story here: http://tinyurl.com/c6h3np.

Of course, had those kids been just a few blocks up the street, the police may have “bang, bang” first and asked questions later.  But since I live in the shoddier part of Maplewood, affectionately renamed Maplehood; they tend to ask questions first to be sure they’re not shooting anyone that would reduce them to desk duty.

So the only thing that had “The Glow” was the siren lights from the five cop cars that arrived on the scene.  Unfortunately the police missed the traveling Sho’nuffs of Maplehood by a few seconds. One of the cars involved in the scuffle returned to the scene and told the police what happened.  No more than five minutes later, the police had the place cleared out and the neighborhood was restored to the peace in which we are accustomed to living.

So the next time a cry goes out and someone wants to know who’s the baddest, I’m going to respond: Maple’hood Police.

Sho’nuff.

On a positive note, my brain seems to be working again but it’s trying to process four lanes of highway traffic on a narrow one-way street. I can’t write fast enough. Ramble yes. Write no. For now all I can do is write my thoughts down, give each one a number and deal with them in the order in which they were conceived.  That’s how they handle the traffic at the ShopRite deli counter and everyone gets served.

Anywho, Friday nights is usually a trip to the bookstore, not always, but usually.  I may not buy anything, but I like to sniff the books, thumb through them and see what’s new and on sale.  I was browsing the humor section and I saw Larry Wilmore on the cover of a book, so I picked it up.  The name of his book is entitled: I’d Rather We Got Casinos. I had to read it a few times. I’d Rather We Got Casinos?  Excuse me. What?

Synopsis: Collected for the first time, all in one place, are his Black Thoughts. From why black weathermen make him feel happy (or sad) and why brothas don’t see UFO’s. He also wants to do away with Black History Month! After all, can twenty-eight days of trivia really make up for centuries of oppression? In Wilmore’s own words, “I’d rather we got casinos!”

If he can get a book deal on I’d Rather We Got Casinos then I’m sure some publisher out there is interested in my book: I’d Rather We Got Liquor Stores. Okay maybe he is a little more well-known than I am, but I’ve seen some other books in the humor section I wouldn’t take to the toilet.  Actually I started writing a humor book years ago, but I lost it.

A few minutes into reading the book I found out that hope, as in expectation, is black.   If hope were a real person and had to fill out a job application, under race it would check the box, African-American or black. Hope. Is. Black. Okay now I’m interested, explain. He said if hope were not black, there would be no need for The Great White Hope.  Then he referenced Obama’s book, The Audacity of Hope and I couldn’t help but laugh. I got it, it made sense to me. Hope is black. Who knew?

Speaking of Obama, there’s a woman at my job who loathes him and I like to get her riled because, I can. Just say Obama and her blood pressure rises and I like to watch. We’re friends, so it’s okay. She said in the event of an emergency and she passes out, I could revive her with a chocolate bar she keeps in her desk.

I offered to draw a white chalk outline around her body and eat the chocolate bar myself. Now that I think about it, she may have already eaten the chocolate bar during Obama’s inauguration. I will keep the chalk in my desk though, for his re-election. Anyways, she was ranting about his inexperience and how Americans are a bunch of sheeple who follow the crowd.  And had they really thought about it they would have realized that Obama is not qualified for the job as president.

I’m a public defender of some kind, so I pulled this one out the air, not really, but since we had already been talking about the bible – our conversations know no limits – I thought I would use it to make a point or to raise her blood pressure. I explained that Moses was not a great speaker, he had a speech impediment, a stuttering problem maybe, but he used his brother Aaron as his spokesman. Moses was inexperienced, but he was chosen to lead a nation of people, so experience is not always a prerequisite.

Silence.

After mulling it over she said: “Get out of my office.”

I laughed out loud.  Hey I’m not saying Obama is the chosen one, I know better, but my point was that we shouldn’t judge people in position, some are put there for a reason.

Moving on.  I listened to a few minutes of Steve Harvey this morning, his entire radio staff irks my nerves, but sometimes they drop knowledge and I take notes.  They had a guest on the show, I don’t know his name and don’t care to, but one thing he said caught my attention.

His grandmother told him never to fall in love with a stripper.  She explained that you should never fall in love with someone who strips you of who you are. When we feel the need to “fake the funk” or lay who we are to the side just to be with someone, sum ting wong.

I don’t know how much control we have over who we love, but I’d rather we choose someone we don’t feel the need to “change our spots” just to keep. After all, can a few scattered moments of happiness really make up for years of pretending to be someone we’re not?

I’d Rather We Got Liquor Stores.

I didn’t want to over do it, so I did a 1/2 hour on the treadmill, walking at 4.0 on a 2.5 incline and sometimes at 3.7 mph.  I even tried running for 1 minute at 6 mph but that was tough. Normally I can put in 10-15 minutes of running, but not today.  My stamina is in the toilet and I’m still have some shortness of breath. It will probably take me over a week to get back to where I was before I was sick.

Then I used the leg press and watched TV, but was easily distracted by the line someone made with their finger and cut through the dust on the TV screen.  It bothered me enough to climb on the exercise equipment and dust the screen off.  A few seconds later, Sean walked in, he works on the first floor. I said you caught me during an OCD moment, but the TV was dusty.  He said it was okay, told me he’s a Virgo and understood.

I don’t know what that means, but maybe Virgos hate to see dust too.