What do you remember about shopping with your mother? Any particular stores? What was your favorite store?
Ahh, Family Dollar. Or was it Dollar Tree? Or the 99 Cent Crap-Shack? I don't remember the exact name of the place, but man, what bargains!! When I was 17, Mom gave me one dollar every week for my allowance. Mom would hand over one crisp, new dollar bill every Saturday morning, then preach on and on about how I should save that dollar. Invest in IBM, Walgreen's, dotnet.com, or at least bury the dollar in the backyard. But no way! I earned that dollar cleaning out the rabbit pens and re-tarring the roof. It was off to Dollar Town City!
Of course, I had no way to get there on my own. Mom would make her own trip down there on Saturday afternoons and I would tag along. Ironic that she didn't want me to spend the money I earned, but drove me to the store where I had the chance to spend it.
I remember some of the favorite toys I would buy. Super balls, plastic spider rings, cap swords. And snacks. I could buy six ounces of Naugahyde jerky. One could chew on that stuff for hours and hours and it wouldn't dissolve. It would just turn into a big, white mass of some chemical by-product. But who cares? That was cheap jerky!
This store even sold DVDs for one dollar (plus embargo tax). I picked up some great films there, which I still own to this day. Casper the Friendly Ghost meets the Wolf-Man. Mitchell, the Grumpy Ghost meets Buck Rogers. The Planet from Outer Space. Good times.
So, to answer the original question, no, I really did not actually shop with my mother. I just tagged along on her shopping trips. I wasn't too interested in following her around the store, looking a hair braids and light bulbs.
10.26.2007
10.05.2007
Book Review - "Nickel and Dimed"
Author: Barbara Ehrenreich
The author is a journalist who goes "undercover" as a low wage worker to see how the lower class gets through life on a limited paycheck. Wondering how people can survive on only six or seven dollars an hour, she takes on that role herself for a few weeks at a time in different parts of the country to see if she herself can survive on a low wage.
Disguising herself as a long-time homemaker, returning to the workforce after 20 years, Barbara hunts out for a job among the low-wage service class. She allows herself some start up funds (to pay for an initial deposit on an apartment) and a small reserve for emergencies only. But other than that, she must find a job, a place to live and pay for all housing, transportation and food with what ever her wages bring in.
First, she stays close to home in Florida and gets a job as a waitress at a hotel restaurant. That one job is just not enough, however, and Barbara takes on a part-time housekeeping job at the hotel.
Next, she travels to Maine (to paraphrase: "Everyone here is so polite. This must be how white people really treat each other when they get a whole state to themselves.") In Maine, Barbara works at "The Maids," a housecleaning service. Once again, to make ends meet, she must work part-time on weekends as a "dietary technician" (essentially, a waitress) at a nursing home.
Finally, Barbara moves to Minneapolis and works in the ladies' department at Wal-Mart. During her time there, she starts to rile up her co-workers to create a union. She thinks she could have made a lot happen had she stuck around long enough.
This was actually my second time reading it. Maybe I'll read it again in a few years. This book was very fascinating. One of the author's main conclusions is that these low-wage jobs, although they are often referred to as "unskilled labor" are anything but. Each job was physically demanding and required her to learn many new skills very quickly. A Ph.D and an established, professional journalist still had to learn how to fold a shirt the Wal-Mart way, how to clean a house The Maid's way, and all new diner lingo.
Along the way, Barbara learns how her co-workers actually do survive on their low wages. Many have two jobs, or have a working spouse or significant other. Many, though, have spent time living in their car, skipping meals, and going without medical treatments.
Reading this book made me feel very fortunate and grateful for the hand I've been dealt. I have a great job, own a home, two cars, and all kinds of junk. I never have to worry about getting the mortgage paid. I never have to choose between medicine and groceries. I can afford to visit the dentist. This book might just have turned me into a more generous tipper.
The author is a journalist who goes "undercover" as a low wage worker to see how the lower class gets through life on a limited paycheck. Wondering how people can survive on only six or seven dollars an hour, she takes on that role herself for a few weeks at a time in different parts of the country to see if she herself can survive on a low wage.
Disguising herself as a long-time homemaker, returning to the workforce after 20 years, Barbara hunts out for a job among the low-wage service class. She allows herself some start up funds (to pay for an initial deposit on an apartment) and a small reserve for emergencies only. But other than that, she must find a job, a place to live and pay for all housing, transportation and food with what ever her wages bring in.
First, she stays close to home in Florida and gets a job as a waitress at a hotel restaurant. That one job is just not enough, however, and Barbara takes on a part-time housekeeping job at the hotel.
Next, she travels to Maine (to paraphrase: "Everyone here is so polite. This must be how white people really treat each other when they get a whole state to themselves.") In Maine, Barbara works at "The Maids," a housecleaning service. Once again, to make ends meet, she must work part-time on weekends as a "dietary technician" (essentially, a waitress) at a nursing home.
Finally, Barbara moves to Minneapolis and works in the ladies' department at Wal-Mart. During her time there, she starts to rile up her co-workers to create a union. She thinks she could have made a lot happen had she stuck around long enough.
This was actually my second time reading it. Maybe I'll read it again in a few years. This book was very fascinating. One of the author's main conclusions is that these low-wage jobs, although they are often referred to as "unskilled labor" are anything but. Each job was physically demanding and required her to learn many new skills very quickly. A Ph.D and an established, professional journalist still had to learn how to fold a shirt the Wal-Mart way, how to clean a house The Maid's way, and all new diner lingo.
Along the way, Barbara learns how her co-workers actually do survive on their low wages. Many have two jobs, or have a working spouse or significant other. Many, though, have spent time living in their car, skipping meals, and going without medical treatments.
Reading this book made me feel very fortunate and grateful for the hand I've been dealt. I have a great job, own a home, two cars, and all kinds of junk. I never have to worry about getting the mortgage paid. I never have to choose between medicine and groceries. I can afford to visit the dentist. This book might just have turned me into a more generous tipper.
10.02.2007
Writer's Lab #3
Q: What kinds of foods do you consider "picnic food" and where do you like to go eat them?
That is a question with an obvious answer. Anybody who knows me well, knows that my favorite picnic foods include shredded wheat, steamed toast, and so-called "iced-cream". There are other foods, of course.
Often, (as often as I can get away from my job as a shooting range target-holder), I take the family out for a picnic on the steps of Town Hall. We will pack a few pillows of shredded wheat, perhaps a small handful of chocolate-covered yogurt beans, and some clam juice, then spread out our blanket right there on the front porch of the Municipal Civic Administration and Waste Water Management Building. (That was the original name, but since the sign painter charged by the letter, the town council decided to name the building the more traditional "Town Hall".)
Now, you may think that this is a rather meager picnic. So what! This is my picnic, not yours. If you want to have your fancy picnic of duck foie gras, black truffles, and merlot that's fine with me! Just don't crowd out my space in front of the mayor's office.
I also enjoy personal picnics during important staff meetings at work. But no one seems to mind, except for my boss and most of my co-workers. But, hey, the security guard couldn't give a rat's fanny that I eat in the conference rooms. In fact, the security guard doesn't even know my name. He is not even invited to read my posts.
Oh, wait. I forgot. I'm not a conference calling, e-solutions, glass ceiling, corporate climbing, cubicle drone kind of guy. I hold up the targets at the shooting range. It's the only job that allows me to sneak away to have picnics on the steps of Town Hall. I tell them that I have to go to the hospital to remove shrapnel from my eyes. Ha! Joke's on them.
That is a question with an obvious answer. Anybody who knows me well, knows that my favorite picnic foods include shredded wheat, steamed toast, and so-called "iced-cream". There are other foods, of course.
Often, (as often as I can get away from my job as a shooting range target-holder), I take the family out for a picnic on the steps of Town Hall. We will pack a few pillows of shredded wheat, perhaps a small handful of chocolate-covered yogurt beans, and some clam juice, then spread out our blanket right there on the front porch of the Municipal Civic Administration and Waste Water Management Building. (That was the original name, but since the sign painter charged by the letter, the town council decided to name the building the more traditional "Town Hall".)
Now, you may think that this is a rather meager picnic. So what! This is my picnic, not yours. If you want to have your fancy picnic of duck foie gras, black truffles, and merlot that's fine with me! Just don't crowd out my space in front of the mayor's office.
I also enjoy personal picnics during important staff meetings at work. But no one seems to mind, except for my boss and most of my co-workers. But, hey, the security guard couldn't give a rat's fanny that I eat in the conference rooms. In fact, the security guard doesn't even know my name. He is not even invited to read my posts.
Oh, wait. I forgot. I'm not a conference calling, e-solutions, glass ceiling, corporate climbing, cubicle drone kind of guy. I hold up the targets at the shooting range. It's the only job that allows me to sneak away to have picnics on the steps of Town Hall. I tell them that I have to go to the hospital to remove shrapnel from my eyes. Ha! Joke's on them.
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