Princes, Potatoes and Pigeons…or What I Did Last Week

Making a living the old hard, taking and giving my day by day.
                             –  Draggin’ the Line, Tommy James & the Shondells

My planned monthly expenses don’t add up to that much: basically, there’s the car payment, groceries, pet food, utilities and the Internet bill.   This month, I have a few other one-time bills:  the veterinarian – my dog had unexpected surgery - and the hotel charges from following the Dave Matthews Band around last summer. 

Determined to generate enough dollars to cover all my obligations, I worked very hard last week. 

For starters, I worked at my part-time job.  It’s actually really fun.  My employer is retained by companies such as Disney and Microsoft and Kodak.  Our job is to be sure that the clients’ products - DVDs and Xbox games and cameras and such – are properly merchandised at ‘big box’ retailers.  Think Best Buy and ToysRUs.  We make sure the shelves are stocked and the prices are correct and promotional materials are appropriately placed in the stores.

Every week, usually on Tuesday, new DVD titles are released.  Last week these movies included Prince of Persia, a Disney flick based on the video game of the same name.   Now, Disney does a great of job of promoting their new releases.  They send special displays and signage out to all the stores, and sometimes toys and T-shirts too. My first task that day was to assemble the Prince of Persia cardboard display featuring a life size Jake Gyllenhaal in very tight trousers, wielding about a dozen swords.   I’ve enjoyed Mr. Gyllenhaal’s past work, in movies like Jarhead, Zodiac, Brothers and Brokeback Mountain.   I hadn’t envisioned him as the hunky hero of Disney’s version of a PlayStation game.  But he sure did look good, even on cardboard.

The display kit was accompanied by illustrated instructions.  I carefully followed each step to fold, insert and adhere.   Standing back to admire my handiwork, I noticed that when I had folded back the cardboard pieces that comprised the actual stand to support Jake, I made a crease in the front of the display.  Right between his legs. It looked like something was trying to get out of his pants. 

I giggled at first and thought, “Well, maybe this will be good for sales!” 

But the “Disney Pictures Presents” wording over Jake’s windswept locks brought me to my senses.  This is a family movie after all!  I went to the back of the standup and bent the support cardboard bluntly to eliminate any pointy pieces.  Then I circled around to Jake’s front and pushed in on the cardboard, trying to flatten the display out.    As I was smoothing the crease, I heard someone clear their throat behind me. 

“Ahem,” said Gregg, the supervisor of the media department at the store.  He is the man who signs off on my work, and as a new employee, I’ve been trying to make a good impression.  “Why are you rubbing on Jake Gyllenhaal’s…picture?”

“Oh, um, well, he’s got a bulge here,” I stammered.  “From when I was popping him up.  I was just trying to get it to go down.”  As the words came out of my mouth, I realized what I had said and started giggling again.  So much for good impressions…

Gregg shook his head.  He plucked a sign reading “Special!  Only $24.99” from the kit and taped it strategically over the lower part of Jake’s body. As he picked up Jake and strode off to place the display at the front of the store, Gregg pushed some un-inflated “Tinkerbell” balloons into my hands.  “Fill these with helium and put them over by the Disney section,” he said.  “Be careful.”

I purchased the Prince of Persia DVD on my out of the store and watched it that night.

Later in the week, I had a freelance article due. To earn more money, I’ve been ghost-writing blogs and eZine articles as well as contributing to eHOW.com.  The topic on this piece was “Kid Friendly Events near Idaho Falls, Idaho.”  What could be more kid friendly than Shelley Spud Day?  My dog and I headed out to learn more about this unique Idaho event, held in late September as the local potato harvest is wrapping up.

Shelley, Idaho, is a town of about 3800 people just south of Idaho Falls. Founded in 1904, Shelley is located on the banks of the Snake River; it is surrounded by fertile farmland.  Agriculture is a major industry.  Since 1927, Shelley has been hosting Spud Day, an annual celebration of the Russet potato.  Potatoes are a significant part of Idaho’s economy:  the 2009 crop was valued at $855 million, and the Russet is the main potato variety grown in the state.

In early days, cannons were fired off to signal the start of Spud Day. Farmers entered their potatoes in contests and the winners were exhibited.  Competitions for horse pulling, potato picking, horse shoe pitching, hog calling and rolling-pin throwing were held.  A high school football game was played: the Shelley Russets usually trounced the Firth Cougars.  The day wrapped up with a street dance and free baked potatoes, complete with butter, salt and pepper, were distributed to the crowd.

Spud Day 2010 still focused on the Russet:  the potato picking contest, horse shoe tournament and free potatoes for lunch remain part of the day;  sour cream added as a potato condiment in the 1960s.  Over the past 83 years, the event has continued to evolve.  The day’s activities now include a parade led by a giant potato perched on a flatbed truck, a 5K run, the crowning of the “Spud Queen” and a fair complete with games, local merchants and carnival rides.  

While still called The Russets, the Shelley High football team no longer provides the focal sporting event.  The “Spud Tug” is a favorite and relatively new addition to Spud Day;   it debuted in 1993.  For this activity, a cement truck mixes up instant mashed potatoes and dumps about 1,000 pounds of the side dish into a trench.  Tug-of-war teams then compete from either side, with the losers plunging into the pit of mashed potatoes.  ESPN has actually covered this event in the past.  Folks were staking out their seats on the bleachers around the trench hours in advance. 

Spud Day 2010 was crowded; I don’t know the final count but the Kiwanis gave away 7,500 baked potatoes between 12:00 and 12:30.  But being part of the record crowd was pleasant:  the sun was shining, kids were laughing, and the comforting smell of baking Russets filled the air. 

Not a bad way to spend an afternoon, even though it was ‘work’.

Maybe my favorite part of the week was Thursday.  Most Thursdays, I shuttle my nieces to school.  I do this so my sister can start her day a little earlier; her commute to work on Thursdays is over 40 miles in each direction.  When I was working full time, I missed a lot of Thursdays due to meetings or company travel, but it’s part of our regular routine now.  Once a week I wake the girls and help them get ready for school.  If we’re on schedule, we go out to breakfast or grab hot chocolate at Starbucks.  Other days we might munch Pop-Tarts in the car, and sing along loudly with XM radio.  The girls love the “80s on 8” channel, especially anything by Pet Shop Boys. 

Last week, my six-year-old niece proudly declared that she would entertain her sister and me en route to the school by reading to us. She opened her Scholastic Book copy of The Pigeon Finds a Hot Dog! by Mo Willems and began to read the story carefully to us, even giving the two characters – a pigeon and a duckling - different voices.  She had only gotten to about the third page when she collapsed into giggles, barely able to articulate the text aloud.  The giggles continued and grew louder with the turn of each page. Clearly, she found this book to be the funniest ever written. 

At a certain point in the story, the pigeon describes his (her?) hot dog:  “Each morsel is a JOY!  A CELEBRATION in a BUN!”  Giggles from the back seat turned to guffaws, and it was contagious.   Even her big sister, who is almost 12, was laughing herself silly.  Each time the laughter subsided, my niece would repeat the line, and everyone in the car would crack up again. We had tears in our eyes from laughing by the time we rolled up at school.  

I didn’t make any money that morning, but it was a pretty valuable day.

© 2010 Donna Nims.  All rights reserved.

Fun in the Friendly Skies

“All the monkeys aren’t in the zoo.” 
      – Grandma Nims, on the boardwalk, Mission Beach, San Diego, 1990

I’ve been traveling a lot over the past few years.  While still employed, my job involved visiting business partners all over the U.S.  I drove to some locations, which was cool since I could take along my dog on those trips, but I flew (on an airplane) to most. 

Since I’ve been laid off, I’ve still flown a bit: going to job interviews and to visit friends.  Enough trips to qualify for Medallion status on Delta again this year.  I’m not at a George-Clooney-Up-In-The-Air level, but I’ve logged many miles aloft.  My seats are nearly always upgraded to the first class cabin.

Along the way, I’ve concluded that there are basically two categories of seat mates.  First, those who hustle on board, take off their shoes, put on their noise-cancelling headphones, buckle in and close their eyes.  These folks won’t want to be chatting en route.

Then there are the folks I am always seated by.  Usually shorter, older gentlemen with unique hair styles.  Their first order of business once on board the plane is to order up a Canadian Club on the rocks, “And keep ‘em coming, Kimberly,” they wink at the flight attendant.  As the flight progresses and the whisky flows, they become more gregarious.  If I engage in conversation with them, I inevitably regret it.  

I’ve taken some business trips with a former coworker, Tom, over the years.  We’d hardly ever be seated together, but we would compare notes about our fellow travelers after each flight.  Tom’s an engineer, very technical, and several of his family members work in the airline industry; he knows all about optimal cruising altitudes, wing flap positions, air speed and tail winds and such.  He likes to drink Budweiser and listen to the channel where you can hear the pilots talking to air traffic control during the flight. 

Once on the ground, I’d tell Tom how the fellow next to me asked me how I got such a nice tan (“Why, I work in my garden and I walk my dog every day.”)  Or how the gentleman in 2A offered to buy me a drink and asked me if I needed a place to stay while in town - wasn’t that friendly?  Tom would shake his head and tell me he knew I was not a stupid woman, but I was clueless on this point.  Clearly I didn’t know a pick-up line when I heard one. 

I found the prospect hard to believe.  I mean, I’m not exactly ugly, but I’m carrying a few extra pounds.  Between colorings, my hair is laced with gray and there are plenty of “laugh lines” on my face.  I don’t think of myself as “pick-up” material.  Tom hypothesized that after my seat mates gulped down three or four generous in-flight servings of Canadian Club, pretty much any woman between the ages of eighteen and eighty would look good.  I deferred to him on this point.

On a recent trip, I traveled with some girlfriends on the first leg of the journey, and then we each caught flights to our respective home ports.  My pals all departed before me.  I had a two-hour layover: plenty of time to stretch my legs, read a book, and people watch.  Not too long a wait, I convinced myself.  Then, just before we were scheduled to board, an announcement was made:  due to mechanical difficulties, my flight was delayed. 

90 minutes or so passed and another announcement:  the plane at our gate could not be repaired, but an alternate 737 had been identified.  Seat assignments would stay the same.  The new plane was being readied for flight at the terminal at the other end of the airport; all passengers needed to make their way on down there.  170 folks clapped, then gathered up their children, carryon luggage and half-eaten Big Macs; we moved en masse down the moving sidewalks.

At the new gate, folks with first class seats had begun queuing up for boarding.  I staked my place in line; I was looking forward to a nap during the four-hour-long flight.  I heard a groan and turned to see a man clutching his abdomen behind me.  “Oh no, oh man,” he moaned for the benefit of everyone in line. “I ate something bad here.  Really, really bad.” 

The fellow reminded me of Woody Allen.  Shorter, older, balding on top with a longish fringe of thin curls circling the back of his head.   He wore wire-rimmed glasses and every piece of expensive clothing on his body was wrinkled.  Not just normal “I’ve had a long day of airline travel” wrinkled:  super wrinkled.  It looked as if he had wet each article and tied it in knots before throwing it in the dryer.  Including his tweed sport coat.

“Oooooooooohhhhhhhhhhh,”  Woody groaned again. I turned quickly to avoid eye contact and faced the front of the line.  I knew without a doubt that this guy was going to be seated next to me.

The ground crew scrambled to ready our transport, and eventually the first class cabin passengers were invited to board.  Woody had disappeared, still moaning, in the general direction of the men’s room.  I pulled out my IPod, a magazine and my reading glasses, then stowed my bag overhead.  I sat down in my bulkhead aisle seat, and awaited the inevitable.

The first class cabin filled up, except for the window seat next to me.  The coach class passengers boarded.  No sign of Woody.   The crew made repeated announcements about how to stow carryon luggage for everyone who had never been on a plane before and those who had forgotten: rolling bags in the overhead bins with wheels in to maximize the storage capacity, smaller bags under the seat in front of you.  Kimberly and the other flight attendants briskly whisked about the cabin, rearranging overhead bins and magically everyone’s bags were securely tucked away. 

Woody appeared at the front of the plane.  He gestured to the empty seat next to me.  I stood and moved out of his way, and he sank gratefully into his seat.  Kimberly asked him if she could take his computer bag, his only carryon, since the bulkhead doesn’t have any seats in front to store bags under.  She smiled and asked him if he’d like her to hang up his coat, too.  “So it doesn’t get all wrinkled up, it’s a long flight,” she drawled.  “Any more wrinkled, at least,”  I chuckled to myself as the bag and coat were passed in front of me.

Then I made my mistake.  As Woody buckled in and settled down with a ginger ale and Canadian Club, I said, “I hope you are feeling better now!”   I wasn’t just being polite:  I really did hope so.  Air travel can wreak havoc on the healthiest digestive system, much less one suffering from food poisoning.  And I was seated between this dude and the restroom.  If Woody was ill, there would be no nap for me.

“Oh!”  Woody gave me a grin.  “Thank you.  Did you hear?  I ate something back there that was really bad.  Really,  really bad.  But I am feeling much better now.  And the ginger ale will help I think.”

I was relieved to hear Woody’s tummy was better.  But I had opened the door, and conversation commenced.   Woody shook his head and recounted the many inconveniences he had encountered on his trip.  Luckily he was on the last leg of his journey now, and would be home when we landed.  We commiserated about the trials and tribulations of modern air travel.  Woody ordered another drink, and told me all about himself.  I found myself mesmerized, both by the calm, relaxing tone of his voice and the size of his tiny teeth.  They looked like children’s teeth in an adult mouth, all in the right places but with giant gaps in between.

Woody had worked for years for a regional grocery store chain that flourished and eventually went national; over the years he had risen high in their ranks.  He had planned to retire by now, but had been asked to stay on for a few more years, with a compensation package so rich that he couldn’t refuse.  He had two adult children residing on the east coast, and one on the west.    He traveled a lot.  And bad as it was, this was not the worst trip he had ever taken.

Drink number three arrived – straight whisky, no ginger ale from here on out - and Woody told me his “worst trip ever” story.  It was to Africa, he said.  He and his wife-at-the-time were traveling to Johannesburg via multiple flights and airlines.  Delays and cancellations occurred at every step of the journey.  Lost luggage, nasty flight attendants, bad food, freezing planes, no Canadian Club.  I had to agree it sounded dreadful.  Thankfully, when they landed in Johannesburg things took a positive turn.

Their arrival in South Africa was so late, they had missed their next and last connection.  The trip organizers were aware of the situation, and a private car met the couple at the baggage claim.  Picture a driver in a neat suit with a chauffer’s cap on his head, holding up a white sign:  “WOODY.”

Woody and his wife-at-the-time were whisked away in a limo stocked with champagne and, of course, Canadian Club, to the hotel where they would stay for the night at no charge. They would catch a flight to their final destination the next day. 

Woody described the hotel as something out of a PBS Masterpiece Theater program like Heat of the Sun or Death on the Nile.  Picture avenues of palms leading to deep shady porches, with a snow-capped mountain in the distance and a giraffe or two sauntering past.   Hushed, dark-paneled rooms with gently rotating, old-fashioned ceiling fans.  Antiques sprinkled throughout.  Staff uniformed to resemble British officers at the turn of the century. Free flowing gin-and-tonics. 

I was captivated.  Woody was a great story teller! 


“So what were you doing in South Africa?  Does your grocery chain have stores there?” I prompted him to keep talking.

Woody waved his empty glass and Kimberly brought the bottle over to refill it.  We were about an hour into the flight. 

“Well,” Woody said.  “I made a big donation to the Jane Goodall Institute a few years ago.  So I was invited to visit a research team on a reserve.”

“Wow!” I said.  I was impressed.  As a freshman at the University of Michigan, I switched majors four times:  one of those majors was archaeology and another was anthropology.  I had read a bit about Goodall’s pioneering observations of chimps as well as some alleged monkey business between her and Louis Leakey.  I casually followed Goodall’s work through the years.

And then there was the Dave Matthews Band connection:  as all DMB fans know,  they sing about 200 songs that feature monkeys:  monkeys in trees, monkeys out of trees, proud monkeys, humble monkeys, shaking monkeys, a monkey man with a plan.  Now, I remember my anthropology classes.  I know that technically chimps are not monkeys.  Both are primates, but monkeys have tails and chimps do not.  But close enough. 

I remembered that Dave and Tim Reynolds had recently performed at a fundraiser for the Jane Goodall Institute.  Woody knows Jane, and Dave knows Jane.  If I introduce myself before the end of the flight, I will know Woody.  That was just three degrees of separation! Mind you, I’m not a groupie, but I admit I am a huge fan of DMB and I was delighted at this connection, however tenuous.   

Lucky me, to be seated by Woody on this flight!  I imagined myself attending a fundraiser for Jane and the chimps, wearing a long sparkly gown and sipping Pinot Noir.  I would have a job by then, and be in a position to make a hefty donation.  I could see myself, sophisticated, witty and wise, talking about monkeys, music and politics with Dave and Stefan and Carter and Boyd.  Dave would be nattily attired in the same jeans and dark jacket he wears in publicity photos.  Woody will be fetching us wine, wearing a wrinkled tux.

With chimps as his topic, and with Kimberly periodically topping off his whisky, Woody needed no further prompting.  He told me about his trek into the jungle, just him and a doctoral candidate.   They followed a group of about 30 chimps down the narrow trail beaten through the lush vegetation to a watering hole.  Along the way, the chimps poked at an inert boa, the snake lazy and bulging with its breakfast.  Baby chimps were carried in arms, the adults taking turns. The chimps used sticks as tools.  The primate group fed and drank and frolicked about the rain forest, all for Woody’s benefit. They posed, and he took photos.  The Ph.D. candidate told Woody that the chimp birth rate was down and the scientists suspected it was some sort of self-regulation of population size based on their shrinking habitable areas.  It was another great story.

At this point, Woody grinned sloppily through a whisky haze at me.  It was pretty scary, with those teeth. 

“Then I saw the most amazing thing,” he splashed a little Canadian Club my way as he gesticulated.  “There was this female chimp in the branch right above my head.  She plucked a leaf and waved it at a male.  The doctoral student told me to watch because that meant she wanted to mate.  Not many people get to see THAT.”

My stomach lurched, and unlike Woody, I hadn’t eaten anything at the airport. 


Thoughts raced through my brain. 


     “Was Woody really going to describe monkey sex?" 
     "Why did I start talking to him?" 
     "What should I do?"
     "I don’t want to talk about monkey sex with anyone, not even Dave Matthews!"
     "Well, maybe with Dave Matthews."
     "I’ll escape to the bathroom!"
     "No, I can’t, the seatbelt sign is on!”

I frantically grabbed for my IPod and started to unwind the headphones.

Woody continued.  “Well,” he said, “That female was ready.  She wanted that male. And she was fine, really a desirable girl.  He swung from limb to limb to get over to her lickety-split.  You should have seen it,” he chortled.

I didn’t know how to respond.  Hands shaking, I plugged the headphones into the IPod and put them on.

“Hey,” I said.  “Um. I’m feeling pretty tired now.”

“The whole thing was over in just a few minutes,” Woody ignored me.  “The male, he got to that branch and then he mounted the female.  It was probably just two minutes before she reached orgasm.  It was the most amazing thing to see.”  He leered.  I’ve never seen a leer in person before, only in the movies, but this was definitely a full-on leer.  “Wouldn’t you have liked to have seen that?”

“Um.  Sounds like a once-in-a-lifetime sight for sure.  I’m going to sleep now,” I said.  I  fumbled with my IPod and closed my eyes. 

     “What makes a female monkey desirable?”  I thought. 
     “Do monkeys even have orgasms?" 
     "Is monkey sex an appropriate topic of conversation with complete strangers on planes now?" 
     "Am I being a prude?" 
     "Is this one of those occasions when I need Tom to explain things?" 
     "Should I still introduce myself?" 
     "Do I want this guy to know my name?" 
     "He probably doesn’t actually know Jane Goodall herself."
     "Waving a leaf is a signal you want to have sex?"
     "Does it only work for monkeys? ”

I decided to pretend to nap for the remainder of the flight, keeping my eyes closed for the duration, even if I went to the bathroom. 

I know, I was rude.  I had encouraged Woody to talk.  Another, more quick-thinking woman would have handled it better, differently: maybe making a joke of it (“Two minutes?  Sounds like my ex!”) or firmly stopping the discussion (“I’m not comfortable with the direction this is going, can we change the subject?”)  

Me, I just hid behind my eyelids and my IPod. 

After ten minutes or so, I peeked over at Woody, feeling sheepish.  He was sound asleep, leaning against the window and still clutching a half-filled glass of Canadian Club.

Who wants to meet Dave Matthews anyway?  I selected an all-U2 playlist on my IPod, turned up the volume and settled back for the rest of the flight. 

Are there any monkeys in Ireland?

Copyright © 2010 Donna Nims.  All Rights Reserved.

 

Laid Off and Lucky

"I wanna fill my belly so I gotta get paid."
                                - Spaceman, The Dave Matthews Band


I know that I am fortunate compared to a lot of folks these days.  I was laid off back in April, but as far as losing your job goes, I had good luck:

• I had a little money saved for an emergency just like losing my job.
• My mortgage is paid in full.
• I was given a parting gift of a little severance package, which is definitely not the norm from what I hear from my fellow unemployed peeps.   
• I am able to collect unemployment insurance.  I felt a little funny about this at first - I've been working for over 30 years, it seemed weird to be paid without an actual job.  But I have come to terms with it:  my job now is to look for work, and the State pays me for that activity.
• All of the unemployment interactions take place online or over the phone.  I don't have to visit any offices or stand in long lines.  My weekly allowance is deposited directly into my bank account.  A far cry from the tedious and humiliating situation my dad faced when he was unemployed in the mid-1970s.
• I can work part-time and still collect unemployment, with some restrictions. 
• I qualified for a COBRA subsidy, which means my former employer still pays 65% of my monthly health insurance bill, while I pay the affordable remaining 35%.  And it is fine, fine health insurance.  I have the same low deductible and no worries about preexisting condition waivers.  I don't need to be concerned about health insurance, at least for another 12 months.

I recognize that things could be a lot worse.  I have looked upon this summer as a gift, some time to enjoy until I found my new gig.  I spent the weeks working in my gardens, playing with my nieces, hiking with my dog, golfing, practicing yoga, going to concerts and minor league ball games and catching up with friends.  I haven't been so relaxed - or tan -  in years.

But I have been a little worried about finding a new job.  I've been laid off for 21 weeks now.  I've submitted my resume and applied for over 60 jobs.  Of those, I have scored two interviews and one job offer for part-time work.  Oh, and one kind woman sent me a email saying she'd hired someone else but she'd keep my resume on file.  I suppose on some level I thought I'd find a new job at a similar salary level pretty quickly.  When the offers didn't come rolling in, I started to be concerned.  My unemployment insurance will run out soon, and my savings are dropping a little too much for comfort.

So I took the part-time job even though it's not exactly in my area of expertise and I'm accepting some freelance writing assignments.  The job is fun and I love the writing especially - I can't believe I am actually paid for doing something I enjoy so much!

I may not be making six figures like I was before my layoff, but I think I am going to be getting by just fine.  Maybe a new job with a high salary is not the answer I am seeking after all:  maybe finding a way to make ends meet while staying relaxed and happy is the way to go.

I'm still feeling pretty lucky.

Copyright © 2010 Donna Nims.  All Rights Reserved.