The charity workers

On a street corner of a traffic intersection near where I work stood four middle-aged black men in worn clothes. In their hands were sturdy plastic buckets filled with lollipops. As I drove my car toward the intersection, I caught sight of the men, who were dressed in orange-colored safety vests that made them look like crossing guards. But they weren't crossing guards. Instead, they seemed to be collecting for a charity, trading the lollipops for money from drivers. What put things out of place was that there was nothing that identified them as working for a charity, like the Kiwanis on "Peanut Day" would have the charity's name printed on their safety vests.

Right away in my head I made a silent plea to God. "Oh please, don't let me get stopped at a red light!" If I got stuck, one of the men would come over to my car window and want a donation in return for what he had in his bucket. I didn't want that. Luckily, I was on the busier of the two cross roads and my light stayed green for a long time. I was able to zip right through the intersection.

The visceral reaction I had during this incident is the same as when I see a homeless person on the street holding a sign asking for money. My "spider senses" go off, because I'm not sure if the person is truly in need or is just running a scam. Once when I worked in downtown Chicago, I gave a woman on the street $5 just for the performance she gave me....she said she was from St. Louis, and her car had run out of gas, and she had brought money with her but it must have been stolen during her time in the big city..... She was just spitting the frustration out of her mouth. It was an obvious scam, but I rewarded her for being so elaborate and theatrical.

The thing is, I guess, is that I prefer my charity workers to identify themselves. A day earlier, at another intersection, I fished around for change in my car and gave it to one of the Kiwanis peanut people. At other times, I have waved over the charity workers who are offering Tootsie Rolls in return for my money. I have even flagged over those charity workers who give away the red paper hearts.

But these four guys on the street, I didn't want to deal with them. Were they actually panhandlers instead of charity workers? Would I have had the same reaction if they were white?

At another intersection a few miles away, I noticed another black guy, all by himself, threadbare around the edges, holding the same kind of sturdy bucket. Inside were the same kind of lollipops. But this guy also had a homemade sign, just a big piece of white cardboard with three words written in black marker, one word on top of the other:

Women
Children
Charity

I surmised that this guy and the other men were collecting for their church, and that they were granted authority to do so because they would have been chased away by police otherwise.

Still, even being secure with my assumption, the thought of being stuck at a red light with these guys makes me feel uncomfortable. Does that make me racist? I hope not.

Trains

I hate trains. The town I live in is located outside of Chicago. Intersecting the town is the nation's main rail line going west. Multiple times per day, commuter trains and freight trains travel the line, to and fro. Traffic in my town, and countless others dotting the line along the way, are paralyzed when the trains come through. Most of the towns have roads crossing the tracks---no bridges over them or viaducts under them.

It is when these frequent trains come through and I am in my car or on my scooter or walking on foot and I want to cross the tracks that I really start gnashing my teeth. The trains literally paralyze society, bringing everything on both sides of the tracks to a standstill. And there I sit, with everyone else, twiddling our thumbs as this lumbering temporary wall has appeared in front of us.

I can think of no other situation where society is legally allowed to be paralyzed like this. We are often informed about statistics that show that people spend X amount of hours in their lives commuting to work. I guess waiting for the train at a M-F'n crossing falls into that category.

This isn't new information, so this blog is nothing but my venting about it. When I sit waiting at a crossing, I sometimes fantasize. I think about what would happen if I had the legal right to paralyze society, too. Would I travel down a busy highway and then just decide to stop and pull out a lawn chair and sit in the middle of the road, making all traffic around me stop until I decided to get back in my car and go? Would I spot an ambulance speeding to a hospital and then decide, "Hold on, you can't pass here, I've decided to fly this kite from this location right here in the road"? I think you get my point. Man, I really hate trains.

The Polish painter

This morning after I was dressed and ready for work, I walked by my bedroom and noticed that the bed had been made. I asked my wife Julie what that was all about, since I hadn't made it and she almost never does. She replied that she had done it because the Polish house painter was coming by. Since he might peek inside the bedroom, no need to have him think that we are slobs.

My wife and I have had arguments over the years about making the bed. I like having it made, she thinks it's a waste of energy. I get my passive/aggressive revenge sometimes because of this issue. (My wife says that most of what I do to annoy her is because of my passive aggressiveness.) The revenge comes in the form of a top sheet that my wife likes to have on the bed.

Our use of a top sheet is rare, but on the occasion when my wife puts one on the bed, it is nice going to bed for the first night or two. The bed is made like you'd find in a hotel, with freshly laundered sheets and pillow cases, and made up as if the maid had just been there. But, after a nite or two, the top sheet usually becomes balled up somewhere under the covers. When the next evening comes and I climb into bed and slip under the covers, the balled-up top sheet is cramping the space for my feet. "What the hell is this?" I grouse. "It's the top sheet," my wife replies. "Just reach down and pull it up."

But I don't like to do that. I like to come into my bedroom and get into bed and then have no responsibility. All I want to do is read, watch TV, or go to sleep. Having to deal with the balled-up top sheet is too much like work.

Ultimately, what happens after a few nights of this grousing is that I awaken in the morning and decide to make the bed, and without the top sheet on it. So I take the top sheet and throw it to the floor and jam it under the bed. Then I finish making the bed.

Usually it takes my wife a few nights to notice. "Hey, where's the top sheet?" she asks. I tell her it's under the bed, and then she gets angry and accuses me of passive aggressiveness.

But I tell her that all she has to do to rectify the situation is to make the bed in the morning. That never happens, of course, which is why the top sheet remained under the bed the last time that I looked.

You are probably wondering how the Polish painter fits in here. The other day my oldest daughter Faith announced that she wanted her bedroom painted a new color. The color she picked is blue/green, offputting at first, but attractive when it's on the walls.

Someone had given my wife the name of the Polish painter and said that he does good work at a cheap price. So the guy was hired and he came over while I was at work and he did a good job on my daughter's bedroom.

Now, all of a sudden, my wife has announced that she wants the basement painted, and the kitchen, and some exterior woodwork by one of our large bay windows. The Polish painter has been hired for the job.

So today comes, and the bed is made, and the doorbell rings, and there at the front door is the Polish painter. He is a 30ish guy, tall, lean, dark curly hair, and he has that Eastern European accent when he speaks English.

My mother-in-law, who is omnipresent in our lives, leans over and says to me, "Wow, Julie never said anything about how good looking he is."

But as I figure it, I have been married to my wife for 13 years and have been with her for more than 15 years. If the result of this is that the bed gets made every day while I am at work, the Polish painter can come over all he wants.