Attack of the Killer Tomato

It was a simple idea. A couple of eggs, and a sliced tomato for breakfast. There was one juicy on-the-vine-product-of-Mexico red orb remaining in the fruit bowl.

Eggs arranged on a plate, I reached for the tomato. Which felt, um, bumpy. Looked at it. It WAS bumpy. Like a nerdy boy before the invention of Clearasil. Scratched the surface, and...oh my!

It was ALIVE!

Sigourney Weaver came to mind immediately.

And then I realized that I had eaten the other three tomatoes from that very same vine. And I'd been feeling a little queasy, off and on. I wondered if an MRI could detect tendrils.

Whoa. What if the problem wasn't just the tomatoes? What if, due to Global Warming, there had been a Cosmic Shift, and Radioactive Energy was now bathing the house?

Or, maybe the microwave was leaking. It was awfully old, and close to the fruit bowl.

I peeled the two grapefruits and the clementine, which were neighbors of the tomato. They looked OK. Surely, if it was Global Warming or a leaking microwave, it would have affected them, too.

So the only possible explanation was Tomato Aliens.

Mexican Tomato Aliens.

This begged the question: To whom do you report Mexican Tomato Aliens? The grocery store where you purchased the tomatoes? The CDC? FDA? The Immigration and Customs Department?

I made a cup of coffee, and ate the eggs (but not the egg yolks, I gave those to the dogs) while I pondered my predicament. If I went to the store with my find, the chain would have to open an investigation. Trace the Tomato Pedigree. Call in all those acronyminous federal agencies. Who would ban the import of tomatoes from Mexican farmers, devastating the economy, and resulting in the closing of that hotel we like in Zihuatanejo. And I'd be accused of harboring a personal grudge against Mexican tomatoes...even though I would have done the same thing if the tomatoes were a product of Guam. (Just FYI and CYA - I like Guam! Shirley's Coffee House is my favorite breakfast place in the whole world! Really!)

A moment of clarity, as I loaded the egg dish into the dishwasher. I couldn't share my discovery. Couldn't risk the destruction of the Mexican economy; even though that would lead to a sharp increase in tomato farming on Guam, which could really use the business.

I had to deal with my Mexican Tomato Aliens alone.

Luckily, a Google search turned up lots of websites with patterns for aluminum foil hats.

The Trouble With Book Stores

Is that they have too many books.

Book stores were invented in my lifetime. In my Nancy Drew Days, the only place to get a book was at the library. (Well, except for Nancy Drew Books, which you could find at the Dime Store. Right next to the 45s, and I don't mean guns.) If you wanted a book at the library, you had two choices - the "school library" or the "public library." The same lady worked at both of them. She had a long tweed skirt, a white blouse and a cardigan sweater. If it was warm enough, the cardigan was draped over her Librarian Chair. Otherwise, she was wearing it, usually with a Kleenex (registered trademark) stuffed up one sleeve. She also wore "stockings" that resulted in legs the color of bratwurst. And sensible black shoes with crepe soles that didn't clickclickclick when she walked up and down the aisles with the book trolley.

(I never figured out how the same lady could be at the school library when I left for the day, and at the public library when I arrived there, a half an hour later. Perhaps they were twins.)

If you wanted a book you had to look in the Card Catalog, a very scary configuration of index cards in very long and tenuous drawers that you had to remove from a dresser-like piece of furniture, and you WERE NOT TO PUT THE DRAWER BACK WHEN YOU WERE FINISHED...such an offense could result in losing your Library Card for an entire year. No one ever explained WHY you couldn't put the drawer back. Maybe people put the drawers in the wrong slots, which could cause permanent damage to the Dewey Decimal System? Perhaps there were liability issues around dropping drawers on toes; but liability was not a popular concept at the time. As evidenced by the fact that PE consisted of us shooting arrows on the playground, and climbing ropes to the ceiling of the gym. Of course, we had "spotters" who could alert the authorities if we lost our grip twenty feet up and splatted to the floor. Although the spotter thing was probably overkill. Even a school-age body falling from the rafters would make enough noise to attract attention on impact.

Once you looked in the Card Catalog, you would get a Locator Number; which was, for all intents and purposes, the precursor to GPS technology. The idea was to wander up and down the aisles in the library until you found someone to talk to about the sparkly pink lipstick you bought at the Dime Store and had in your purse right this very moment even though the school didn't allow it and you could be sent home for its possession. And then got in trouble for violating the Library Noise Ordinance (which would certainly go on your Permanent Record.) I digress. The Locator Number was written in white ink on the spine of the book, and involved a bunch of numbers and decimals. It was invented by Dewey. There is a really good book out right now about Dewey the Library Cat. He was a cute orange and white tabby, and he lived in Spencer Iowa. I highly recommend the book, if you haven't read it.

Darn. I digress again. The Dewey Decimal System was just like playing Hot and Cold. You read the spine of the books, which were arranged in heavily-decimaled, semi-numerical order; and headed in the direction of the Locator Number according to the Card Catalog. And finally you found...an empty spot where your book should have been because your friend Jane had checked it out even though SHE WAS NOT WRITING A REPORT ON ULYSSES S. GRANT! The lady in the cardigan told you that Jane had the book for two more weeks, which pretty much meant that you were screwed unless Jane would let you borrow it one night.

I'm pretty sure that, because of privacy issues, librarians are not allowed to tell you that your friend Jane has the book these days.

So it is a good thing that we have book stores.

Book stores emerged just after the Vietnam War. They were places to partake of poetry readings; and, frequently, tofu and brown rice. You could sit, crosslegged, in an aisle, devouring an Indonesian backpacking guide that you hadn't paid for and had no intention of paying for and no one would blink. Because, eventually you were going to get hungry and have a plate of tofu and brown rice. If you did find the need to purchase a tome, you would find, upon arriving home, that it had a distinct aura of incense - or possibly patchouli - about it.

Oh, the era of the Independent BookSeller. Heaven. Nirvana. But, something was missing...oh, yeah. Profits.

Fast Forward 30 years:

No bookstore visit is complete without Starbucks. I'm not complaining.

There is this RADICAL, NEW, method of organizing volumes. Alphabetically, by subject. No white writing on spines, no Card Catalogs. No liability if we drop drawers on our toes. But...

And this is radical, also...books are not arranged spine-out. They are often placed cover-out. Because. A Cute Orange-and-White Kitty Named "Dewey" stares at us, and a couple of copies end up in our basket. And we see the front of A Tree Grows in Brooklyn, and we loved that book, and it would be fun to read it again. And look at all those cookbooks featuring big, smiley photos of Rachael Ray - my mother-in -law just adores her. Better grab a few.

Get out! A display of Ghirardelli Chocolates??? I love book stores. Maybe I'd better get the Nancy Drew Complete Collection. That GrandDaughter will be eight in no time...

I wonder whatever happened to the Cardigan Lady?

Lordy, Lordy; How Time Flies When You Have a New GrandDaughter. And Someone You Love Gives You a Kitten.

So, yeah; it's been a while. A looooong while. But I've been so busy with the GrandDaughter. Shoppingholdingshoppingcrochetingshoppingsewingshoppingetc. And shopping! This GrandDaughter has the dubious distinction of being the first female born into hubby's family in nearly a century; so there ARE no hand-me-downs (as if she would be allowed to wear them.) Which means, of course, that Mema, Nanny, Grandma, Siti, Nona, All the Aunties, and Twenty-Or-So-Of-My-Best-Friends have purchased at least two of every cute outfit available in retail shops, outlet stores, and on line. And her parents spend most of their waking hours changing her clothes and taking pictures, so that everyone gets to see how cute she is in the cute outfits they bought. (My pragmatic and insufferably-designerized, dressed-to-impress friend Penelope is teaching her to say "wardrobe allowance", so she's prepared; should the flow of cute clothing ever ebb.)

Which brings me to the kitten.

The day the GrandDaughter ("GD") came home from the hospital with her Proud Parents ("PPs") was gloriously perfect to test-drive the new jogging stroller. The PPs dressed GD in many layers of cuteness, because it was a tad cool; and also because it was an opportunity to photograph GD in several of her cute outfits. GD was ceremoniously escorted outdoors, and placed in her shiny new chariot. Where she immediately pooped. Unruffled, the PPs reacted as naturally as Jon and Kate (Plus Eight)...they returned to the nursery, to dress and photograph GD in more size-0-to-3-month layers; which she would likely outgrow before dinner. And headed back out to the jogging stroller. Which was now inhabited by

A kitten.

The day you bring a baby home from the hospital is probably not a good day to adopt a kitten, so what do you do? The logical solution, of course, is to call your mother.

"Uh, Mom? There's a kitten in the front yard. What should we do?"

Well, so much for my plans to go baby shopping.

They crated the kitten. I set out to fetch it, looking for "Lost Cat" signs along the way; and they went for a walk. No one was home when I got there; I couldn't blame them. When you give someone the "opportunity" to rescue a kitten from your front yard you are probably giving them the "opportunity" to have and to hold (and to feed and to vet and to clean up after) that kitten until death do you part. And if the person to whom you are granting this "opportunity" already has five cats, it is best to be gone when the kitten is retrieved.

On to the vet, checking every telephone pole along the way for a "Lost Cat" sign. I would have been in luck if I wanted to earn $10,000 a month working at home, or if I wanted to lose 40 pounds in two weeks or I needed a queen-sized, nearly new mattress. But, no lost cats. The foster kitty wailed and howled the whole ride. Or maybe it was singing along with the radio.

As we checked in, the receptionist asked me his name. "He's a foster cat. I hope to find him a good home. Has anyone called you looking for a lost kitten?" She didn't respond. Just filled out the chart with my last name, and "Foster" in the space for "Pet's Name".

In the exam room, I finally got a look at my charge, a stringy teenage boy. Mostly white, but with an incongruous Pin-the-Tail-on-the-Kitty gray striped tail. He stopped howling when I let him out of the box; and wandered around the room inspecting things. And...this is the only way I can describe his vocalizations...muttering to himself. He jumped into the sink, and pushed a handle enough to make the water drip. Splashed. Tried to extract a paper towel from the holder. Swatted at the foot pedal on the trash can. Opened the gate to his crate and went in. Out. InOut. Stuck a paw under the exam room door. Mumbling.

Enter, the Vet. She scooped him up, with a cheerful, "Hello Foster!" No, no, I protested. A foster kitty. No caps, not a name. "I just love that name, Foster! So distinguished! Perfect for your handsome young man!" She was beaming as she set him on the table. I gave up. Pronounced in fine health, foster kitty set about amusing himself while we discussed the removal of, um, problematic parts of his anatomy. He continued to mutter, as he opened a cabinet and attempted a drawer. His doc was quite pleased to note this "talking" behavior, hallmark of the Siamese, her favorite kind of cat (although she didn't need another, thank you very much.) She also commented on his "busy-ness" in unfamiliar territory. Using words like "self-assured", "assertive" and "bright."

Those are not necessarily positive attributes in teenage kittens.

Foster, in fact, is a geek.

No button goes un-pushed. No flashing light flashes for naught. He turns off the automatic litter box. He turns the printer on, and prints copies of the screen saver. Lots of copies. He understands the mechanism of flushing; fortunately he doesn't yet have the strength for it. But, based on the amount of food consumed and his rapidly expanding frame, I'm sure it won't be long. And last night, when the smoke detector went off (scaring the fool out of me and interrupting a really good dream about being at a nice warm beach) I scrambled to gather cowering animals and lead them to safety; finding Foster easily. He was on top of the kitchen cabinets, pushing the smoke alarm test button.

Anyone need a self-assured, assertive, not to mention bright, kitten? I'll even throw in some free smoke alarm batteries.

I Love Irony. But Cooooome Ooooon!

You call the local pizzeria. Your phone number shows on their Caller ID, and they ask if you want "The Usual." (Large veggie, hold the onions, double eggplant.) Affirmative, it arrives at your front door in 20 minutes.

Ditto, the Great Wall of China. Tofu with broccoli. And free veggie eggrolls.

You call the Automated Customer Service Number on the back of your credit card to get your balance. Which you will pay off in full, because you just had a GREAT yard sale. It recognizes your number, asks for the corresponding Zip Code, and gives you the info you seek.

The pharmacy recognizes your number, and asks you which of your prescriptions you would like to refill (and they offer to call your doc for expired 'scrips, to boot.)

The county tax info line knows exactly who you are based on your phone number. They REALLY want your money, and plug you into their "Pay Your Tax Bill On-Line" page immediately.

Then, you call the Local Phone Company. To report "buzzing" on your line. You are connected to a robot, who asks you to input your phone number. The phone number you have with the FREAKING PHONE COMPANY. And, then, the robot informs you, you MIGHT (will) have to input the number again down the line, "In order to provide outstanding Customer Service."

You re-enter your number, after selecting the option of "noise on the line."

The "noise on the line" department is closed, but they will respond the next business day.

You are asked to input the number where you can be reached. Hello, by the Phone Company. Who knows full well where you can be reached. Forget that they also provide your cell service, and your Internet.

Maybe these folks could learn something by ordering takeout.

Tax Holiday. Not Exactly a Walk in the Park.

Something - indeed, several things - have compelled me to purchase a laptop computer:

A) I have this overwhelming urge to join (after 8 years) the 21st century;

B) The husband wants my desktop for his office;

C) I live a carefree (ha) and nomadic (true, that) life;

D) I love PURPLE! There is a purple laptop out there!; and

E) This weekend is the GA "Tax Holiday."

How could I resist? So I spend half the afternoon researching options and talking to Geek Son via phone. I wait on "Live Chat" with Dell for 45 minutes to find out that tax holiday applies on line. I get an on-line price; with a 7 to 10 day shipping delay.

Hubby really NEEDS the desktop, to read Yahoo Sports and order Todd Snider CDs via Amazon. 7 to 10 days is a long time. And I REALLY want the purple laptop... so I head to the local Big Box Store, where they are handing out numbers to LOOK at the laptops, because it is a Tax Holiday.

I get to the front of the line, where the "Specialist" tells me they do not carry what I want. They can't order it, because it isn't even on their website.

I look at some other things with the "Specialist", who tells me (sotto voce) that the computer I am looking at on line is superior to what she has.

I check out two other stores who do not carry on-line model, either. And they are not even giving out numbers, so they look like a Chinese subway at rush hour. That reminds me to

Order Chinese food.

I eat tofu while Geek son comes by to see what I am planning to order.

I get approval from Geek son, except for the Windows Vista operating system, which is more despicable than beets. You might have your own parameter, but for me, it doesn't get worse than beets.

Click to buy. Go through verrrrrrry slow checkout.

Get confirmation of order from Dell.

Get call from Bank, who assumes that purchase is fraudulent because I used an old (but still valid) credit card number - even though the old card is not expired, and the old card was used successfully just hours ago to buy linen pants (on sale). I am informed that I must call Dell with new number.

I get email from Dell because card was rejected.

I call Dell Customer Service to give them the new number. I talk to a nice Indian woman (Rani) who says "the system is down, call back in two hours."

I e-mail Dell. Get response that says to call Credit Card Services.

I call Credit Card Services, which is closed until 10 AM Monday.

I get email from Dell asking whether to re-run old card.

I call the Bank to get authorization to re-run, using the old number.

I am told that old number was eliminated when new cards were activated. Even though old cards are not yet expired.

I ask to speak to supervisor.

I get transferred to "Authorization."

I get accidentally transferred to "Customer Service."

I explain my story to a person who says that the old number is not eliminated, and is still OK for 90 days.

I get fraud alert lifted.

I e-mail Dell to tell them to re-run old number.

I pray.

I fix drink. Stiff drink.

Holidays are not for the feint of heart.

So, This Would be Pretty Funny. If it Happened in Real Life.

Imagine:

(Somewhere in Alabama...)

Person A has a rental SUV. Person A and Person B have gone to Walmart, to buy a bunch of bulky things like plastic laundry baskets and a gas can, because they have a rental SUV.

The SUV starts flashing and dinging that it is getting hungry - AWFULLY SOON AFTER ITS LAST MEAL, IF YOU ASK ME - and Person A (PA, for short) pulls into a hugantic ginormous mega gas station where the gas is a penny cheaper a gallon than the last fillup, which makes PA almost giddy.

Person B (PB) leaps out of the passenger seat to pump. PB has had a very long day selecting laundry baskets and gas cans and a mower to go with the gas can, and eating a big breakfast. PB is not on the top of PB's game. PB inserts a credit card to pay for fuel, but the credit card never comes back out of the slot.

Because it is the slot from which receipts emerge.

PB uses some colorful language, which attracts the attention of PA. PA exits car and looks in slot, where PB has already looked. Credit card is baaaaaaarely visible, but they both note that it might be extractable. PA has smaller fingers, and attempts to reach it; to no avail. PA suggests that PB alert the staff of the hugantic ginormous gas station; who might have a key to open the front of the pump.

PB is not excited about admitting to sticking a credit card into the receipt slot.

PA suggests buying a pair of tweezers from the attached convenience store. Maybe a private extraction is possible. PB goes indoors to shop for tweezers.

Meanwhile, PA thinks that it might be possible to open a keyring, slide it on either side of the sliver of visible credit card, squeeze the ring, and ease the card out.

Oh, so carefully, PA conducts the delicate maneuver...holds PA's breath, and...SUCCESS! PA fills tank with gas.

PA is deliriously happy. PA reaches into rental SUV, grabs the keys from the console, locks the doors with the inside push-button doorlock, closes the driver's door and rushes into the convenience store to share the good news with PB.

PA encounters PB in the doorway. PB has had no luck buying tweezers. PB admitted the credit card gaffe to the amusement of the very large staff of the hugantic, ginormous gas station; and borrowed some toenail clippers from one of them.

PA and PB rejoice together, return the nail clippers, and head back to rental SUV. Where PA realizes that the keys in PA's hand are not for the rental SUV. They are for the car in the garage at home.

And the rental SUV is locked, safely securing the laundry basket and gas can from highway bandits.

PA goes into convenience store to face 10 snickering gasmongers. It is not the first time they have heard this story, but it IS the funniest. Fortunately, they know the number for the Heavily Tattooed Locksmith. They call him, and offer PA and PB, who are vegetarians, a hot dog while they wait.

The Heavily Tattooed Locksmith arrives, and asks PA the year model of the rental SUV. PA has no idea. HTL tries many high-tech wedgy-ratchety-inflatable-bendy tools that look like they would come in handy in prison. They do not open the rental SUV.

HTL looks in his trunk, where he finds a coat hanger. Success. HTL gets a bunch of money, and a tip.

PA and PB go home without filling gas can for lawn mower. And decide not to use credit cards anymore.

Yes, that would be pretty funny, if it happened in real life. Oh, my - is it 11 already? the SUV has to be back by noon! Gotta dash.

Give Me a Hand!

I make jewelry. My jewelry is handmade by my own two hands (and sometimes a foot or an elbow for stability's sake, but they have no place in this story and I'm getting sidetracked as usual.) Because my jewelry is handmade, it is unique. Even if I try to make the exact same thing I just made, it will be a little different the second time.

I sell my jewelry here at Etsy - a site for artists who make things by hand. This serves as a disclaimer. Everyone who comes to Etsy to shop knows (or can read, in big, bold letters) that Etsy is a marketplace for handmade. People shop at Etsy to find things one-of-a-kind, or a bit off the beaten path (sometimes all the way over the cliff) or anti-department store, if they are feeling particularly negative.

"By hand" is good. But, pardon the intended pun, the hand stuff has gotten a little (come on, you knew it was coming) out of hand.

For example. Every restaurant worth its fleur-de-sel in a teeny tiny dish that you (and anyone else who has had the dish before you, or will have it after you) access via fingers has a "Hand-Cut Prime Rib," likely served with "Hand-Cut Steak Fries."

Now, A) I have no idea why fries are only for steak. I don't eat steak, and I like fries, so I think they are losing a large demographic of potential buyers suggesting that you can only get the fries if you get a steak. I mean, lots of people like a side of fries with, say, pizza. And besides, prime rib is not a steak, so why do the prime rib people get fries? And B) Could someone explain to me why on EARTH I would want anyone to touch my prime rib? If I ate prime rib, which I don't. But, does hand-cutting make the prime rib unique? Or is it a disclaimer so that people know that the sizes of the cuts of prime rib vary wildly, and they can't complain to the waitron (is that the PC term? Or is it "waitperson?") that his slice is bigger than your slice. The server can point (with a flourish) to the description on the menu and simply say, "Look, honey; you were warned. The Prime Rib is HAND-CUT. If you think you can do it better, have at it. The carver's parole restrictions limit his knife to 3 1/2 inches...I'd like to see you make anything but a mess with that. Oh, by the way. I gave you the smaller piece because, honey, you could really stand to lose about 20 pounds."

And another thing. Hand-ground meat at the grocery store. Why would I spend hard earned money on it (if I ate it, which I don't) when all those butchers are missing fingers?

Two blocks away we have the Touchless Hands-Free carwash, competing with the Hand-Detailed Carwash with Fancy Coffee Cafe. How to choose?

Hand-breaded fried chicken. It's OK at Mama's house, but not so appetizing at KFC.

Yesterday I saw a drive-thru offering "Hand-Spun Milkshakes." What do they do, juggle them? And what are they going to do with their milkshake machine now? I'll bet it broke, and they told the burger-flippers that their job description now includes juggling. Come to think of it, that place is represented by a clown. Clowns juggle. Savvy marketing ploy, no? Wish I could have been in on the Executive Strategy Marketing Initiative Leadership Media Relations Brand-Globalizing Council Meeting for that idea.

Yeah, I'm a hands-on kind girl, but I am definitely hands-off my food. Indifferent about the carwash thing.

Oh, and if you plan to move a king-sized Tempurpedic mattress (along with about 4 bazillion tons of other stuff) from a fourth-floor condo down a freight elevator and into a 16-foot rental truck that stands about 5 feet off the ground, be sure the lift gate works before you drive it off the rental lot. Just saying.