Joe and the Coffeemaker

Few words strike a common cord amongst married women like the words “leg lamp”. Unless you were born a week ago, you know what those words mean. They are symbolic of the power struggle between the sexes. They stand for the many small battles that couples, over time, must learn to accept, engage in, and overcome in order to cohabitate for any amount of time. It is the dance of married people—the give and take, the deciding which disagreements are battles and which are Battles. Each must compromise, dominate, and accept defeat at various times for the benefit of the marriage, and when they don’t, the marriage fails. In our house, it is usually the most mundane of things that sends us into the gladiator arena—when the lawn should be mowed and by whom, where to hang the shed key, and the overstocking of various types of mustard in the frig. I think we are normal, as we pull together in the really serious trials of life, but we can drive each other nuts with the silly petty stuff. Thank god for love or I’d kill him half of the time. The other half, he’d kill me, I’m sure of it.

Joe decided to assert himself at, of all places, the high school band fundraiser night. We don’t get out as much as we should, so this is a great evening of fun, filled with adult conversations, cocktails, music, dancing, and raffles. There are the usual silent auctions (that we can’t afford), lame door prizes, and about a hundred raffle prizes. There are raffle prizes that I think are nice—like spa packages, restaurant certificates, or baskets of gourmet foods. There are raffle prizes that Joe likes—18 holes of golf, Ipods, and a bucket of car grooming products. Then there are raffle prizes that nobody wants—the 8 foot neon palm tree, the outdated CD player, the electric coin counter, or the Bears bean bag chair. Well, I think no one wants them, anyway.

We peruse the raffles prize tables, tickets clenched tightly in my fist, deciding what cup to honor their presence in. Joe makes a suggestion and I rebuff him. “We don’t need that” is the usual admonishment. He makes more suggestions, I think I’m compromising, and we drop tickets in various buckets. I inspect the prizes carefully, making sure we don’t end up with something silly and frivolous; completely unaware of the fact that Joe is miserable.

Joe has a Type B personality. Thank God. I am a very Type A and we balance each other most of the time. He is so Type B, that I think he is almost a B minus. Joe was the youngest of five kids in his family. He is the master of fitting in, the king of mellow, and the picture of passive-aggressive. He is usually quiet, pretty easy going, and tolerant of my latest escapades. When I’m yelling and screaming, he stands there waiting until I’m finished. I take charge, he takes orders. I’m a go-getter, he’s a let’s –think-about-it-for-awhile. He has earned the name “Poor Joe” because it appears that he just follows the Lin Bandwagon, which isn’t true, but it appears that way to onlookers. Poor Joe gets his way sometimes, but quietly, he just doesn’t make a whole lot of noise about his rebellion. Tonight was no exception.

I was talking to some friends, sipping a glass of wine, when the unthinkable happened. Joe politely interrupted the conversation to say that he bought just another $5 worth of tickets. He casually added that he would just take care of them while I was visiting. I never suspected, never saw it coming. He was an adult, he could handle this. How much trouble could he get into with $5 worth of tickets?

As we sat down at the table, Joe admitted that he had put all 6 tickets into the cup for a coffeemaker. We didn’t’ need a coffeemaker and I said so. I was about to give him crap about how silly that was when I realized that his eyes were sparkling with that stick-it-to-Lin kind of look. Worse yet, the other men at the table were all smiling and secretly envying his audacity. They too, must have had their raffle tickets reined in by the little woman, and were waiting to see Joe’s demise or perhaps, a victory. One guy actually admitted that he snuck in tickets for the neon palm tree.

Finally, Joe spoke up--loudly, I might add.

“The cup only had a couple of tickets in it. I figured I had a good chance to win.” He was so damn proud of himself I couldn’t say anything more. “It’s not about a coffeemaker—it’s about winning.” He started to look like the dad in “A Christmas Story” when he got the letter saying he’s won “a major award”. The similarity was scary.

Yeah, but you’re winning a coffeemaker. I gave up. I knew that once again, Poor Joe was setting me up to be the bad guy and I looked like the fool. Let him have his coffeemaker. Or not. He didn’t win it yet. I still had a chance if they didn’t draw his ticket.

The Durabrand showed up on the table with the flourish of Vanna White. Joe won the golden chalice of raffle prizes and it wasn’t even a name brand. The box boasted of its finest features—a water level indicator and an on/off button. It didn’t even have a timer! It pretty much was the leg lamp of prizes. But that didn’t matter to Joe or his cohorts at the table. Oh, there were high fives, and hoots of glory. There were handshakes and pats on the back. There were told-you-so smirks to the wives. Yep, they showed me. It was the dumbest prize ever won and you’d think he’d just won the Super bowl.

The Durabrand went up in the attic the next day. We didn’t need the thing, and Joe quietly stowed it away for Amvets or maybe next year’s raffle. He didn’t care that it was lame; all that he cared about is that he WON. I didn’t understand it, and I still don’t. I think it is a guy thing. I’ll let him have this one. Let him have his glory, his moment in the sun. If that’s what it takes to make himself feel good, I didn’t say a word. So what if he was acting like one of the kids?

Two days later, ( and I’m not making this up) I dropped the glass pot for my Krupp’s.

Hi, I am JAWS the talking frog. Welcome to my mini-blog, a blog within a blog. I have a few things to say today.

1) It ain't easy being green, in the winter I mean.
2) I don't like crickets with top hats and canes.
3) I am on a hunger strike until Hillary wins (a primary) Oh, well forget about point three.
4) When is lunch ? I'm starved.
5) Nothing is better on a hot day than a dip in the pond.
6) Pass the flies - I'm starved.

the TAO of YOU

What I believe
is nothing to you
unless of course
you believe it too.

I didn't think you
would think the way I
do and yet the
truth still comes through.

What it is to
me is not what it
is to you but
it is the same too.

Now I hope that
you realize these words
are but symbols
of a deeper view

One in which I
play no part of you
and one in which
you are you and to

be what you feel
you are you must be
true to the truth
that is known as you

there might be some
who say otherwise
Yet I for one do
believe in you too

A simple poem

What I believe

is nothing to you

Unless of course

you believe it too

Jaws - the Klller Frog (don't get too close)

Be very afraid !!!
(courtesy of LMK)
Frank

Minnie Lee

I woke up last night, unable to sleep, thinking about all the things in the world that aren’t so important when it is daylight. I hate it when I do that because everything at 3:00 am is so much more depressing than it would be at 8:00 or 9:00 am. I lay there a long time, tossing and turning, mulling the fact that my writing and pockets were nearing empty this week. Damn recession. What can I blame the writing on? That’s when Minnie Lee came to visit.

I met Minnie when my son was in kindergarten. She was a scrawny thing, dressed in hand-me-downs that had seen better days, and her hair was full of braids and mismatched barrettes. She didn’t stand out as being less fortunate because, god knows, there were probably 5 more in the class that had it as bad as she did. They were clean for the most part, spiffed up for the first days of class in whatever good clothes they owned. You didn’t notice the details when you walked in, they were all excited to start school and a new adventure. It took a few times of visiting to realize how bad off some of these kids were.

There are some things in this world that should not be, like murder or rape or incest. Children growing up in poverty has to be one of the worst and Minnie Lee was my introduction to that heartbreak. These kids were raised in a poverty stricken neighborhood that fed into our school district and I never knew how bad these kids had it until I saw it for myself when I would volunteer in the class. They had coats that did not fit. There were no hats on their heads or gloves on their hands on the most freezing of days. They ate whatever the lunch lady served—there were no finicky eaters amongst this bunch. They didn’t have shoes that fit or pants that reached the ground. One little girl shared with me the bite marks on her finger tips that she said came from “the rats”. It broke my heart, but these were things I could not fix. I could only give them love and attention for the time that I was there, and pray that their lives would get better.
Minnie stood out among the crowd only because she fought her situation. At five, she knew she was different, and she didn’t like it. She wanted attention, and because she didn’t know how to get it, she acted out. She poked girls in the washroom line, wiggled during story time, sang at the top of her lungs in music. She wouldn’t sit in her chair. She wouldn’t share crayons. Minnie’s name was constantly being yelled, and she would smile a silly grin as if she was just awarded Student of the Week. Bad attention for Minnie was better than no attention at all. Fortunately, Mrs. Applegate was a veteran and understood her need. Minnie was given a lot of positive attention as well, but she was never as proud as when she misbehaved.

Time went on and it was a common sight to see Minnie out in the hall or visiting the principal’s office. She had a permanent spot in the chair outside the office door and she sat there proud as the Queen of England when she was there. I would stop and chat with her, ask her what she was doing, but she had no shame, no remorse. This was still better than what she had at home. No yelling, stern lectures or cajoling could convince Minnie that this was no way to get through school. She was so determined in her quest for attention, so strong willed, that most of the staff had pretty much given up on her. They wrote her off by the end of kindergarten.

I was at school the very first week of first grade and I was in charge of sharpening the kids’ pencils from their supply boxes. Every desk was lined up neatly and their colorful name tags taped to the top of their desk. Each child had their supply box on the top corner of their desk, ready for the tasks ahead. They were full of brand new pencils and pristine erasers. There were shiny new scissors, a new box of crayons, glues sticks and rulers ready for eager hands. What potential lie in that small box on the desk. Everyone except Minnie Lee.

Minnie had no box. She showed up for the first day of school with a Ziploc bag of broken crayons and a couple of chewed up pencils with the erasers worn off. I don’t remember if she had a glue stick, but I do remember that Mrs. Durbin had given her an empty Kleenex box to put her collection in. When I came to her desk, my heart sank. How do you start the school year with the lame remnants of last year? How can you be creative with broken crayons that you have to strip the paper off to reach any color? How do you learn math and not have an eraser? There is such hope and excitement in new school supplies. Do you remember how excited it was to shop for them as a kid?! A new year, a new pencil, a new start. This poor kid was just continuing her already pathetic start.

I went home and shared my finding with a good friend, and we both cried. How can hope be snuffed out in someone so young? How do we stand by and not help? And how far do you help? We couldn’t solve Minnie’s poverty problem, but we could give her a fresh start in school. Maybe a fresh start will give her a fresh attitude. We put together supplies from our overstock at home, and found an extra box to put them in. My friend painted Minnie’s name on the top in rainbow colors, the kind that first grade girls love so much. I stopped at the school when the kids were at lunch and replaced her sad little box with the new one. Mrs. Durbin knew who did it, but I don’t think Minnie ever did, and that wasn’t important. What was important is that little girl felt special for one tiny moment in her life. I only imagine her face when she came back from lunch.

Minnie never changed. She struggled with her lessons. She wore clothes that were too small for her. She paraded a worn polyester nightgown with Cinderella’s picture faded on the front for her Halloween costume that year. She sat on her thrown by the front office far too often. Things weren’t going to change anytime soon for Minnie and that broke my heart. I wanted to grab that kid, throw her into a warm tub of overflowing bubbles and dress her in the finest dress. I wanted her to wear party shoes and paint her fingernails. I wanted to braid her hair and put in matching barrettes. I wanted to fill her tummy with good food and sweet candies. I wanted her life to be different. I wanted. I wanted.

Minnie’s family moved late in the year and I never saw her again. I was hopeful for her until I learned that her young parents were having yet more marital problems and mom took the eight kids to live with family in Ford Heights. She went from the frying pan into the fire. My heart sank. What will become of Minnie? I couldn’t even begin to think of what she was experiencing and I couldn’t help her.

So, in the dark, I dream of Minnie. What became of her? Is she in school? Does she eat well? I hope she isn’t on drugs. Why do I think the answers to these questions are as scary at 8:00 a.m. as they are at 3:00 a.m.? Minnie haunts me.

the snow man by wallace stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

What is the poet trying to say ?
Why is the title 'the snow man' ?
Something to think about and perhaps write about...

FRANK