Susan Marie Molloy

Life in the Oasis


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One for the Books: A Bizarre Day

This day is one for the books.

We woke up this morning to the tiny, breathy “woofs” from our terrier. It seemed he was busy barking at something in his dreams.

Later in the morning, we stopped at Sam’s Club® for baking soda and black olives. With so little to buy, we decided to take advantage of the self-checkout. That went smoothly until this screen popped up:

We waited. And waited. A good eight minutes passed, according to my watch. Then I tried to get the attention of four clerks as they passed by the checkout lines. Each kept her eyes forward and, I guess, didn’t see me waiving and beckoning them for help.

“How ‘bout that guy, over there in the white coat?” I asked my beau.

“That’s the butcher.”

“I know. Just kidding.” I started walking to the customer service desk. I tried to stop another clerk, but she turned her head and kept walking, sipping on a straw in a white Styrofoam cup.

“Excuse me—,” I started to say to another clerk, but she walked past me and over to a young man, and started talking to him. I got the impression he was her boyfriend.

By this time, I made it to the customer service line, and that was so long, I’d still be waiting as I write this article. I headed back to my beau who was still waiting for “an associate” to fix the receipt problem. So much for the motto on their vests that tout something about they are pleased as punch to help customers.

“No dice,” I said with a slow burn. “That line is almost out the door.”

“I. Have. Been. Waiting. For. Fifteen. Minutes. An. Associate. Has. Been. Informed. And. Help. Is. On. The. Way. To. Fix. This. Fifteen. Minutes. Ago, ” my beau bellowed as he read from the checkout screen, stabbing dramatically at every word.

The store went quiet. Most everyone turned towards my beau.

Within three seconds, an associate dashed over to our lane, apologizing with a smile. (By the way, she was one of the clerks I was trying to get the attention of to help us.) She got the receipt printed out, all with pleasant laughter and more apologies. We thanked her, wished her a Merry Christmas, and she did the same, and the customers around us smiled. Sometimes you have to do what you have to do to get something done.

At home, my beau unpacked the shredder we bought at Staples®. There was a dead cockroach in the plastic bag within the box. Bizarre.  It got flushed.

Then we watched the live newsfeed of self-proclaimed “Champion of Women,” ex-Saturday Night Live jokester and current Minnesota Senator, Alan Stuart Franken, profess that “some of the allegations against me are simply not true, others I remember very differently.” Isn’t that a funny way to say, “I didn’t do it, but I did do it, but in different ways?” Bizarre.  That whole thing is bizarre.

Moving along, we read an article that Jorge Mario Bergoglio (the guy sitting in the Vatican as a placeholder while we’re waiting for a Pope) is claiming the Our Father (The Lord’s Prayer) is not what Jesus taught the Apostles. Lord, help me. Can this day get any more bizarre?

For supper, I made pork with lemon and capers (an inspiration from a New York Times recipe). After we ate, and as I was cleaning off the table, I asked my beau where his lemon slice was. “I ate it,” whereupon I asked where the rind was. “I ate it all. It’s zest. And it’s fruit.”  And he proceeded to stab the lemon slice off my plate and eat it.

Not my cup of tea, but what the heck. Remember, it was a bizarre day: One for the books.

©2017 Susan Marie Molloy and all works within.

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Remembering and Honoring

Every year on November 11, in grade school, I remember that class would stop at 11:11 o’clock.  Sister Myra, our school principal, announced on the public speakers that it was Armistice Day (later on announced as Veterans Day), and Taps would play. We sat in our seats with our hands folded in prayer, and when Taps was finished, we sat still and quiet for about another minute, then we all got up and said an Our Father, three Hail Marys, and a Glory Be. Class resumed for a little while, Teacher would remind us what the day meant, then it was lunchtime, and the day continued—

Today being Veterans Day, was once known as Armistice Day, has been commemorated every year on November 11 since 1918. The day originally marked the armistice between the allies of World War I and Germany, which became effective at eleven o’clock on the eleventh day of the eleventh month of 1918.

Today we honor all our military veterans, whether alive, missing, or gone.©2017 Susan Marie Molloy and all works within.


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Pushing It

I am just old enough to remember when Christmas decorations in the stores went up the day after Thanksgiving, which was the same day Christmas carols started playing on the radio, and families in the old neighborhood put up their outside decorations, come mild or bitter cold breezes off Lake Michigan. In fact, it was a treat to go Downtown to see what Marshall Field’s window themes were for any given year, but you couldn’t do that until after Thanksgiving.

Slowly, decorations and the not-so-subtle hinting at great store bargains began creeping up before Thanksgiving, and so much so that well, nowadays you can stick your head into any one of several ginormous arts-crafts-sewing stores, and yes, The Decorations are up and serenaded by Eartha Kitt belting out “Santa Baby.” In July. Or – gasp! – June.

My Ma told me that when she was growing up, nobody put up decorations – including at home – until Christmas Eve. If you watch old movies (like I do), you might see the same craziness in any given Holiday-themed movie. I could be mistaken, but Barbara Stanwyck didn’t put up her tree until Christmas Eve in the 1945 movie, “Christmas in Connecticut.” And if I remember my history right, it was Franklin Delano Roosevelt who got the ol’ ball rolling with asking stores to start their Christmas season right after Thanksgiving. It was to get the draggy Great Depression economy rolling again, you know.

I’m not blaming anyone for the whole moving-Christmas-up-and-up-and-up. It’s just that it would be so nice to have that spirit, that goodwill feeling, that feeling of brotherhood and love all year ‘round, or at least during the six months’ time those decorations are up and Der Bingle starts dreaming of his ”White Christmas.”  People have become so numb and zombie-like with every holiday, in fact.

I read a tract somewhere wherein a priest wrote that in the anticipation of a baby’s birth, the joy of it coming didn’t end on the day it was born. In fact, the greater joy came on its birth day, and continued well past that day, throughout the years. Conversely, with Christmas, people have all this joy and merry-making for Jesus’ birth (if that’s how they observe the holy day), but it fizzles out the day after Christmas. I found that interesting, and it makes sense.  But it doesn’t.   What has Christmas become? You and I know that answer.

Still, I’d like that total societal feeling of consideration, love, and cordialness year ‘round, but maybe that’s too “Pollyanna,” and I’ve become jaded.

But it is worth a try. Isn’t it?

What I saw this past week:

“From the newspaper and around town.”

©2017 Susan Marie Molloy and all works within.

 


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Thirteen Things That Give Me the Heebie Jeebies (In No Particular Order)

Here are some random thoughts, thought about yesterday:

• Eels. On a plate.
• Fried Twinkies®.
• Live cockroaches.
• Mother-son dates.
• Fried Snickers® bars.
• Laws against Nature.
• Father-daughter dates.
• Bandwagon jumpers-on.
• Huge basement centipedes.
• Predators – the human type.
• Lake water with floating seaweed.
• Headcheese, when seen very close-up.
• Raspberries, for same reason as headcheese.

Slice of headcheese. Love the taste, but the look of the sliced tongue gives me the heebie jeebies.
Image from Google.

©2017 Susan Marie Molloy and all works within.


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The Light of Day

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