Absolut Zukini

I've been commissioned by one of the bakers at JavaCo to paint flowers on the walls of her chicken coop. It's a bigger ordeal than I had originally thought--it took me over six hours to finish one side. In addition to monetary payment, though, she gave me four zucchini, a mess of green beans, and invited me to raid her garden whenever I visited to paint. I had no knowledge of how to prepare zucchini, outside of my usual dip-it-in-honey-mustard-sauce-and-consume-raw routine, but one of the ladies at the pool was kind enough to offer a recipe basic enough to remember offhand and not require any ingredients that I wouldn't be able to use in anything else.

Today, also at said pool, I was talking to the kid who wears Forrest Gump-style braces on his legs. After showing me his "trick" (a tidal wave splash, then going underwater, holding his breath, and wiggling around), he announced, "I have a really, really, really big zucchini."

"That's cool. Did you grow it?"

"Yeah."

"Are you going to eat it?"

"No. It's too much for us to eat. We might give it away. Maybe to you." He laughed, then splashed, went underwater, held his breath, and wiggled around.

He was probably joking, but I couldn't help imagine what I would do with this bounty of zucchini that has been bestowed upon me, and why I was chosen to receive its glorious healthful plentitude. I pictured my refrigerator overflowing with vegetation as I'd attempt zucchini cakes, zucchini smoothies, chicken-fried zucchini, zucchini chips, zucchini-stuffed zucchini, zucchini dog food, zucchini vodka. I'd shake my fist at Providence with every well-intentioned gift while simultaneously offering a weary thanks, because at the moment I'm out of honey mustard sauce and I could really use a drink that began with Z.

Static From the Underground

I can't talk long. The spyware is listening in.

Oh Computer, how I've missed you. It's been seven cruel days since our parting, when you were poisoned with doggedly malevolent files and I thusly became hotly pursued by Smitfraud Corporation's relentless bots disguised as benign virus alerts.

What have I done around this godforsaken wasteland without you? I've read quite a bit. It's not the same--you have to use both hands to turn the pages, instead of scrolling down. I've been sleeping a great deal, recovering from two weeks of long hours and late nights. I've spent over $125 on alcohol since the beginning of June. I will never forgive my carelessness in neglecting to firewall you from the threat of invasion.

Someday we can be together again, like we used to. Remember? Those golden summer days, crimson twilights, and star-dotted midnights that we ignored while we sat inside together, giggling and sobbing as we instant messaged for hours. YouTube. TvLinks. Your glow brightened my eyes as I stroked your keys, and you sang softly to me through muted speakers.

Every day I am away from you, my weakness mounts with my frustration. And consequently, with my shame. I must confess it: I've been on other computers, my love. I know, I know, but it's excruciating without you and your sweet internet to cushion the hardships of everyday existence. Facebook beckons, what with its sensuous mini-feed and alluring new applications to investigate. With every transgression I grow guiltier; nightly I come home and find you crashed, watching as you struggle so valiantly against this plague inflicted upon you, the pop-ups covering your screen like a pox.

The spyware is all around me. I can't shake it. They say they're here to protect me, protect you, but I'm not buying it. Every five seconds there's a malaware alert, flashing false yellow propaganda. I've longed to return to you, dear Computer. I will count the minutes until you are cured of this affliction. Then, when it is safe to roam the untamed online wilderness once more, we will ride off into a sunset even more vibrant than our firewall, hand-in-mouse.

My Iron Lung

I wanted to go to a bar yesterday evening before the smoking ban went into effect in Kirksville and no one would be able to have a cigarette within ten feet of any public property. Unfortunately, I forgot what day it was and missed out.

Before the resolution passed, I got conned into being in a political ad for it when I actually was opposed to it. I smoke when I feel like it, which is very seldom, and one of the reasons I don't do it oftener is because it's hell on your health. I wasn't against banning cigarettes in public at all, but I thought the decision should be left up to the individual property owners, who pay the taxes on their buildings and businesses, not the whole of the town dictating to the few. If the owners cared about public health, then it'd be on their conscience whether or not to allow smoking in their building.

My boss knew I acted, so she asked if I wanted to be in a commercial. I said yes, and she told me that all I had to do was hand a cup of coffee to my co-worker, who was pretending to be a customer, while she read a five-second pitch from the script. The crew set up the lights and camera and she practiced reading. When I overheard her rehearse, "We became a smoke-free restaurant five years ago," I balked.

"Umm. I think I might have to decline being in this after all," I told her.

"You don't have to decline," she smiled most diplomatically, with a resolve that would have reinforced the Berlin Wall. I sighed, and when the cameras were rolling, handed the cup of coffee uncomfortably over and over and over the counter to Patrick, an equally unwilling participant, until the KTVO crew called one a winner.

I never saw it, but I'm sure it did wonders because the resolution passed. I figured I'd salvage my wounded activism by sticking it to the man anyway and putting the commercial on my acting résumé.

Come All Ye There

I auditioned for the "Broadway in the Park" musical revue today and got in. I'll be doing "Everything's Coming Up Roses" from Gypsy and "Missing You" from The Civil War. Karaoke and other auditions aside, this is going to be my first time singing by myself in public, unless you count the four-word solo I had in Brigadoon in high school, which even I'd forgotten about until just now.

And Rachael Ray Shot JFK

I've never been particularly worried about things like Mad Cow Disease or e. coli outbreaks--probably because I'm no longer a carnivore--and at one time I had no qualms about eating an M&M off the ground under a loosely timed five-second rule. When I say that I've recently become paranoid about food and started calling conspiracy theory, it's a cause for serious concern.

*Adolescent vanity trained me to stringently track down the nutritional contents of everything that slides down my gullet. So naturally, when I became hooked on iced coffees at McDonalds, I went to their website and looked it up. A 32-ounce coffee has 250 calories. I didn't believe it for a second. Those things are sweeter than a debutante and have enough cream to make a heifer blush. Therefore, I believe the core of McDonalds' new nutrition-consciousness consists of lying about how bad the products are for the customers by falsifying the caloric and fat content. If I had a way of finding out the truth, I would sue them for millions of dollars, which would allow me to buy millions of delicious iced coffees.

*One of my friends got tricked into buying a pack of Limited Edition Retro Starburst. The kid at the Kum and Go counter said that he'd give my friend his more expensive coffee for free if he bought the candy because his boss said he "wasn't selling enough." Taking advantage of the deal, my friend agreed, only to find out later that there was a nationwide contest among Kum and Go employees to see who could sell the most Retro Starburst. Upon closer examination, I found the bite-sized taffy to come in four flavors: Psychedli-Melon (representing the sixties, I'm assuming), Disco Berry, Hey Mango-Rena (I shudder to think that's what the 1990's will be remembered for), and Optimus Lime. This "inadvertent" promotion coincides remarkably with the release of Transformers: The Movie --a little too well, I believe. Either the guy who gets paid to name the Starburst got geeked out on Mountain Dew and pop rocks when he received the project that he'd waited twenty years for, or the Transformers producers slipped him some bills under the table for some low-cost-yet-high-exposure promotion. I'm positive the film features Los Del Rio's acting debut as the Bee Gees, who operate a yellow submarine that morphs into a three-headed bone-crushing rainbow-bot. The prize package will be two tickets, a pair of platform shoes, and two tabs of acid.

*Water is supposed to make you not thirsty. It's also supposed to alleviate dehydration-related symptoms of a hangover such as nausea. In the past few weeks, I've found Kirksville water to do neither of these things. I believe the water "purification" plant is distilling our faucets with chemically fine-tuned crap to make the drinkers sluggish and sick, not only so they will want to consume more and turn a profit for water-related utilities and services, but to also sap the desire to emigrate from this Surrogate-Motherland and allow them to raise the aggregate I.Q. so we may finally have the cultural capacity to necessitate a Target store being built.

The Big Sister Tax

I inherited my mother's smile and her father's curly hair, but not her prowess for bargaining. My brother got that, and as a result my family would regularly try to out-scam each other.

She and I went shopping for a desk and bookshelf for my college apartment, and was able to effectively argue $40 off the price of both. She shows me her garage sale treasure trove when I visit, entertaining herself more than me with a rundown of what her trinkets had cost and what she actually paid for them. When I was younger, she would ask me to do random tasks for her. "I'll give you a dollar," she'd say. Tempted by pocket change in a time when I was too old for an allowance but too young for a summer job, I'd do it and report for pay. She'd dig through her purse, cock her head, search some more, and say, "Here's sixty cents. Seventy-five. It's all I can find."

"There's a roll of quarters in the side pocket."

"I need those for laundry. Most kids do these things without getting paid, you know."

I really couldn't argue with that. Clearly, I also inherited a gullible naivete that was unprecedented in either side of my parentage--as well as a strong, indignant sense of justice. Later, when I had a permit and she'd make me go on Taco Bell or McDonalds dinner runs for "driving practice," I'd keep a portion of the change and tell her the order was more expensive than it really was.

Where my mom uses charm, chatter, and pathos to get less than her money's worth on possessions, my brother is wily, hard-nosed, and underhandedly businesslike. He was able to buy a $1400 computer for less than half the price because he took advantage of the rebate, a friend's Best Buy discount, and my dad. He'd have "penny auctions" or sell his toys to me, and take them back later when he wanted to use them again. When we were older, he'd ask to borrow money, vowing to pay me back the next Tuesday. We'd write out an I.O.U., which I'd either lose, forget about, or remind him about it a few days later to a stream of more promises. I returned the favor by picking up all the loose change on his bedroom floor and keeping it.

On an overnight visit to my grandmother's house, I awoke to she and my mother talking about money. It was boring until I heard my name come up.

"I don't know what I should do. It's gotten so bad that I've had to take money out of Meredith's savings account again. I already had to take out two hundred dollars last month to pay the bills. I don't want it to get so far that I won't be able to pay it back without her noticing."

I was fifteen. I pretended to still be asleep. My grandmother offered her some sage, motherly, understanding musing that I didn't pay a speck of attention to because I couldn't get past the fact that our family was in financial trouble (though it was a fairly regualr occurrence) and my mom was stealing my money that I earned working thirty-nine hours a week at a job I despised. After we returned home, I mentioned that I wanted sole control of my savings account, but I chickened out when she asked why and got defensive. To her credit, she paid it back in full and I never noticed any missing at any other time. I wonder how desperate she really was.

When my brother was fifteen and going through a rough time with her, he accidentally ruined two towels with cheap hair dye. She told him she was going to take money out of his account to replace them, and he promptly closed it down and opened up a new one at another bank. My brother was never one to take injustice lying down either.

An Open Letter to People Who Leave Their Shopping Carts in Parking Spaces

Dear People Who Leave Their Shopping Carts in Parking Spaces,

Congratulations! Your tenacity and ingenuity have proven key in keeping the fight alive against major retail stores such as K-Mart, Kohls, and Garden Plus. When most of our other tactics have died out, you have continued to reinforce this decades-old battle with consistency and success, thus weakening their power and transferring it back to the hands of the people.

It sends thrills of unadulterated joy down my spine every time I enter the parking lot and see a stallwart metal buggy glimmering proudly between the yellow lines. The clever rebels choose their spaces carefully: near the front, to publicize the cause to the maximum amount of patrons entering and exiting the facility; in bold clusters occupying multiple spaces in a more open area, as strength lies in numbers; and concealed within a seemingly open space camouflaged on either side by a truck or SUV. The more carts that are sacrificed to the cause, the more resources and employers they will have to divert to free their lot of aluminum cholesterol. This will drain their funds, bankrupt their patience, and deprive the consumer of the friendly, down-home experience they want and deserve.

Every time another patron is driven to nervous prostration (please excuse the pun) from umpteen figure eights throughout the concrete labyrinth, it is one more customer that will utter, "Fuck it!" and illegally occupy a handicapped spot, earning a ticket and vendetta against that capitalist emporium. One more customer that will develop road rage so severe that they will feel the overwhelming desire to plow down shoppers more fortunate than they, involving the corporate cesspool in a potentially crippling lawsuit and deathly PR. One more customer that may say, "You know what? I don't really need to purchase my small-ticket goods at this establishment! Let's go to Mom and Pop's, where the slightly overinflated prices will offset the cost of gas we're wasting driving around this monolith!"

Now is the time to stand strong! Do not let naysayers, busybodies, and the overzealous rule-enforcers deter you; they are but blind puppets of the larger institution! When confronted with one of these conservative tools, employ one or more of the following excuses to throw them off the trail and keep the dream alive:

It is essential that we must all hang together in our cause. Together, we can stick it to those bastards who sell toothpaste cheaper than any of our proud local stores and who give our red-blooded Christian jobs to those bums overseas.