Peg-o-Leg's Ramblings

phone home

Our daughter, Gwen, is a freshman away at college.  She hasn’t voluntarily called us since she left home almost 3 months ago.  I guess there’s something wrong with that fancy new cell phone we bought her, because apparently it can’t make calls from her area code into the dead zones surrounding our house and office.  Boy, where is that “Can you hear me now?” guy when you need him?

My husband, Bill, has figured out a way to keep in touch.  He sends little texts every once in a while, and she usually replies.

I don’t like texting.  Unless you need to drop a message like “pls pik up mlk”, why wouldn’t you just call the person?  It’s a lot easier. Texting is a lot of work.  It takes me forever to pick out the tiny letters, and I can never remember that you use a different key, not shift, to get the symbols.

Another reason I don’t like to text the girls, is I just know that will encourage them to text while driving, thereby causing a fatal accident.  Gwen doesn’t actually have a car at school, but she could very well walk into the street, or tumble down the stairs or into an open manhole while texting.

Texting has gotten out of control.  Kids will sit next to one another and text instead of talking.  That click, click, click is the new noise pollution.

I keep telling Gwen, in another 50 years she’s going to have the carpel tunnel so bad, she won’t be able to function.  After all, opposable thumbs are what differentiated us from all the rest of the animals, and allowed us to stand upright, and use tools and evolve into people who invented cars and the Sham-wow.   (There are some monkeys and lemurs and sloths who have opposable thumbs on their feet as well as their hands.   They can hang from trees and open coconuts with their feet.  By strict evolutionary logic, they should be twice as advanced as man, since they have twice as many opposable thumbs.  But we are still king of the jungle.  So put that in your pipe and smoke it, you only-evolution and no-God types.)

We’re going to end up with an entire generation of people who can’t work because they have crippled their thumbs by texting.  Everyone will be on Social Security disability at once, and this will put a tremendous burden on the system.  In 50 years our country will go bankrupt, thereby ending the reign of the United States of America as a world leader.  We will dwindle from a super power to a third-rate country because there will be nobody with thumbs to do any work.  We will fall just like Rome to the Vandals – or was it the Visigoths?   I always get them confused.  Everyone will have to learn Chinese, which is really tough because they don’t say the “r” sound like we do. 

And I can only thank God that by then I won’t have to pay to support all these selfish, texting teenagers turned thumbless, lie-abouts because I will be dead!  Or at least so senile that all I’ll care about is finger painting with my own feces.  In any event, whether dead or senile, I won’t be very aware of my surroundings, so let me take the opportunity now to say in advance that I TOLD YOU SO!

 Anyway, I just can’t figure out why Gwen doesn’t want to call me.

Here’s the new hangtag for my bags and pins endeavor”peep” that Lib helped design and executed for me.  Pretty cool, eh?

My mother-in-law, Virginia and I went to see a stage performance of “A Chorus Line” in Joliet last night.  What a great show!   This wasn’t just community theater, but a professional cast.   Reminded me of when I saw “Fame” in college.   My friends and I burst out of the theater, singing and dancing down the street.  I had found my calling, and I vowed that nothing was going to stop me!

30 years later, I was struck by the same resolve, as I exited the Rialto along with a sea of blue-haired music lovers, clad in sensible Rockports and white athletic shoes and unsteadily jostling their walkers to be the first out because it was almost 11 pm.   I (almost) danced across the street to the all-handicapped lot which had been set up for the occasion.  

I vowed to give up the insurance business to seek my fortune on the mean streets of New York.  Not gonna let little things like age, obesity and lack of talent keep me from pursuing my dream!

Speaking of dreams, some may know that, for about a year, I have been handcrafting purses and pins from repurposed wool.  (That’s a really trendy way of saying I use old sweaters, which I hope will appeal to the upwardly mobile, $$ spending, green conscious fashionistas that I want to attract.)  Besides giving pins away to any in the family who expressed an interest, I haven’t done anything with this.  The stock is stacking up around the abode.

Enter my sister Lib, fellow dreamer and my new business manager.  She volunteered to show my stuff around a few shops she knows in Bay City, to see if they would sell them. We met in Saugatuck, MI last weekend so I could give her the pieces.  I figure the $300 for the overnight was a small price to pay for the possibility of selling 5 purses, which take me 4 hours each to make, for $20 each!  True to her word, Lib took them around this week.  A couple of places said “I’ll have to check with the manager but don’t hold your breath”, so that’s encouraging.  One resale shop has taken some bags and pins on consignment, so away we go!

Part of this process has been coming up with a logo and name for the venture.  I’m pleased to announce “peep” is now in business.  Lib is designing a hang-tag with a mod 1920s shepherdess, referencing the wool aspect.  Thanks to Lib for all her help.

Bag lady

Lib and I have fantasized for years about setting up a little shop in Traverse City, or Saugatuck, or -insert name of whichever quaint and trendy town we happen to find ourselves in.  We would sell antiques and wool purses and go to art lectures.  I occasionally have to gently remind her that this vision is not really viable as it supposes that I have somehow disposed of my husband Bill, probably by means most foul.

Bill and I, on the other hand, have fantasized about buying a 2nd home somewhere warm, like Charlston, when we retire.  We would keep a place up here in the frozen north and be snowbirds.

I checked out my sister-in-law, Lisa’s listings online yesterday.  She is a high-powered realtor in Charleston, SC.   This led me to all the Charleston listings, which led me to a little house near downtown, with an attached storefront.

So now I’ve started a new, combo fantasy about Bill, Lib and I going halfsies on this little place in Charleston.  We would share the 2 bedroom house for getaways, and build our little business in the front, to be manned by a faceless, nameless, salaryless somebody while we were up north.

Not gonna let little things like no time, no money, can’t retire for 10 years (and did I mention no money?) stop me from pursuing my dream!

 When did I get to be such an impatient witch?

After a long client meeting this afternoon, I decided to pop into Big Lots on the way back to the office.  All I needed to do was exchange one size of cellophane bags for another.  Same price – what could be easier?  I went straight to the right section of the store, grabbed the 4 packages I needed and approached the service desk, bags and receipt in hand.

After waiting for the person in front of me to get checked out, it was my turn.  The friendly cashier looked doubtfully at the bags.  “I don’t know – they have different skew codes.”  She went to confer with the cashier at the next register. 

After their conference, she returned with bad news. “Looks like this is going to be a refund/exchange situation, so we can keep our stock information current.   And I can’t do those.  Rula is going to have to help you.”  She led me over and deposited me in Rula’s line.  Rula looked up with all the animation of one of the townspeople in Invasion of the Body Snatchers.  After the pod.  There was only one person in front of me, but this lady’s cart was loaded. 

I couldn’t help thinking they could have switched registers.  That way Employee 1 could take care of the basic checkout for which she was presumably qualified, and Rula could have helped me.  As my checker pranced off to move stock, her friendliness began to strike me as singularly annoying. 

Rula was moving as slowly as humanly possible.  The elderly customer she was waiting on, whom I came to think fondly of as My Lady, did not help.  She unloaded her cart with the careful attention of a bomb handler.  There was one item that would not scan, naturally.  Employee 3 was summoned forth from the bowels of the store.  She examined the offending product intently, and then headed back to the farthest corner to try to find another one like it.  She may have had to drive to Scranton to the warehouse for all I knew – it was certainly possible, time-wise.

I kept my eyes firmly fixed on the clock over our heads.  I wasn’t counting all the minutes of my life that were being frittered away, never to come back.  No, I was striving for calm.  In Lamaze classes, you’re taught that when the pains are getting bad, and you’re feeling out of control, you should breathe deeply and concentrate on your focal point.  That’s what I was doing.  Kind of like self-hypnosis.

As I waited, customers came in, did all their holiday shopping, paid and left.  My Lady was wavering on the advisability of buying the package of plastic cups she had put in her cart.  You’ll be pleased to know common sense asserted itself and this giddy purchase was decided against.  But Rula, somehow thinking that all the piles of stuff on the counter were there to get bought, scanned the cups.   She didn’t at first understand that the cups had been set on the counter among all the other piles of stuff that My Lady DID want to buy, because she did NOT want to buy them.   A credit scan had to be initiated. 

Employee 4, checking in the next line, finished with his customers and stood there, ready for the next wave.  I tapped him on the shoulder: “Can you do an exchange for me?”

“Nope” came the indifferent reply.  “Rula has to do those.”  His curiously vacant expression told the awful truth – the pods had gotten him too.

Wish I had Rula’s job security.   Speedy, efficient and friendly customer service is not required when one is the only person in the building who knows the secret of doing exchanges.  “Ohm, ohm” I breathed deeply from the lotus position on the floor, still in line and looking at the clock.

I had walked into the store with a young couple, admiring their tiny baby.   They now passed Checkout Aisle 2, my new mailing address, with a cart full of dorm furniture for their now, much older son.

Did I mention I had just come from a long meeting?  One during which I had single-handedly emptied the water carafe?

My Lady had a little trouble with the debit card machine.  Remember when the service staff used to take care of stuff like that for you?  They would actually take your money.  And they were really glad to get it!  Rula had to give My Lady a crash course on operation of the debit/credit machine.

I wish I had a mouth-guard.  I know that gnashing your teeth for extended periods can really wear them down.

When it was finally my turn, the transaction took all of 1 minute.  I took my 4 cellophane bags and left the store, gait unsteady due to lack of exercise (coupled with the necessity of walking with my legs tight together to prevent an accident).  I walked out into the barely-remembered glare of the sun, shielding eyes grown sensitive from Big Lots gloom.

I like to think of myself as a nice person.  Kind to children, old people and animals.  But this experience forced me to confront the real me.  The me who expects the sales staff to serve.  The me who hopes her fellow shoppers have basic cognitive skills.  And the me who is, apparently, an impatient witch.

About 2 months ago I got an email from someone who wanted to be my friend.  This was someone I only knew slightly, but I had to admire that straightforward approach.  I can always use more friends, I thought, so why not?   Turns out she wasn’t interested in actually spending any time with me.  She wanted to be my Facebook friend.

Several days later, I received a similar request from another acquaintance.  By now I recognized the invite, although the details, presented as they were in my pal’s native Turkish, were lost on me.

After a couple more of these invitations, including one from my 83 year-old father, I decided the time was ripe to get with the modern technology.  I joined Facebook a little over a month ago.  For those who live under a rock, or who are even more fuddy-duddy than I, here’s how it works.

You put information about yourself on your own internet page hosted by Facebook.  Stuff like your name, town, and where you go/went to school.  Then you have a page called a wall, which is a cyber version of the dry erase board you put up on your dorm room door.  You, and others, write stuff on your wall. 

The point is to post witty bon mots and racy pictures on your own, as well as your friends’ walls.  This lets you impress your friends, while productively using up time that would otherwise have been wasted on studying or working.

For those over 25, Facebook also allows you to reconnect with all the people you knew, even slightly, in high school.  That way you can see whose life isn’t as interesting as yours.  For those of us who are WAY over 25, it has the added benefit of letting you see who among your classmates is aging faster than you.

I’ve received friend requests from people I do not know.   Each turned out to have some tenuous connection.  One was someone I barely said hello to in high school.  Other requests were from people my siblings barely said hello to in high school.  I didn’t know what to do with these requests.  Do you turn them down and hurt their feelings?  Welcome them even though you don’t want them in your personal business?

Newby that I am, I asked the expert.  My youngest daughter, Gwen, said I should just ignore requests from people I don’t really like.   This is considered less rude than an outright rejection, but serves the same purpose.  So that’s what I do.

Some people put more personal details about themselves on their Facebook pages than I’ve learned about my husband in 27 years of marriage.  How much of someone’s stuff you get to see, however, is determined by the “friend” level they assign to you.

In real life we have different kinds of friends.  You might meet one friend for lunch to complain about your kids, but you wouldn’t dream of pouring your heart out to her.  These gradations in friendship are understood, but never discussed.  Facebook friendship, however, is assigned with a brutal honesty not seen since 4^th grade.  “Janie is now my best friend, and you’re not!”

My kids explained that people their age don’t like people my age “creeping” their pages.  They like to keep all the spiritual poetry they write and pictures of themselves and their friends putting up Habitat for Humanity homes private.  And I respect that.  Which is why I didn’t friend request any of my nieces or nephews.  When one young relative was a little hurt that I hadn’t requested her friendship, I happily did so.  I skipped over to her page, anticipating the new, adult rapport we would have.  The friend level she had assigned me allowed me to see her first name, her city, and a picture of the back of her head from 2 blocks away.

It seems having lots of friends, even if in name only, confers some kind of status on Facebook.  Some collect friends like commemorative shot glasses – you can never have too many. 

All in all, I’m enjoying my Facebook time.  It’s a great way to stay in touch with far-away friends and family.  Especially now that both my girls are away at college.  Which reminds me.  I need to check with Gwen because the friend request I sent her about a month ago obviously went astray.  I guess you have to expect these glitches with technology, right?

I’ve decided to move my blog to WordPress – hope the comment process is easier than with Blogspot.  Stay tuned for more ramblings…

My real name is Margaret, but I’ve been called Peg or Peggy for most of my life.

It’s a standard Margaret nickname. Scratch any Peggy and, 90% of the time, you’ll find a Margaret underneath. How do they get Peggy out of Margaret? Why are Johns called Jack, and Elizabeths are Betsy? I don’t know.

When I was a kid, you didn’t get to pick what you were called in school. If your baptismal record showed your name was John Thomas or Christina then, by God, that was what you were going to be called! Forever! None of this “call me J.T.” or “I prefer Christy” business.

I presented my chubby, cherubic self on the first day of kindergarten and was immediately confused. Who was Margaret? I didn’t even know that was my real name. I tried to tell the teacher that I was Peggy. But that’s not what the seating chart said.

So I was stuck as Margaret for 13 years of school.

I never liked that name. I always thought it sounded like an old maid librarian. I was named after my great-aunt, who actually was an old maid. She was faded, vague and ancient and we only saw her at holiday dinners.

In junior high I wanted to be known as Meg. Now that was a name! Meg was fun yet sophisticated. I could see myself, in the hazy future, a high-powered, glamorous executive, striding down the sidewalk of some imagined Gotham. Neither Peggy nor Margaret could possibly have the life I envisioned.

At dinner I told my parents and 8 brothers and sisters that I would now only answer to Meg. Naturally, they respected my wishes and immediately complied.

If you believe that, you were raised by wolves.

My older sisters curled their lips in that sneer only teenage girls can manage. My younger brothers and sisters set up a chant along the lines of “Peggy, Meggy, Weggy, Leggy..” – you get the drift. My dad glanced up from the minutes of the parish council meeting he was reading and offered an interrogatory “Mmph?” My mom didn’t reply because she was in a kind of perpetual stupor for 30 years from bearing and raising 9 children.

I announced my new name at school and Sister Wenceslaus (yes, like the Good King of Christmas-song fame) looked over the top of her half-moon glasses at me, and tapped the seating chart with her ruler. ‘Nuff said.

I think I had one loyal friend who went along with the Meg scheme until it died a natural death from lack of compliance after about a week.

I’ve gone by Peg since college. When I introduce myself, “Hi, I’m Peg” is often met with “Nice to meet you, Peggy.”

This happens all the time. Seems like about 50% of introducees add the more familiar “y” to the end of my name. My family and some friends call me Peggy, and that’s fine. It’s no big thing, but if you met a 50-year-old Bob in a social or business setting, would you say “Great to meet you, Bobby!” How about Tommy? Johnny? Jimmy? Any other man’s name?

Margaret is still my name for formal or legal situations. It’s kind of schizophrenic but there’s method to my madness. I figure if Margaret shows up in the police column in the local paper, I have a 50/50 chance that readers won’t catch on that the latest felon is me. Camouflage for small town life.

I saw a lady who was being followed by a butterfly.

It wasn’t like in a feminine-hygiene commercial. She wasn’t skipping through a meadow with flowers in her hair ala Mother Nature.

This was an ordinary looking woman, obviously taking a break from the office. A brisk walk on her lunch hour – time to get in shape. It was right here in town.

The butterfly was a bright, egg-yolk yellow against the gray sidewalk. The woman was a drab moth, clad in typical office worker plumage – navy pants and brown shirt. Sensible, black Stride-Rite shoes with a crepe, wedge sole made little noise as they hit the pavement.

Her brow was furrowed, mulling over a delinquent voucher or account that just wouldn’t reconcile. Her brown, brown shoulder-length hair swung gently in counterpoint to the employee ID on a lanyard around her neck. The butterfly meandered up and down, gently side-to-side, but kept pace and a consistent three-foot distance behind her.

It might have been a pet. There may have been an invisible spiders’ silk leash connecting her to the butterfly. But she seemed oblivious to it.

Did this say something about her – this strange ability to attract butterflies? Perhaps that flitting, floating bit of June sunshine reflected her true spirit.

Or maybe they just happened to be traveling in the same direction.

She plodded along, stolid and stoic. It was almost time to head back to her cubicle.

I drove by slowly, picking up speed as the light at the corner turned green and the woman and the butterfly got smaller and smaller in my rearview mirror.