Check Out how to Check Out

Cookie sometimes get nostalgic for the good old days and the things that made life better.  Like when the check out employees would check you out and pay attention to their jobs instead of discussing their private lives with the person on the other register next to them. 

Cookie enjoys full service.  In all things.  I give it when I work it, retail that is.  It shows that your are professional, and it tells the customer they matter.

And the customer doesn't want to hereabouts what a douche nozzle "Gary" is, or whether or not someone named Tyrone is down with the plans for tomorrow night. 

No, I live in a world where Tyrone is either Tyrone Power, or Lady Tyrone of Carolina's, not Tyrone DuBois (DUE-boys) is full of shee-it.

Unfortunately, none of the checkers that work in even the stuffiest groceries in Baltimore have any poise.  They are all just surly.

In the film above, we meet three past International Checker of the Year award winners, an honor awarded by the Super Market Institute. 

And no, I am not kidding.

Ruth Bussey, (no, not Ruth Buzzy) a Cashier at B&B Stores, Tampa, International Checker of the Year for 1964 at the convention held at McCormick Place in Chicago. Pat Hilton, of Alpha Beta stores in California, and Rose Scalavino of Star Markets, Cambridge, Massachusetts, the 1962 and 1963 title holders respectively, also appear.  Each sets a fine example for the new girl on the block, "Miss Jones" who aspires to the glory and glamour of holding the title, International Checker of the Year.

In Cookie's mind, contestants would be judged on their appearance, customer service skills, fingering technique in keying prices, and whether or not they faced the bills in their cash drawers. All would do these tasks in their uniforms and smocks, all freshly pressed and starched.   Bagging, of course would be judged.  As would weighing and shopper's loyalty card scanning.   Problem solving, and keeping their scanning windows would also be judged. 

But that got me started thinking about the evening gown competition.  Surly there would have to be one, I mean this was 1964.  So there would need to be a formal attire walk on the runway.  Would their sash's have their names, or the name of their store emblazoned on it?  Would they glide or clump along the runway into the adoring crowd?

And for the swimsuit portion, would they be required to wear stilettos, or their crepe rubber work wedgies?

What about those questions?  I wonder how Pat Hilton answered her random question, asked by the tuxedo'd host, on what it means to be a checker. 

"Mrs. Hilton, who would you like to check out through your line, and how could that make the world a better place for less fortunate people?"

And then, the host would pick the winner, bestowing her an adding machine, and her "Tillie" award.

Mrs. Bussey got a trip to Hawaii. The runners up get a trip to Hollywood....Florida.

What about screen tests?  Endorsements?  Did they attend high school events to inspire the next generation of checker outters?

It all seems so dead end. Here's your prize, best of luck, mmmmm bye.

If you actually watch the video, and you should, pay attention to the middle aged woman who is cashing a check and causing Miss Jones all manner of consternation.  The actress is none other than Fran Ryan, a veteran of TV and Movies.  Ms. Ryan usually played crusty but lovable types, upper crust ladies who are the foil for comediennes and the like.  Like Reta Shaw and Elvia Allman, if you grew up in the 1950s through the 1970s, you knew the face, but never knew the name.   

I know that they still have bagging championships, but since the advent of just scanning an item, I think that International Checker of the Year is a valid contest, but it would, I think, inspire today's Cashiers to focus on their job and customers instead of whether or not "Donwell is nasty man." or we just wanted our stuff in "paper or plastic."

Something uplifting

I have posted this picture before.

It's my Aunt Nan in the cockpit of her plane that she flew, sponsored by Eaglerock Dealers during the summer at Euclid Beach Park in the late twenties and early thirties.  It's a Curtice biplane.  One just like it hangs in the terminal of SeaTac Airport.   For a dollar, two adults would squeeze into the cockpit and she'd fly them up and then out over Lake Erie, and then back down.  For two dollars, she'd loop d'loop the plane.

By the time I was born, the family had crushed her spirits time and time again, and confined her to the role of the dottering old spinster aunt. 

It was better to stay at home, never grow, never reach for the stars because you were sure to fall. Stay home where its safe.

Nan had one one more shot at glory.  She lived in California during the War and debriefed female test pilots for the navy and army air corps as the planes came off the assembly lines and were put through their paces.

"I used to ask them if the plane fought them, if they felt a shimmy in their bottoms and needed a second going over.  Most of the women said the planes felt like they wanted more throttle, wanted to climb higher, bank and dive.  But the jobs were to get them up make sure the controls worked and bring them back down."

"Oh, how I wished I could taken one of them our for a run and see what the plane could really do.  But I had a desk job at the airfield, not a seat in the cockpit."

But then after the war, she was guilted into returning to Ohio and guilted into becoming my grandparents caregiver.

She could be at times the most frustrating woman on earth but she loved all of her nieces and nephews with great passion and verve.

On the night before we buried my father, my very proper aunt, who was also my very frail aunt demonstrated not only a backbone of steel, but a mastery of Yiddish played at the exact correct moment, like a sabre through the heart of Satan.

In the Rabbi's library, there was raucous battle for my father's funeral to be accurate, and after the other side hurled insults about my mother, Nan looked at the Widow and her three family members (who had no right to be there), and simply growled "guy kokken offen yam."

The room fell silent.

Mic drop, time.

In the car going back to drop off Nan at her apartment in the assisted living facility, I asked, "Did I hear what I thought I heard?"

Nan just looked at me and smiled and put her fingers up to her mouth as if to insert a key and turn the lock on her lips.

My middle brother said "Cookie, our aunt told the Black Widow of Beechmont (Country Club) to 'go shit in the ocean.'"

I looked at Nan, and she shrugged her shoulders and said "I should have held my tongue, but she attacked your mother.  That wasn't nice, but never do what I just did.  You see, Cookie, an old woman can get away with stuff like that when someone else hurts her nephews.  But you would have gotten a poke in the eye.  They weren't going take a swing at me."

Well, shit.

How about that.

Stick a fork in and see if I am done.

The woman who no one thought could stand up for herself stood up for her family.

Well played, Nan.

The next day was a blur, but as the funeral professional was getting ready to leave for the cemetery. I was sent inside to find Nan, who had wandered off.

I found her at the side of my father's casket, her hand gliding across the surface, while he purse dangled from her bad arm, the one polio tried to claim.  Lopsided and frail, she just seemed in a trance.  The funeral home employees waiting to wheel the bronze monster to the hearse gave her some space.

"You know, I held him right after her was born,' her face traced her hand as it moved across the lid of the coffin.  "I had just turned 14.  Your Aunt Mim was holding your uncle because he was the older baby by five minutes, and she was the eldest sister.  The doctor was taking care of your grandma and grandpa - no one ever mentioned there were twins.  I held your father.  Oh, he was a handful.  Always fighting to get out of my arms and into the world.  Now this."

I took my aunt's arm and we walked silently towards the hearse, and then to the limo that was taking us to the cemetery.

The next few days were chaotic, exhausting and confusing as we heard of what had been going on behind the scenes with the Widow.  After that, all we focused on was trying to get back part of what was owed us from the widow of the man that fought everyone.

That happened in 1996.  By 1998, Nan was gone.

Nineteen years later I wish she could know how stupefied I was by what came out of her mouth, how brilliantly played it was, and how grateful I was for her but how much I hated that we had grown apart because of that man who was my father.

She may have been a dottering old woman by the time I was old enough to know her, but she still had a bit of spunk left in her when said what she said.

I wish I could have known her when she was young and saw nothing but endless possibilities.  I was glad to know her at all.

Love the people around you because one day you may be the one left behind.  And you'll only have your memories left to cloak you from the cold cruel world.

Justice

I will not shed a tear over her death, instead I will think kind thoughts to people who loved her.

I will not keep a child, from their parent, as she did.

I will not insult a parent to their child's face, as she did.

I will not coax a feeble minded man in to robbing his sister's bank account, as she did.

I will not flaunt my sexuality toward a man whose child is present, as she did.

I will not call anyone's mother a bitch in front of a Rabbi, as she did.

I will not give away items that do not belong to me to spite other people, as she did.

I will not alienate someone who has a right to be present, as she did.

I will not harass, demean or otherwise tell someone that they will die of AIDS as a way of cursing someone, as she did.

I will not tear my husband from his home to live in a place that he does not want to live, as she did.

I will not deny family members the right to observe a milestone, as she did.

I will not lie to others, as she did.

I will not stoop to her level in my life, in any way, as she did.

I will not force a dying man to change his will, as she did.

I will not harass a previous spouse over death benefits owed and earned, the way she did.

I will not rob anyone of their father's legacy, as she did.

I will not let my sick husband die surrounded by strangers because "I needed a day of pampering," as she did.

I will not take a jab at her memory*.

I will, however, forgive her for these sins against my father, myself, my brothers, his grandchildren because she could never forgive anyone for any slight that offended her, and that would make her nuts. 

But I will never forget.

Now, she has what she deserved all along, nothing.

And that is justice.


*yet

We need Druid-B-Gone

Oh dread.  The Druids have returned.  Now we'll never get them out of the trees.

The confessions of fake Melania.

Damn!  Whey did I let the have moleskin on my nose show?

OK, holding things back has never been my strong suit - meaning you never want to be trapped in an  elevator that is perilously stuck between floors with me -  but I have a confession that needs to be made.

I am Fake Melania. 

Yes, that is I, Cookie, in the right side picture.  Every one is talking about it.  Or they were, yesterday.  Fame is fleeting, no?

Preposterous you say?

You have never seen my legs, but they really very nice.

And I am toe walker, meaning there is no heel high enough to conquer me or make me tip over.  Not even stripper heels.

How do I do it?

And in the right light, my goatee shaved and my pouting lips, coated with Radiant Rose Dawn Mystique lipstick, a pair of sun glasses from a designer whose name - if you can't tell by the shape - would be obvious if you ran in the circles that Melania runs in, along with a wig and a ordinary satin lined top coat, I become Melania.

Why do I do it?

Because I believe that a girl in trouble is a temporary thing.  That's why.  And Melania is the type of be-atch who has her underlings give and give and give some more until there is nothing left to give, then she makes them give to their very marrow, leaving them soulless, desiccated shells of their former selves.

Melania and I are like that.

So, Melania and I were getting our weekly sea weed wraps - they used to be monthly, but as she said "Cookie, neither of us is nubile anymore," so now we have to go weekly.  Anyhow, so we are all bound up like villains in a Wonder Woman comic book and I asked how Washington was treating my Mel.

"Eet eze horrible here.  I shvitz and get wet with the glistening sweats from the humids weather," she said.  "It makes me feel dirty in not a Melania kind of way."

And I said "Stop it," half jokingly, half not, because I really hate "the humids weather" crack because it makes her sound so provincial, and "I asked how things were going with her and the Most Powerful Man in the world?"

"Putin never calls me anymore.  It upsets the Donald."

So I asked how things were going with her husband and her, in that tiny White House, and I noticed that one of eye cucumber slices wiggled as she gave me the stink eye.

"Eff this facial masque weren't hardening and soaking up all the impurities een my skin I would give you such a look."

So I kinda turned my head to side and said "What up, buttercup?"

So Melania goes into this story about how she is always getting pawed by him in front people, you know as to say "Look what I can get away with" but when they are alone he sits in the corner making these lists of people who have wronged him so he knows who to exact his revenge upon.

"Or for fun, John Kelly will pitch pennies at him and watch him scurry about the blue room.  It's rather fun, actually."

"Well that sounds dreadful," say I.  And indeed the mud mask was hardening, causing mine to crack every time I said something.

Just then Olga and Simone came in to remove the masque, give us out facial massages and facial admonishments ("Cookie, never down!  Always up!") and eventually the wraps were cut off and Melania and I found ourselves in our white cotton robes at the spa's Herbs Body Shop (the name of the tea room) for herbal teas and non-gluten (which means non-glutton to me, because Cookie loves his gluten) cakes and we continued our conversation.

In a nutshell, Melania hates being First Lady ("I get the sick every time I hear 'Flotus' - it sounds like intestinal gas.") and she really really hates that Donald is President.

"This is not journey I signed up for.  I can love a fat, rich man, that I will outlive.  I did not think this would have ever happened.  Where can I sunbathe topless now?  My bra's are made of Kevlar."

I assure her "None of us thought it possible, either."  I would put my hand on her, but touching Melania, now that she is First Lady, is a Federal Offense.  So the best that I do is give her that "there, there," look.

So I asked her "Hey, lady: what a win would look like for Melania?"

Melania cocked her head ever so slightly to the side and said, "Well, since Robert Goulet is dead, an affair with him is out.  OK, then; I just want some sleep.  Restful sleep.  Every night the Donald gives me this thing he calls a Dutch Oven.  It is not something from Netherlands but it comes from his nethe-regions.  OK, heez ass.  And it has nothing to do with cooking, but everything with brewing.  It's digusting."

I give her that "I know, darlin' " look.  "Bless his tiny, congested heart."

"Could be worse.  Look what he did to Marla Maples.  One word: 'Tiffany'," I reminded her.

We laugh.

"Don't you think that Eric (Trump) looks like Nosferatu?  Yeah, my step son looks like Nosferatu.  How the fuck did that and all of this happen?" she laughed.

We laugh again.

So we hatched this plan, with some help from Kellyanne Conway.  Why Kellyanne?  Well the bitch has TERRIBLE skin issues.  She's like snake, always shedding her outer covering and she has found that the HDTV make up that the networks use is like the perfect concealer.

"Kellyanne's fresh layer of skin after she slithers out of the old layer is translucent until it dries - like all cicadas, so the thick HDTV foundation makes he at least look less like an alien from Uranus.  Don't tell her I said that, or I will cut cut a bitch," Melania said, half jokingly.

So with wig, trench coat, those big honking sunglasses and some stripper heels, I become fake Melania for a couple hours while she grabs some Zzzzzz's in the White House bunkers.

We've been doing it since June.  I play Melania with a headache, and the President keeps his distance.  If it involves Air Force One travel, I have the secretary of the treasury give the Donald a coloring book and some fresh crayons.  Donald will only color with fresh crayons. 

And it was working until that BITCH Kellyanne rats me out the National Enquirer!  How do I know this?  Because that's what Kellyanne does.  She squeals to the Enquirer, or worse, Tomi Lahern.

"She is such a C U Next Tuesday," said Elaine Chou over drinks one night at the Prince George County Hooters.  Elaine loves Hooters.  "Mitch would love to join us, but he can't, because everyone would want to know why he can't get a bill passed in Senate. I could tell them why.  For the same reason he can't get it up in the bedroom."

"I loathe Kellyanne," Elaine confided.  "Did you know she has the hotsies for Mikey Pence?  She can't get near him because Mrs. Pence (she has no first name, you know, but she'll answer to "Mother") always has a can of moth spray handy.  Kellyanne HATES moth spray.  File that in your mental Rolodex for later."

Let me tell you, Elaine was right. Some O-Cedar moth proofing keeps Kellyanne at bay better than a voodoo curse.

But Elaine, as it turns out, also makes a great duplicate Melania.  I showed her the costume and she had to try it on. Elaine's a bit short, so she needs platform shoes to pull it off.

When Melania saw her in the get up she said "Bitch! I hate you you look so fine."  Because of this, I can get a day off from Melania's day off if Elaine is free. 

But lets get this clear - I AM fake Melania.  Elaine is just moonlighting.  Get's her away from having to go to Kentucky and drinking moonshine.

So I asked Elaine what Mitch thought about this.

"Yurtle is too busy playing with that nasty ass outtie bellybutton to notice," she said while we were doing shots of Ouzo at the RNC Club. 

We were having a swell time - until Tomi Lahern came into the bar and we had to duck out through the backdoor of the joint.

Elaine HATES Tomi. 

"You know, I am not one for bad things to happen to people, but I bet we could ship that skank off to North Korea and get Kim Un to get her the F off our backs.  He'd feed to a pack of wild dogs.  Wouldn't that be some awesome shit?"

"Why don't you invite her to Kentucky and leave her in a hollow?" I ask.

"Me, Mitch and Tomi in a private jet to Kentucky to drop off the trash.  As if Hatfield's and McCoy's don't already have enough problems."

All I can say is thank GOD the President can't read. Otherwise he'd know what I am up to, and Elaine would have to go back to wearing that electrified chastity belt Mitch likes her to wear.  And nobody wants that.  Not Me, not Elaine and certainly not Melania.

"Oh, for fucks sake, the Donald would be livid.  And I need my beauty rests," said Melania.  You know, she's really in her mid fifties.  But by not smiling she keeps the wrinkles at bay.

Don't worry America, we got this covered.  And just in case, Ivanka Trump always has Donald's shock collar.

Yeah, we got this covered.

Tough act to follow

Imagine, she could have been in the Pantheon of the Greats had it not been for the four guys from Liverpool.

NOTE: The name Shapiro is one that has two distinct camps. 

1) In one camp, the one I grew up in the Jewish Community in Shaker Heights and Beachwood, Ohio, the name is pronounced "SHAW-peer-oh".

2) In the other camp, aka, the Philadelphia School, the name is "sha-PIE-row"

Just so you, know, the people in Philly are WRONG.

Politics: The Cheif of Staff's Press Conference today

Did you ever think that you would live long enough to see the day when the Chief of Staff, with any president would need to holder a press conference to show that there was at least one adult in control of themselves in the White House?

Did you ever think that there would be a day when any Chief of Staff would need to come out and explain that the President has meetings in groups, rather than one on ones, so that the President can make an informed decision, rather than being swayed by one person or another?

Did you ever think that only one person in the White House has any level of credibility?

If you voted for Trump, this is what it has come to.  Not a White House of competency, but a White House with a single adult who has the courage to speak with an bit of common sense.

Don't be like Ann

This Ann has problems in the kitchen.  She is not an email or
comment SPAMMER.  But Ann Martin who sent me the SPAM
comments? 
She is a SPAMMER.  But she can also probably make better guac.

So I noticed today that this blog started getting SPAM posts today from overseas.  The posts had nothing to do with the post content, they were just bullshit phishing scams.

One of these bullshit comments was from "Ann Martin", a resident of Bangalore, who writes:

"Yes, I very much see that your Windows computer is publishing content to your very entertaining product site with malicious code that indicates that a repair must be done to save your work.  *CLICK HERE* to grant me access for fixing of this problem and your worries will be gone..."

FUCK YOU, "Ann Martin", who if she is Bangalore, got there because "that of her translation submission led her to such a place where she can send emails with which to copulate up other's computers for financial profit in USD."

My first inclination was to just zap the bull shit comment from the actual blog page UNTIL I remembered that Blogger has a comments link on your dashboard.  Choosing that brings up all your comments in the blog and you can not only mark the offending BS as SPAM but it reports it to Google so they can zap the offending party.

That's what they say.

And unlike "Ann Martin", their sentences are at least written by a human, not a translation program.

A Summons to Ohio

Cookie is back in Ohio for a couple days and not for a happy occasion.  There are two goodbye's that need to be said.  One in which I bid farewell to one of the best people to ever marry into my father's family, and one in is implied because Glioblastoma has been diagnosed.

The cousin, who I will call "Mel" was indeed a wonderful woman.  She was the type of people who was accomplished in her own right, but also had the poise and the intelligence to connect with everyone she met.  She was an accomplished business woman, mother and wife. 

When a cousin gets married, unless you are exceedingly close to them, you think "I hope they are happy," or "Why would they marry that person?"  But when Cousin married Mel, there was a feeling that he had not only chosen well, but that we were going to be a better family for it. Cousin had really married "up".

And we were all made better by her being in the family.

Mel and I would work on my father's family genealogy and together hit our heads against the wall, as we found one lead to nothing after nothing.  Our Aunt who tried to tried to create a "dream" heritage, replete with taking Yiddish names and Americanizing them, leaving us precious little, and the precious little she left was cloaked in mysteries and cryptic messages.

Together, Mel and I could work them and figure out which ones had merit and which ones did not.  We could also share a sarcastic moment, in which we would roll our eyes in unison, much to Cousin's amusement.

I will miss her. 

Then there is our friend Mike who was diagnosed with Glioblastoma.  Last year in October, I attended the funeral of my late co worker Becky who died of this aggressive form of brain cancer.  And having it as a diagnosis is a death sentence.

So this will most likely be the last time that we see our friend, former bowling partner and good friend.  This is not defeatism, but it is taking a sobering stance.  Glioblastoma is horrible way to go.  With Becky, her final days were spent in excruciating pain waiting for her body to yield.  I am not going to go through the details.  But this is something that I wouldn't wish on anyone.

We knew Mike through the "friends" that sent me a nasty text message a couple years ago telling me that that wanted nothing more to do with me.  For years, we watched "Person" pull this stunt on people, and we never did anything to tell him we saw what he was doing.   So when it happened to Mike first, then me, Mike and I had even more in common. 

So my hope is that "Person" comes to comes to his senses and finds the compassion and strength that he owes Mike.  Given their joint history (they all attended Findlay University together and were in the same frat) I know that "Person's" husband will be Mike's side, but "Person" needs to man up and be there as well.

I don't want to believe that this is happening to Mike, and we'll stay in contact as best as we can from afar. 

This truly the worst part of the move to Maryland - leaving your friends behind. 

Goodbye's are never easy.

So it is back to Maryland tomorrow.