"Give a little bit... give a little bit of your love to me" --Supertramp

As the economy gets worse and we start to shoot each other over three piece chicken dinners*, I've been giving some thought to one-on-one giving...

In Jamaica
We usually try to buy souvenirs to support the local economy when we travel, particularly where the standard of living is no where near that of home. We did buy some things in Ocho Rios. We did not buy anything but a photograph at Dunn's River Falls. WAY too pushy.

When we were at the falls, we had a wonderful time climbing them, bought a picture of ourselves with shocked expressions as we were pushed into the freezing water, and then worked our way through a designated labyrinth of lean to shops that we were shepherded into, to get back to the bus that brought us there. It was work. Because it was far from obvious how to get out of the maze and in every direction there was someone calling for you to look at their chotchkies, pulling at you, offering you ganja. It was downright claustrophobic. One effective gambit was this:

Vendor, with carved wooden cup in hand: Hey, welcome to Jamaica. Are you having a good time?

Tourist: Fantastic!

Vendor: Beautiful lady/Big guy, what's your name?

Tourist: [provides name]

Vendor, already carving the name into the front of the cup: Good to meet you, [name]. That's [name] with an A, right?

Of course, once the name was carved into the cup (mere seconds), the tourist felt obligated to buy it.


New Orleans
When we were in New Orleans, we were walking down a street when one of four reasonably dressed, college aged boys asked if he could please have a dollar so he could get beer. I laughed, then gave him a dollar. At least he was honest.


Washington, DC
Here, I'll sometimes pay street musicians and sometimes pay beggars. I find there's a correlation between how happy I am and whether I'll give. The more fortunate I feel, the more likely I am to give. I've noticed the same thing with donations to charitable organizations.

I have grudgingly paid belligerent squeegee guys (the people who stand in the median and start cleaning your windshield while you are stuck at a light even though you didn't ask for this service) not because I wanted to but because I couldn't avoid the confrontation.


And a confession: At times, I've left change in public places, hoping that someone would be happy to come across it.

Which brings us to the questions du jour: Would you give money under any of these circumstances? Would you rather pay someone a) for a service (be it squeegee, music, carving or some other un-asked for thing), b) simply because they need it, or c) not at all?



*Winner, winner, chicken dinner!

A Quickie

We attend a party on Saturday playing throwback music. On the boombox (yes, boombox) we hear Dexy's Midnight Runners.

Friend: Can you believe he's playing "Come on Irene"?

Hubs: Actually, that's "Eileen". "Come on Eileen". I knew things were going downhill earlier when he started playing "She Blinded Me with Silence".

Me: Actually, that's "Science". "She Blinded Me with Science". I blind you with silence.

Hubs: I wish you did.

"Just walk away" --Kelly Clarkson

[Who doesn't want helpful advice?*]


It is a long holiday weekend and we are lazy for 90% of it but on Sunday we decide to take a run at Holly GoHeavy, the two-story holly in our front yard. We decide that we will prune her two feet in in all directions. Well, all but the roots. They can stay.

We get the ladder out. We get the loppers out. We get the shears out. We get the heavy duty gloves out. And we go to town. Which is to say, the Hubs gets down to work and I do my usual impeccable job of supervising and picking up debris.

All goes well for 15 minutes. But, alas, we are in the front yard. Read: in clear view of the neighbors. And they are helpful neighbors. Very helpful neighbors. They all have tools to help, which is great! And they can't bring them over fast enough, which is great, I guess... And they all want to stick around... and supervise... which is terrible. How many obnoxious overseers does one job need?**

How does one say, politely, "Please, just go away!"? I wouldn't dream of going into someone's yard and telling them how they should prune their shrubs, much less taking tools out of someone's hand to do it. Oh, yes. It was like that. I finally went inside and left the menfolk to sort out just how fluffy Holly should be. This was totally unfair to the Hubs but necessary in order to avoid a neighbor having a terrible accident with a lopper, if you catch my drift.

Which brings us to the question du jour: What do you do when your neighbors are TOO helpful?



* That would be me.

** That would be one. Yup, still me.

"And it opened up my eyes" --Ace of Base

A few weeks back, a colleague is standing in front of my desk, where I am sitting. We have the following conversation:

Her: I missed the 10:00 meeting. Were you there?

Me: Yes. I can fill you in...

Her: That would be great.

Me, looking at my meeting notes in my notebook: They went over the Shnorkins spreadsheet again. And they said the report on Blexurg is due on the 17th.

Her: The 17th? That's good to know.

Me: And, then a lot of the meeting was spent on the new Gwibble protocol but they don't have enough information about it yet to really know how to implement it.

Her: Oh. What about the XLC project?

Me: Huh! They did talk about XLC. Funny you should mention it!

Her: I read it in your notebook.

Me: *blink* Oh.

I go on to tell her about the XLC project but all the time I'm thinking, "You're reading my notes? Upside down? And you're telling me you're doing it? How often do you read my notes? What have I written before?"

I know that the mind processes things, sometimes unbidden. If there's words we might read them unintentionally, even upside down. But... still...

Questions du jour: Do you read other people's notes? Would you tell someone you're reading their notes? Should I write "[colleague] is a jackass" in my notes?

"Island Girl" --Elton John

Ah, Antigua. I miss you already. I admit that, at first, I was just after you for your looks. You can't blame me... Your intoxicating vistas. Your sensuous curves. Your bold colors. Your lush landscape. And, oh, god, to feel your heat! But the truth is, you are so much more that stunningly beautiful. You are friendly and welcoming and interesting and, oh my god, your luscious mangoes!!

*blush*

Moving on...

Sigh... Yes, I am back. There were a few things of note on my journey:

• The woman in the row in front of me on the plane from Antigua had a regulation-sized can of Pringles and likewise a Hershey bar. She alternated a Pringle and a bite of chocolate, Pringle, chocolate. This I can accept but can someone explain to me why she washed it down with a Diet Coke?

• I made a startling discovery while I was away: you do not have to have Vietnamese jabbered all around you to have a successful manicure or pedicure. I know! I was shocked, too. Our room came with a sizable spa credit so I got a manicure and a pedicure and an even shorter and sassier haircut (this one people are actually complimenting me on!) and it was sooooo relaxing. Oh course, to maintain this do, I'll have to fly back to Antigua about once a month. Oh well. Price of beauty blah blah.
  

• Our departure from Miami back to DC was delayed an hour, so, instead of leaving at 10 PM we left at 11 PM. As they packed the plane with standbys, it was completely full. The stews were tired and nudging people to sit down so we could go already and possibly land in DC by 1 AM. The 30-something woman in the aisle seat across from me seemed to think she might die if she didn't get to sit next to the man she came on board with. She repeatedly harangued the stew about the possibility of changing seats. The flight was full. Why would anyone change seats? She wasn't a child, after all. For the love of god, we're talking about a two hour flight! Suck it up, Woman! Meanwhile, the man who was her entire world, took his seat in the back of the plane and promptly fell sleep.

• At the resort, there were plenty of young newlyweds. In fact the demographic broke pretty cleanly between just married 20-somethings and your 40-plusses. One recent bride sported a tramp stamp that read: DAD. That's right. A tramp stamp that read DAD. I've heard of being a Daddy's girl but... ew. I guess I would have understood it more if it had read "Daddy", as in "Who's your..." Anybody want to venture an explanation for this? I am at a loss.

At least Barbie got it right.