Tuesday, September 30, 2014


     On Saturday, as my in-laws neared the end of their visit, I thought it would be nice to introduce them to a fabulous doughnut shop near our house where they make fresh, delicious, large bites of heaven.  I don't go often as they're so filling we don't finish them all before they harden (I mentioned they were fresh), and you have to go early to get certain flavors before they run out.  The line goes out the door.  I had to pop into work for a little bit and afterwards I was on my way.
     When I got there, I jumped in line and inched closer to the counter, trying to see what was available.  I'm always on the lookout for the holy grail - the chocolate marshmallow, a marvelous confection of chocolate frosted raised doughnut filled with marshmallow crème.  I've had three in as many years.  As I got about six people away from my turn, I saw on the bottom rack one lonely marshmallow jewel.  I almost yelled out, "I claim that one."  Instead, I tried to play it cool and will the people in front of me to make other choices.  When the woman behind the counter called on me, I jumbled together I'lltakeadozendoughnuts,canIpleasehavethechocolatemarshamallow?  I picked eleven others, but honestly I was focused on five minutes in the future when it would be me alone in the car with that doughnut and a bottle of milk.
     I won't go into more detail, as the next few minutes are very private, but here is an aftershot:

If you're in the neighborhood - www.kanesdonuts.com

Thursday, September 25, 2014

No Lie

     I have always had a weakness for older male customers.  They'll tell me their life story.  I pay attention.  I humor them.  It sometimes gets me in trouble for endulging them.  I enjoy helping little old ladies, as well, but that's a mixed bag of emotions for me.  One, I think of my mom (who wouldn't be pleased with me calling her an old lady) and two, the first con artist who stole a pair of shoes from underneath my nose was a little old lady.  That's a story for another time.
     This afternoon, I picked the wrong little old man.  I walked up and asked if he needed any help.  As God is my witness, he said (slightly paraphrased), "do I need help?  From a pretty young thing like you, with long brown hair and beautiful eyes?  You need to step back before I attack you.  Then they'd have to call the cops to get me off you, and then I'd get in trouble with my wife over there."  I nervously laughed and moved away quickly.
     He seriously told me out loud that he was thinking about attacking me and having to be forcibly pulled off by the police.  There were other people in the lobby.  I'm sure he thought he was paying me a compliment in some way, and that due to his age he should be excused.  I was floored, truth be told.

Tuesday, September 23, 2014

Hello Again

     The last few weeks have been hectic. I've been moved to another location for work, and this time, it's so close to the house that I could walk if there was an emergency.  It's not a "walk for the fun of it" mind you, as I prefer to not be a hot mess just before I'm supposed to help people. Surprisingly, some people don't trust you when you look a tad disheveled.
     Speaking of which, one of the few interesting things that happened in the past couple weeks was another personal example of the strength that God has given me to not reach across a table and throttle a customer.  Just last week, I think it was day 3 on this new adventure, a gentleman became quite animated while in my office - he even raised his voice at his wife several times.  As I tried to explain again that the document in front of me didn't contain the information he said it did, he got up, moved beside my chair, looked me in the eye and said, "I don't understand why this is so difficult for you to figure out."
     For one small moment the words "back the fuck away from me" danced on my tongue.  Also, "how dare you try to intimidate me like you do your wife" or "step back before i make you step back."  But then the good Lord stepped in and all sense flooded back to me.  I used my step-away-from-the-ledge voice and normalcy ensued.
     I used to work with a man who felt that for every 100 awesome customer service jobs we did, we should get a free pass token for that jerk customer.  So when they started being a complete jerk-face, you could hand them the token and walk away.  No sir, I don't have to help you.  In fact, none of us do.  There's plenty of poor customer service out there, but a good chunk of the time, it's due to having to deal with too many cretins who demand to be respected and feared.  Add to that low wages, reduced hours and demeaning expectations, and you can see the tiring service world we've created.

Wednesday, September 3, 2014


     This past weekend, we got to go on an uncharacteristic mini field trip to the new house of a dear friend.  She's taken on a dream home fixer-upper of massive proportions.  It's the Victorian mansion of my little girl dreams ... complete with the potential for multiple sitting rooms, a humongous kitchen, a garret, nooks & crannies and a fabulous staircase.  There's even a servant's staircase.  I asked a ton of questions about her remodeling plans as she restores the house to it's former glory.  She has so much to do, but the happiness on her face while she described each detail was infectious.  When I was little, I had a wooden Victorian dollhouse that my mother and I built together.  We painted, decorated and detailed it.  She would ingeniously come up with miniature decorating ideas that we could craft ... like tiny hand towels and teeny rolls of toilet paper for the bathroom.  We would plan how to wallpaper the little rooms, what paint would make sense, how to pencil in hard wood flooring.  It was one of the many craft projects we would work on together when I lived in her home.
     The other cool thing about my dear friend's new house is that it's haunted.  She, her friends and family have seen and heard things.  I was initially very excited to hear something, but as night descended, I will admit that I was freaking myself out.  By the time we went to bed, the kids were so tired that in minutes they were asleep - not the case for me.  In fact, my husband agreed to stay awake and keep watch, in an effort to assuage my nerves.  Some of the sounds woke me anyway.  Before you correct me, I know old houses make noises as they flex and shift.  They don't make sounds like knocking on your closed room door, rhythmic footsteps on the floor below you or repeated gunshots and voices outside (in an almost rural setting).  Our dear friend heard none of these things, as the spirits in the house adore her and her restoration efforts.  It was very cool to discuss it in the morning over orange juice and the sumptuous breakfast she made ... easier as well in daylight.
     I've always believed in the unseen, and I foster that in the children.  I think it leads to a better imagination, better writing and hopefully, a more interesting life.  How dull must it be to think that there are no mysteries to life, that what you see is as good as it gets.  Like Mulder said, I want to believe, but I'm a bit of a chicken at 2am.