The Junk Drawer

While cleaning out a closet this morning, I ran across this photo I took some years ago when I was on a random picture-taking excursion. I love this guy. His eyes look so soulful to me. It makes me feel guilty for wanting a delicious char-broiled quarter-pounder right now. With cheese.

Seeing it, I’m reminded of one of my childhood memories involving cows, ice cream and my dad’s Lincoln Continental.

Around the time my sister Ann and I were seven and five years old, respectively, a favorite treat was our Dad driving us to a nearby dairy for ice cream. Part of the fun was driving fast over a hilly section of the road leading up to the dairy. Dad would speed up before the incline and coming over the crest we’d get that flip-flop feeling in our stomachs and shout WHOOOA!!! as we came down the other side. Funny, the little things we remember.

When we got to the dairy, Dad would go in and chat it up with the owner and Ann and I would stand outside the cow pen and hope that one of the mammoth creatures would saunter over and say hello. I can’t think of any small dairies that still exist around here, but if I see one, I have an irresistible urge to stop and moo at the cows.

On one particular visit, Ann and I were all moo’ed out and went inside to collect our ice cream. Typically, we’d get started licking in the store and be just about done by the time we got home. But this trip was different. It was the first in a long series of incidents that end with the question Why do these things always happen to me?

My problems started almost immediately after my Dad got out onto the country road. It must have been a hundred degrees that day and so the ice cream melted faster than I could lick it.

And then the dribbling started. All over my hand, down my arm and all over my lap. And then Dad found out. Nevermind that half my cone was running down my leg, all I could think was how mad he would be when he saw the mess I just made of myself.

If it’s one thing we kids tried to avoid was bringing harm to his only prized possession: his deep blue, formerly clean, 1970 Lincoln Continental with the doors that opened outward in opposite directions. He worked hard all his life to support his family and make sure we had what we needed. The car was the one thing he allowed himself to splurge on.

Unable to pull over on the narrow, one-lane road, he opted to at least keep things from getting any worse. “Stick it out the window! NOW!,” Dad shouted.

“Oh, no! Dad! My ice cream!”

“Get it out of the car!”

I did as instructed and shoved my delicious treat out the window. All my glorious chocolate ice cream hit the wind and, unbeknownst to me, rained down all over the side of the car. I thought for a second that I could stick my head out the window and keep licking, but I was too busy sucking it off my arm and hand.

What’s interesting, in hindsight, is that my Dad didn’t make me throw it out the window. Only stick it out the window. Perhaps none of us guessed that so much of it would splatter back onto the car door.

It did in a big way.

When we eventually got out of the car, we gathered ’round to assess the damage. What we had before us was the Kathy version of a Jackson Pollack painting. Thick splats at the start of it, thinner towards the middle, and dot dot dots where it tapered at the end.

I don’t remember my Dad being mad at me. After all, it only required a quick cleaning. What I do remember is I’d given up a perfectly good cone to the forces of physics and wondered whether it was possible for me to still eat that. The one rule for ice cream and kids? Do not separate.

Last week I wrote about the attempt by the Nielsen Ratings company to get my husband Dave and me to become a Nielsen Family. You can catch up here. The saga may not be over. If it continues, I’m getting a restraining order.

Here’s where the story picks up.

Three days after I contacted the Nielsen representative to tell her for a third time we wanted no part of becoming a Nielsen family, she called and left a message at work. All she said was “I need to confirm one piece of information you gave me, so I can update our records. Please call me.”  I didn’t understand why she needed more information other than us saying no, but I called her back anyway to be polite.

What she wanted to confirm was whether I said there were no children in the house, or if I said there were no children under 18 in the house. I replied, “No children at all in the house.” Fine. End of story. NOT SO FAST. Because Nielsen has such trouble understanding the difference between yes and no, she asked me for a fourth time if we would like to take part in the program.

So here we are again. Her begging me to join and me begging her to stop. I repeated that we want no part of this and that I hoped this would be the last time I’d hear from her. She thanked me for answering the question and we ended the conversation. I hung up wondering if the question she asked was bogus — used only as a way to get me on the phone again. I can’t tell you how much I regret giving her my phone number.

That night I received another letter from Nielsen. “Our sampling department chose your home to represent television homes in your community. As a member of the panel, a small unit will be attached to your TV and any VCR in your home.” It goes on to say how we’ll be remunerated and thanks us for our cooperation. The problem is, we’re not cooperating. We’re not participating. We want this to end.

I’m willing to give them the benefit of the doubt that the woman who came to my house didn’t immediately tell them we weren’t participating, and so the letter was sent to us on the assumption we said yes. That she didn’t tell them after the first time I said no tells me she had no intention of giving up on us.

And so it was no surprise that she showed up at our house again on Sunday. This was a week after the first series of no’s and three days after the last phone call where I said no.

When the doorbell rang, my husband looked out and saw a car with New Jersey plates. A-ha!!! I remembered from the first visit that she drove from Jersey and I knew it had to be her.

“Don’t answer the door!!!! It’s Nielsen!!!!!”

To be sure, I waited until she walked back to her car. I recognized her immediately. We are now annoyed in a borderline-call-the-cops kind of way.

She and an unidentified man remained seated in the car for another five minutes or so.  Her partner was seen flipping through what looked like a small phone book, while he casually smoked a cigarette. I was crouched down on the floor of my dining room, watching for what they’d do next. They eventually drove away and then I thought it was over.

Not exactly.

The next day, on the way home from work, I approached my house and what should I see a few doors down but a car with New Jersey plates, idling in front of a neighbor’s house. Oh. My. God. Could it be?

As I passed slowly by the car, I quickly looked over and saw it was indeed our Nielsen friend again. She had her head down and so didn’t see me. But now I had a new problem.

If she looked up, she was going to see me pull into my driveway and into the garage. Then she’d know for sure I was home and I had no doubt she would barrel down the street and pound on my door. She did it before, she can do it again.

So I drove around the block, pulled over on the street that runs behind my house and called my husband. “Dave? Look out back.”

“What are you doing?”

“I’m hiding. The Nielsen lady is back. She’s out front, six doors down. I can’t come home. She’ll see me.”

“Hmmm. Then go to a movie. I’ll hold dinner for you.”

“Wiseass. No, seriously. What should I do?”

“I’ll put up the garage door and you can come around opposite her. If you floor it, you can get in quick. Ready?”

“Yeah. I’ll see you in a minute.”

I backtrack the way I came and floor it up the street. The garage door is open. I don’t see that the woman is where she was parked before, but I have no time to see where else she might be. I shoot in and lower the door. And then we wait. No one comes to the door. No one loiters outside. I think we’re finally safe from the Nielsen people.

What’s clear is they haven’t found another family to replace ours. Because we refused, they need to find another house on our street. What I don’t like is how they’re going about it. To be idling outside people’s homes, flipping through directories, tells me they haven’t sent a letter of invitation to anyone else. Now they’re just desperate.

There is something seriously wrong with this process. Under any other circumstances, if a stranger came to my house uninvited, twice, and kept badgering me to join their group, it might be considered harassment by communication (at least in the State of Pennsylvania). It’s not as though I was selected for jury duty and refused to participate.

There is no legal reason why a person needs to take part in the Nielsen Ratings system. If asked, and a person declines just once, they should cease and desist immediately. If I receive one more phone call or visit from them, I’m contacting the company and you’ll be hearing about it here. Stay tuned.

Think I’m overreacting? Nielsen doesn’t just want to know what you watch. They want your brain, too. (See last paragraph, first page).

Be afraid. Be very afraid.

Regular readers may recall that my pal Jeff and I started a support group for people annoyed by certain noises. That group expanded to include not just noises, but a host of other things that drive people nuts. And so the Annoyances Anonymous support group was born.

If you missed the last couple meetings, head on over to Jeff’s place for a transcript of events that were held on our respective blogs. We are nothing if not organized. Remember, to join the support group all you have to do is leave a comment here (or Jeff’s blog) about what annoys you.  No dues. No paperwork to sign. Just comments.

And if you say that nothing annoys you, I don’t believe you. I can think of six things that annoyed me before breakfast.

Go!

My pal Lee over at Tar Heel Ramblings tagged me for the very simple 123 Book Meme. This meme asks you to complete a kindergarten-level task and report the results. It’ll give you a good sense of what I like to read when I’m not blogging. It might scare you, but if you’ve been here before, you’ve been scared plenty already and this won’t faze you a bit.

So why am I a problem child? Because the meme didn’t work on my first try. It’s always something with me.

Here are the meme rules:

1. Pick up the nearest book ( of at least 123 pages).
2. Open the book to page 123.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the next three sentences.
5. Tag five people & post a comment here once you post it to your blog, so I can come see.

I have a few half-read books in the pipeline, but as instructed, you have to pick the book nearest to you. That book is Ray Bradbury’s Zen in the Art of Writing.

I opened it up to page 123 and what should I find? Almost nothing. It was a chapter title page: Shooting Haiku in a Barrel. That’s it. No fifth sentence to find. No three sentences to list after that. It would figure I’d pick a book with a faulty page 123.

So onto Plan B. Pick another book. This time I chose Stiff: The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers by Mary Roach. Before you ask, yes, I’m really intrigued by stuff like this. I don’t want to actually see a cadaver or be a cadaver, but I don’t mind reading about ’em!

Page 123 and the fifth sentence: The researchers concluded that the planes had broken apart at altitude, spilling most of their human contents into the sea.

The next three sentences: To figure out exactly where the fuselage had broken apart, they looked at whether the passengers had been clothed or naked when pulled from the sea. Sir Harold’s theory was that hitting the sea from a height of several miles would knock one’s clothes off, but that hitting the sea inside the largely intact tail of the plane would not, and that they could therefore surmise the point of breakup as the dividing line between clothed and naked cadavers. For in both flights, it was the passengers determined (by checking the seating chart) to have been in the back of the plane who wound up floating in their clothes, while passengers seated forward of a certain point were found floating naked, or practically so.

That’s just lovely, isn’t it?

If this doesn’t give you a fear of flying, reading this might. I live directly under the flight path of an airport located three miles west of me. As a result, I have regular and terrifying nightmares about planes crashing into my neighborhood. The nightmare I described isn’t all together horrible, as it involves The Three Stooges. Even in my nightmares, I have to laugh a little.

I won’t tag anyone, but if you would like to crack open a book and do the meme, have at it! 1-2-3 Go!

All too often I’m complaining about something. If you heard that’s what happens here, sorry to disappoint you for today.

The thing is it snowed last night. Not a blizzard, but enough snow to make the prospect of shoveling it unappealing to my husband Dave and me. We’re off work today and really wanted to kick back and relax. The more it snowed, the more our backs instinctively started hurting.

The plan was to watch the forecast and estimate the best time to go out, between when the snow was expected to stop and when the sleet was expected to start.  We had another hour to complain about work neither of us wanted to do.

Just then Dave heard some kids walking up towards the house. Kids with shovels. Five of them. In the ten years we’ve lived in this house, we never had kids come by to offer to shovel for us. I figured that was an activity today’s youth wanted no part of, or their parents were afraid to send them out the door to strangers’ homes. I thought what a sad sign of the times. As kids, Dave and I shoveled for money. All our friends shoveled for money. Doesn’t anyone want to shovel for money anymore?

Before the kids even rang our doorbell, Dave handed me 25 bucks. “Here, this should be enough for the driveway.”  I opened the door and before the kid could even say anything, I thrust the money at him and said “Is this enough for the driveway?” The look on his face was priceless. Red-cheeked from the cold and eyes wide open, he said “Yeah!! Thanks!!”

When he turned around, he waved the cash at his buddies and their faces lit up. They got crackin’ immediately.

Before they got halfway done, Dave asked me “Do we have any more cash laying around? We should ask them to do the back sidewalk.”

I frowned. I only had about three bucks in my purse and he only had eight more singles. I cursed the fact that I almost never have cash on me, since I prefer to use my debit card at stores. I considered writing a check. Dave and I discussed how stupid it would be to write a check to a child. I suggested we write it to one of the kids’ mothers, but then that seemed too weird. Dammit!!! We need more cash! And, hurry! They’re almost done with the driveway!

After nixing the check idea, we did the only thing we could do. We raided the change jar for quarters. There we stood, counting out enough quarters to round out to 20+ more bucks. As dumb as it felt to give them a pound of change and some bills, money is money. I hardly think they would care. They didn’t.

I opened the door and yelled “Hey guys? Is twenty good for the sidewalk?”

They shouted back, “Yeah! Cool!” And off they went. We had ourselves our own little snow-shoveling chain gang and now we didn’t have to get bundled up, get wet and cold or break our backs on what looked like very heavy snow.

When they were done, the leader of the group returned to tell me they were finished and to thank me for the money. No, thank you!

God bless you, Chain Gang. Your parents should be proud that you’re not afraid to sweat for a few bucks. I didn’t think I’d ever see that sight for the rest of my life. I hope I see them again next year. I’m pretty sure after making almost 50 bucks for a half hour’s work, those kids will remember our address.

“Y’all come back now, ya hear!”

So do any of you see kids shoveling for money (or maybe for nothing) in your neighborhoods? Or do I just live in a really lazy section of town?