History Before My Eyes

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Shoe Department Stereotype Slayers

by Thomas M. Pender

Some facts about myself: 1) I’m not very bold in the “stir up the social hornet’s nest” department, 2) in general, I admire, love and respect women for who they are and what they do, and 3) in general, my own gender tends to embarrass me for its “straight from the cave” practices.  Understanding all of this, I would never report that women have no right to say that men are sloppy – and certainly sloppier than women! – without evidence.

And evidence I have.

I work in a department store, where part of my job is to restore (pun absolutely intended) departments to their original neatness after a full day of customer attacks.  I was initially shocked and appalled by the tornados that had apparently whipped through the ladies’ clothing and shoe departments!  After some observation time, I’ve concluded that this is just the way it is.  I’m guessing that since ladies tend to keep their households up well for familial safety, comfort and health, as well as public scrutiny, they must blow off steam when in public arenas where they know that someone else will have to shoulder the storm.

Being assigned the women’s shoe department, as I am on occasion, is a bit of a gut check, particularly on weekends.  You know what’s waiting for you.  Let me draw you a picture, so you understand the depth of my shock and awe: five aisles, each sandwiched between two stacks of six rows which are initially filled with pairs of ladies’ dress, casual, tennis, deck and other various types of shoes.  Each morning, as the store opens, the shoes are neatly stocked on the shelves.  Each evening, with various levels of horror, an average of half the shoes are strewn about the benches and floor, left where they were set or tossed aside or hurled aside by normally socially-conscious ladies.  If you didn’t know you were dealing with adults, you would swear you walked into a teenager’s bedroom, since you cannot see the floor for the mess spread on it.

To quote Joseph Conrad, “The horror!  The horror!”

In contrast, the men’s shoe department is one of the easiest departments to arrange.  There will be a few pairs of shoes on the floor each night, but only a few.  The most common exercise in men’s shoes is turning the shoes on the shelves from “toes in” to “toes out.”  The men who patronize our store are just as much in the public eye and away from their homes as the women are, yet it’s the ladies we caretakers dread.  Their behavior in the dress, pants and tops departments are not much more impressive.  These women come to shop and they come to litter!

The part that stumps me the most is what must go on early in the day.  I understand that if you walk into a store in which the merchandise is already carpeting the floor, you would not feel inclined to be tidy.  The patrons who come in during the late afternoon and early evening must just feel that it’s acceptable within the walls of our business that people have no respect.  Yet, I continually wonder who these folks are that come into the store first thing, see an orderly area, and figure they’ll just toss around a few things and leave them where they land.  I’d love to witness this first patron one day, just so I can say, “Really?”

There may be other stores and other businesses inside which men throw caution to the wind and behave like Vikings, while the ladies sit with their kit-gloved hands neatly folded in their laps and shake their heads.  I’d be the first to shake my social finger at these men.  Still, this wouldn’t exactly be a “man bites dog” headline.  When the ladies toss caution – and shoes! – aside, this gets my attention.

And ladies, you have been caught.  Take a moment while refraining from criticizing men’s tidiness to look into your full-length mirror at your own habits, inside and outside the home and store.  Admit there are days when “sugar and spice and everything nice” just does not describe you.

Most importantly, if the shoe fits, wear it.  If it doesn’t fit, put the damn thing BACK!!!!

Ten Rules For Making A Good First Impression

by Thomas M. Pender

10)          One should always speak clearly and never mumble . . . unless you’re in the South, where mumbling is practically a requirement

9)            One should always place a napkin in one’s lap before dining.  This rule, however, may be waived if there is a giant talking rodent, dozens of jangling games that spit out tickets, and a hundred screaming kids about the establishment.

8)            One should never vomit on anyone with the potential to become one’s boss or spouse

7)            One should always say “Please pass the condom” as the situation (ahem) “arises”

6)            One should never attempt to spit one’s watermelon seeds or olive pits into one’s date’s cleavage for two points

5)            One should never address a police officer who has pulled one over as “Sir Sphincter, Duke of All Doughnuts”

4)            One should always be on time to pick up a date.  It may also behoove one to bring along a novel, as one on time will most likely be waiting an average of 45 minutes for one’s date to be ready.

3)            One should never scratch one’s personal areas during job interviews

2)            One should always politely ask a new neighbor to keep his pet out of one’s yard at least three times before making said pet “disappear”

and

1)            One should never attempt the “popcorn box trick” on a first date to the cinema without first . . . oh, hell, there are no polite rules to attempting the popcorn box trick.  Just go for it!

Fools And Kings

by Thomas M. Pender 

With a title inspired by a Billy Joel line, this was a poem from a transitional phase, in which I was talking myself into coming out of my shell and learning to say what I felt and wanted.  I wasn't quite there yet, but I was very close. . . .

 

If I am labeled a Fool

For speaking my heart

Then I hold my head high

And speak for all Fools

For Kings have high rank

And shining adoration

While the Fools are shunned

And ignored

Yet

Were I to remain silent

And let you leave

Without knowing I care

I would merely be a silent Shadow

By voicing my emotion

And my honest affection

I may risk ridicule

But I have survived ridicule

For one day

My honest proclamation

Will catch a dream

And that love

Will make this Fool

A King

written by t. michael pender  10/29/86

copyright 1986 T. Michael Pender.  All rights reserved.

Civil Rights And Apron Strings

by Thomas M. Pender

I saw The Help, due mainly to the cast.  Emma (Easy “A”) Stone and Viola (Eat Pray Love) Davis are two actresses that I find very entertaining, for different reasons.  Stone is delightful and likable, and has had quite a few comedies under her young belt.  Davis is a dramatic tower of strength.  Since I knew The Help was about race relations in the South during the Kennedy era, I knew there would be plenty of room for Davis to further impress me with her acting, and there would be plenty of opportunities for Stone to show me if she could really act.

Neither disappointed me.

As I’ve found so many times over that it’s practically a rule, comedians and comic actors really shine when given straight dramatic roles to play.  Stone was serious and thoughtful.  There are light moments in the film, but no outright comedy as far as the acting is concerned, so it’s a nice piece for Stone to try out her dramatic wings.

Viola Davis is sort of the other end of the spectrum.  She’s shown in just about everything she’s done that she can do drama proud.  In fact, knowing her acting choices and the basic storyline of The Help before I went in, I knew there would be one scene in which she cries.  I bet myself that there would be two.  I won the bet.  It occurred to me that whenever I picture Davis in my head, her eyes are welling up with tears.  Crying is just what she does in movies.  She’s fantastic at it, but in contrast to Stone, I’d really like to see her in an outright comedy, just to see how she does.

These two ladies got me into the show, but the plot hooked me right away.  There have been many stories of the Civil Rights Movement, but few are mainly from the point of view of African-Americans.  This one goes a few steps further by focusing on Jackson, Mississippi housekeepers, who worked day after day among white families while the civil rights struggle was going on.  This era and its tensions are very poetically illustrated in contrasting two scenes: the television announcement of the slaying of Civil Rights leader Medgar Evers and the television broadcast of President Kennedy’s funeral.

I also came to know a few actresses I’d seen in smaller roles, as The Help brought them out to the forefront.  Bryce Dallas (Spider-Man 3) Howard and Octavia (Ugly Betty) Spencer bring real shine to this film.  Howard plays an empty-headed wife of an upper-class white, and Spencer gives real gumption to an overly-expressive maid.  In fact, Spencer is given probably the best role in the most memorable scene in the film . . . but I can’t tell you what it’s about.  Just trust me, you’ll know it when you see it!

Seeing a movie about the Old South in a theatre located in Macon, Georgia, I was not surprised but quite delighted at the audience.  Half white patrons, half black, just about all female, and just about all over the age of 60.  It seemed to me that those who lived through the era were coming to relive it up on the screen.  It made the laughter seem more genuine and the somberness much deeper.  Regardless of where you see The Help, however, I recommend that you do see it.

Learning To Love “Iced Tea”

by Thomas M. Pender

I am not a drinker.  I never did enjoy any alcoholic beverage enough to overindulge.  There are a few I like, though.  Specifically, those drinks which have no hint whatsoever of alcohol in the taste.  It has to taste like something other than gasoline.  Mixed drinks with generous amounts of fruit juice or soda pop are just right for me.

With that in mind, I will rewind a bit.  Unlike some of my classmates, I had no interest in alcohol when I was a teen.  Didn’t think about it, didn’t wonder about it.  I learned a lot from observation, and what I observed about folks who drank was nothing I wanted to get involved in.

I don’t think my parents really felt the need to warn me about much back then.  I don’t wear guilt well.  If I had been doing anything major that I shouldn’t have been doing, it probably would have appeared on my face like the marquee of a Broadway debut.  I do remember a short “sex talk,” which I believe occurred immediately following a PTA meeting, so it must have been an interesting topic that night.  Dad smoked, but I was nowhere near intrigued with the practice.  Put simply, I was a viceless nerd.  (Of course, I say that with pride.)

One ordinary day, Dad gave me some alcohol-related advice.  This shocked me, as it was pretty much baseless.  Dad didn’t drink much at all, I never drank, and we had never discussed the stuff before.  In fact, we weren’t discussing it at that time, either.  He said, “If you ever get the chance, try a Long Island Iced Tea.”  Stymied, my only response was “Okay.”  Then, I forgot all about it.

Approximately five years later, I was a freshman in college who still didn’t care about drinking.  I was at virtually every party my floormates went to or held, but I was the guy with the Coke bottle in his hand, filled with actual Coke.  I went with my compadres one day on a two-hour drive from East Lansing, Michigan, USA to Windsor, Ontario, Canada.  The purpose of my friends’ trip was not only to purchase some inexpensive hard-to-find Canadian brew, but to get our clan to a bar in the nineteen-is-the-legal-drinking-age country next door.

I loved being among my peers on adventures, so I didn’t hesitate to get involved, but I had no plans to do anything but attend.  Canada had Coke, right?  No problem!

Once we got ourselves situated at a near-the-border tavern, the waitress went around the table for orders.  Many beer names were requested, but when she got to me, my dad’s voice echoed in my head.

I said, “Give me a Long Island Iced Tea.”

I really didn’t expect to enjoy the drink, as the name forced me to guess that it was designed to taste like iced tea, of which I am no fan.  I think it was just being in a position for the first time to actually order a drink, I wanted to get the curiosity over with.  My friends were a bit shocked, knowing that I had never drunk before, that I went with such a drink.  The reason is that, unlike myself, they actually knew what was in it.  More on that later.

A tall mug was put in front of me with a great deal of ice, a watered-down-Coke-colored beverage and a straw.  I took a meager sip and let the liquid register to my tongue.  It tasted like . . . Kool-Aid!  Kool-Aid, I can drink.  Passing the non-iced-tea-tasting litmus test, I took another sip.  Well, okay, I drank up half the large glass in one draw.  When I sat back up, the entire tableful of drinkers was staring at me, slack-jawed.  Everyone there knew I hadn’t had a drink before, and again, they knew what was in the mystery fluid.

“Are you okay?” a friend asked.

“Yeah!” I said.  “Hey, can you bring me another one of these?” I asked, finishing the first.  I had another, then I finished someone’s fuzzy navel (which also tastes not at all like gasoline), then I had a Coke.

It’s noteworthy at this point to say that I was rather thin back in these days.  For those who don’t know, the effects of alcohol on a drinker are generally proportional to the proportions of the drinker.  Skinnier drinkers get drunk quicker, as the alcohol has less drinker to travel through and affect.  With this in mind, my friends were rather intrigued and a bit amused by my excursion.  They were going to see the legendary and thin non-drinker after the effects of a few drinks!

I disappointed them all that night.  As it turns out, I had a rather high natural tolerance for alcohol.  I didn’t slur or sway a bit.  Over the years, I’ve concluded that I’m a pretty boring drinker.  I don’t like it enough to drink lots, but the effects are sorta non-effectual on me.

Here’s the punchline: After that trip, I looked up Long Island Iced Tea in a bartender’s guide.  Depending on the recipe, there are between five and ten straight alcohols in this concoction . . . along with “a splash of Coke for color”!  I can’t imagine how it tastes so non-alcoholic with that pedigree, but it sure won me over, after being disinterested in anything named “iced tea.”  I still hardly drink.  Mostly at wedding receptions or rare dinners with a party of others.  Whenever I do, this is usually the drink I have first.  It still tastes good and still doesn’t affect me much.  Then, I switch back to Cokes and waters.  Regardless of the flavor, I’m still just not impressed with the stuff.

Four Years In The Ice Cream Gulag

by Thomas M. Pender

I should start this story thusly: “Hi, my name is Tom, and I’m an ice cream junkie and a chocoholic.”

Soon after moving to the Chicago area in 1995, I went to the grocery store.  As a recent transplantee from Michigan in his first non-roommate apartment, there were many things to be stocked up on: Ramen noodles (being a budgeted transplantee), milk, bathroom tissue (with the name I carry, I find the term “T.P.” a tad offensive), bread and ice cream.

The last item may not appear on everyone’s survival list, but I am not everyone.  I recognize my needs and I don’t fight them.

I strolled to the freezer section, then down the ice cream aisle . . . all the way to the end . . . then back again, only slower.  Surely, I had just missed it.  I knew it had to be there.  It just had to be!  Yet, it wasn’t.

This store had no Heavenly Hash!!!!!!!!!!!

For those outside the loop, the oddly-named piece of heaven is a mixture of rich chocolate ice cream, a marshmallow ribbon, almond pieces and the smallest of chocolate chips.  (Insert Homer Simpson slobber sounds here.)  Since a friend had shared some with me at the age of 16, it had become part of my DNA.  Why did this store not know this?  There must be others like me, scratching at the glass for the store to open so as to attack the Heavenly Hash with exuberance. . . .

But, alas.  I did not embody enough demand to call for the stocking of my drug of choice.  No problem.  This is America.  We have capitalism and competition and variety here.  All I needed to do was to make it across the street to the next store.

To my growing dismay, they were Hash-less, as well.  So was the next store.  So were the stores in the next town down the road.  Apparently, Illinois was a Hash-free state.

(Sorry, my stomach just gurgled there.)

No need to panic.  I’m a survivor.  I know how to compromise to get to a better tomorrow.  I’ll just pick up some of my second favorite kind of ice cream: chocolate almond.  It’s less demanding, more commonplace, and even has fewer ingredients and is therefore easier to produce in bulk for the flavor-starved masses.

No.  No.  Nope.  Nada.  Nein.  Nicht. . . . None!

I had to face facts: I had unwittingly moved myself to a non-Heavenly-Hash-non-chocolate-almond zone!  I considered commuting from Michigan, but that didn’t seem financially prudent.  I would just have to tough it out, and when I went back to my home state to visit Mom, I would attack my needs.

Four loooooooooooooooong years later, I moved from the Illinois/Wisconsin border lands to Georgia.  When I got to where I was going, I noted the Kroger on the corner.  At the first opportunity, I hustled myself to the store and yes, the very first thing I did was bolt for the freezer section.

Chocolate almond?  Check.  Heavenly Hash?  Check!!!!

Unfortunately, the actual purchase of said ambrosia would have to wait about a month, but when that cash was in my hand, I knew that there would be Hash in my freezer before sundown.  It would once again be worth getting my stomach and taste buds out of bed in the morning.

Take that, Chicago!