What, me worry?

“Getting old is when a narrow waist and a broad mind change places.” Alfred E. Newman

The saying “What, me worry?” often accompanied MAD magazine mascot Alfred E. Newman, who has appeared on almost every MAD cover since the 1950s, when I was a loyal reader of the scabrous cartoon satires within its pages.  Every kid could find humor in the Alfred E. Newman quote,“A teacher is someone who talks in our sleep.”  Over the years any number of celebrities, from Prince Charles to, more recently, Chinese leader Xi Jinping and presidential candidate Pete Buttigieg, have been said to resemble the “bumpkin portrait” (MADfounder Harvey Kurtzman’s words) of a “part leering wiseacre, part happy-go-lucky kid.” Given Trump’s most recent verbal depredations, where he recklessly branded Representative Ilhan Omar a communist and “Hater of America” who should go back to where she came from (Somalia), as bigoted supporters shouted, “Send her home,”only MAD seems capable of capturing the utter MADness.  Alfred E. Newman once characterized elections as when politicians find out what people will fall for. For the sake of the republic, I sincerely hope, in the words of the Who, Americans“won’t get fooled again.”

Robert Blaszkiewicz retweeted Congresswoman Ilhan Omar’s response to Trump’s incendiary calumnies with this Maya Angelou poem:

You may shoot me with your words,

You may cut me with your eyes,

You may kill me with your hatefulness,

But still, like air, I’ll rise. 

“Chance the Snapper: the Alligator that Mesmerized Chicago,” headlined the New York Times.  On July 9 a five-foot gator was discovered swimming in Chicago’s Humboldt Park lagoon.  For a week, as efforts failed to trap the reptile whose nickname derived from Windy City celebrity Chance the Rapper, ever-larger groups of sightseers gathered at the lagoon’s edge.  Unable to spot the critter among the lily pads, the city of Chicago in desperation hired Floridian Frank “Alligator Bob” Robb. After he snagged Chance the Snapper on its tail with a fishing pole, Robb held a press conference, describing how around 1:30 a.m. he heard it “vocalizing” and spotted its eyes shining in the darkness.  Moving to an optimum position on shore, Alligator Bob caught “the Snapper” on the first try. Briefly was toast of the town, he subsequently threw out the first pitch at a Cubs game. There was talk of keeping the creature in a Chicago zoo, but it’s headed to an animal sanctuary in Florida. Chance the Snapper bobbleheads are presently on sale.

 East Chicago mayor Bob Patrick in 2003 after the court invalidating his primary victory over George Pabay, Times photo by Christopher Smith

Book club member Rich Maroc turned me on to the 2001 documentary “The King of Steeltown” about longtime East Chicago boss Robert “Hollywood Bob” Pastrick.  It being in the Calumet Regional Archives, I checked it out and was pleased to hear commentary from longtime area newsman Rich James.  The film focused on the 1999 mayoral primary when Pastrick faced a formidable challenge from Lake County Democratic chairman Robert Stiglich, who under suspicious circumstances had hundreds of supporters apply for absentee ballots. In a review titled “Hardball Politics in the Heartland,” Chris Sautter wrote: 

  The King of Steeltown" is an offbeat, sometimes humorous inside look at Chicago-style machine politics in a rust-belt city (East Chicago, Indiana) struggling with the decline of the steel industry. The film focuses on the 1999 re-election campaign of Robert A. Pastrick, mayor for three decades and a dominant political force since he launched his career in the early 1950's. Described as the last of America's political bosses, Pastrick is portrayed as an old-style pol who skillfully retains control of this gritty multi-racial industrial community with a well-oiled political machine, an election year multi-million dollar public works program, and a clinical display of old fashion retail politics.

Liz Wuerrfel and Beatrice Petties

Liz Wierrfel interviewed longtime Gary resident Beatrice Petties for the VU Flight Paths project. In “Remember Where You Came From” Beatrice stated:

 I say to my grandkids all the time, you can never forget who you are, but you have to remember where you come from.  I always tell everyone I was a depression baby because I was born in 1929.  In Detroit my mother joined the WPA was trained as a welder. They sent her to school. She had certificates and everything. She thought when she came here, she would go to the mill and get a job. They would not hire her. The only job she could get was a job as a cook or a cleaning. She said, no thank you. And that’s when she took the two jobs, cleaning houses and waitressing.  One time, I sat there and watched as she took orders from five tables. When she came back, not one person got the wrong drink, or the wrong dish. She went up this high for me when I saw her do that. I was sitting there wondering, “How do you remember them?”She said, “You do it, you just learn how to do it, that’s all.”I often wondered how far she would have gone if she had had the opportunities that are open for us now. 

   My brother was born in Gary. As we got older, I had to babysit him naturally. There was a young man that would always come by, which I did not like, period. I said, “Billy, tell him I’m not at home.” And I went in the bedroom and stood with the door open. And he opens the door, and what does he say, “She said to tell you she’s not at home.”Oh, I was ready to kill him. So I had to go out shamefaced and all and say, “I’m sorry, but I’m not going anywhere, I’m babysitting, period.”

   Whatever I learned to do in school, like if it was sewing or cooking, I had to come home and teach him. His rule was if he was in carpenter shop or any other shop that I couldn’t do, he had to teach me. And my aunt was a good cook, she made the best lemon pie in the world. And I could never make that lemon pie. He comes home one day when he was in the service. I said, “I sure wish I could have one of Aunt Mamie’s pies.”And he said, “Which one you talking about, Bea?” And I said, “I’m talking about that lemon pie, you know, the one with that thick meringue on it.”And she did not use an egg beater to make that meringue, she used a fork. He goes in the kitchen – he didn’t tell me what he was doing – and made that pie. I’ve been trying to make that lemon pie for I don’t know how long said, “how come you got to make it?”And he laughed and hugged me. He said, “Because I paid attention and you didn’t.” Yeah, my brother and I were good friends.

Liz Wuerrfel introduced me to Belt magazine, which will be publishing a poem she wrote about Gary.  I found Kay Saunders’s memoir about growing up in the rust belt city of Akron, Ohio, in the June 24, 2019 issue:

   I was seven when my family moved to Rubber City. That’s what everyone called Akron—once home to General Tire, BFGoodrich, Firestone, and Goodyear. Although most of the rubber plants were gone by the time we moved to Akron, the specter of industry remained. F.A. Seiberling, founder of Goodyear Tire and Rubber, once lived in the sprawling Stan Hywet Hall. Now the estate is a museum, open for school field trips, weddings, and those who simply wish to see how the rubber barons lived. In our suburban house, on clear days, I sometimes saw the Goodyear blimp, blue and gold and hulking. It hovered in the sky, a distant reminder of prosperity and productivity.

    When I went out with my friends on Friday nights, my mother would wait up for me. My father went up to read around 9:30 with a mystery novel tucked under his arm. By 9:45, when my mother went upstairs to wash her face and take out her contacts, my father would be snoring, his book still open and splayed across his chest.  My mother always wore fleece pajamas and two pairs of wool socks. Even though it had been years since we’d moved from New Orleans, she still wasn’t used to the harsh winters. She shivered in restaurants, malls, and church: everywhere we went. She craved sunlight, the South’s merciless heat.

    On Friday nights, after my father was in bed, my mother ate cheese and crackers, maybe a runny brie, a cranberry stilton, or a cheddar with chives. She usually drank red wine, but in the winter months, she savored a finger or two of scotch. She poured from the expensive bottle my uncle always brought for us when he made his annual visit from Wales.  She watched the ten o’clock news on the trashy channel my father usually forbade us from watching before dinner. He thought the reporters were incompetent, but that’s exactly why she and I liked the station. The Cleveland news was seldom good, and if we laughed at the reporters’ incompetence, it made hearing it easier. A missing child. An entire family killed in a house fire. Another young Black person killed by police officers’ bullets.

Barbara Walczak’s bridge Newsletterpaid tribute to Dave Bigler for achieving the rank of Gold Life master, having accumulated 2500 master points. Congratulating him were numerous partners and admirers, including Mary Kocevar, who took lessons from him at Hobart Senior Center, Trudi McKamey, who met him at a Bridge-O-Rama game, and Wayne Carpenter, who attended Hobart High and IU Northwest with him and like him worked at U.S. Steel for 30 years.  Calling his bridge contributions “Golden,” Walczak wrote: 

 Dave has offered a multitude of lessons throughout the years - all without remuneration. He oftentimes comes to the games with bags of food, also without remuneration – but with gratitude from us.  He signed up as a “pro” to help increase Alzheimer’s donations.  Nine players signed up to play with him, and he accepted them all.  In fact, he doubled their games (2 for the price of 1), and he collected $240 for Alzheimer’s.  He is willing (or more so, he is enthusiastic) to partner with new players – no matter how elemental their skill level is – and those newbies leave having had a successful experience.

The Newsletter noted the passing of Conrad Staudacher, whose big disappointment was not accumulating the 500 points needed to become a Life Master.

 below, Dr. Raymond Carmody

Retired Valpo ophthalmologist Rick Friedman was my bridge partner at Banta Center. Despite never playing together before, we finished right around 50 percent. He’d known eye doctor Tim Carmody, one of my first students, who committed suicide in 1998 at age 46.  Knowing I wrote a medical school letter of recommendation on his behalf, his sister and father, who had an eyecare center in Glen Park, treated me like royalty. Timmy was one of the sweetest people I’ve ever known. Several softball teammates went to school with him, and we got to be friends.  After Phil visited his office for an eye exam, he wanted to be an eye doctor because he was so impressed.  I last saw Timmy at a Moody Blues concert, and he seemed fine but evidently couldn’t get over his wife breaking up with him.  I shed a tear as Rick mentioned that Tim’s father, Dr. Raymond Carmody, came of out of retirement afterwards at age 90 to resume work at the family business. A patient of Rick’s, Raymond Carmody died just last year at age 109.

Dr. Eric Friedman

Last year while in Steve McShane’s Indiana History class, IUN student Madelynn “Maddy” Kurgan interviewed Rick Friedman.  Here is part of what Rick told her:

    I learned to play bridge in medical school. It was not a required course. Four of us actually took a night course at a nearby high school and learned enough to play. Then for the next 40 years I didn’t play due to time constraints of a busy practice and the fact that my wife didn’t play cards. Only after retirement did I have enough free time. I considered myself an athlete, frequently playing golf, tennis, racquetball, and even joining softball leagues in Valpo.  My bad back has limited sporting endeavors and turned me back to bridge.

Antwon Rose

“Boys were shooting marbles in a sand hill in 1928, and a policeman drove up.  A youth broke and ran. There were no arguments or anything. The boy had not been in Gary long and naturally was afraid of policemen; and when he ran, the policeman shot him in the back.  I became a paid member of the NAACP that day.” Joseph Pitts

 Antwon Rose

In June of 2018, Antwon Rose, 17, was riding in a car pulled over by police in East Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania.  While the driver was being handcuffed, Antwon fled on foot with arms raised to indicate he was unarmed.  A rookie officer who’d been sworn in hours before shot him three times, in the back, elbow, and side of the face.  Rose loved basketball and skating and played saxophone in the Woodland Hills High School jazz band.  In the funeral program was a poem Rose had written after a similar tragedy titled “I Am Not What You Think” and containing the refrain, “I am confused and afraid,”repeated three times.  Charging the shooter with criminal homicide, Allegheny County District Attorney Stephen Zappala said, “Antwon Rose did not do anything other than being in that vehicle. It’s an intentional act, and there’s no justification for it.  You do not shoot someone in the back if they are not a threat to you.” There have been so many similar incidents it is difficult to recall them all.  History keeps repeating itself.  The role racial stereotyping played in these situations varied from case to case. I won’t speculate on the state of mind of Antwon’s killer but doubt he was properly trained. Hopefully the remorse he claims he feels is as much about Antwon as himself.

 Anne Balay

In “Semi Queer: Inside the World of Gay, Trans, and Black Truck Drivers” Anne Balay wrote about two long haul truckers interviewed during a Black Lives Matter demonstration protesting the death of Antwon Rose that blocked Interstate 376 in western Pennsylvania near Pittsburgh, impeding their progress:

    A reporterinterviewed two drivers who left their trucks to talk to protestors, Gene and Robert, white, middle-aged men with beards and ball caps. The journalist seems surprised that these men support the protestors, even though inconvenienced by them.

    A woman trucker trapped in traffic would probably not get out. She would lock the doors, and run her seatbelt through the door handle for added security. She might feel forced to hide in the bunk with the curtain drawn, praying that her load was not tampered with.

    One of my narrators, who is Mexican and lesbian, was stuck in highway protests last year in Minneapolis. She was terrified. Lost income is real, since truckers are paid by the mile and sitting on the highway lowers their income and might even cost them their job. But the greater threat is violence, consistently more likely to be directed against a female, non-white, queer-presenting person. The casual way Gene and Robert walk around and talk to people, comfortable in the security provided by whiteness, beards, and down home accents is just not available to my narrators.

  Danger, vulnerability, and invisibility are ongoing aspects of blue-collar life.  My goal is to consider how these shape what feels possible, and what meaning is.  A transwoman alone in her truck looking out at a line of cops in riot gear might pray for invisibility and certainly not dangle herself in front of the cameras, the crowd or law enforcement.  Her thoughts about Antwon’s murder, and about race, fear, and justice would be shaped by that reality, as well as by her larger context, history, and attitudes. At this intersection feminism, anti-racism, and social justice are all moving targets.

I try not to think about our repulsive President, much less write about him.  Thankfully, there are the erudite musings of Ray Smock. In “Oh, Say Can You See” my good friend took Trump to task for his tawdry handling of John McCain’s passing:

    The Star-Spangled Banner was never used for lower, meaner, more self-serving purposes than earlier this week. The President took his long-standing personal feud with the late Senator John McCain to absurd and embarrassing depths. Donald Trump did not want the American flag on the roof of the White House lowered in honor of a distinguished American, a senator, a war hero, and twice a candidate for President of the United States. When the president discovered the flag had been lowered to half-staff as a matter of protocol and respect, he immediately ordered it back up again. Then, with mounting public pressure from all quarters, including veteran’s groups, the president reversed decision, lowered the flag again, and issued a statement honoring the senator.

    Is there anyone in America, regardless of party affiliation, who cannot see at the dawn’s early light that what the president did was so petty and small that it violated every aspect of human decency imaginable? Whatever differences the president may have had with Senator McCain, no matter how severe the personal animosity, there could be no excuse for the actions of the petulant child that occupies the White House.  The president used the American flag, a symbol that should unite us, not divide us, and turned it into a tool for his personal vendetta against one of our most distinguished citizens. He not only insulted Senator McCain and his family but all of us who respect the flag as a symbol of national unity. He denigrated Senator McCain on many occasions for being captured by the enemy. He said he didn’t like heroes who were captured. How can any citizen find a suitable excuse for this abasement of the American flag.

 Ray Smock at Byrd Center

Smock founded the Robert C. Byrd Center for Congressional History and Education, came to mind when I read a chapter in James A. Haught’s “Fascinating West Virginia” entitled “Robert C. Byrd’s Evolution.” Three times while Haught was editor, the Charleston Gazette, deservedly named Senator Byrd, a onetime KKK member but master politician who preached at churches and played the fiddle at campaign rallies, West Virginian of the Year. Haught wrote:  

  Haught reached hero status for me in 2002 when he became almost a lone-wolf voice against President Bush’s clamor to invade Iraq. While most of Congress timidly sat mute, Byrd showed great courage as he stood time after time to warn that the White House was dragging America into a senseless, unnecessary, harmful war. Some of us in the Gazette newsroom almost cheered as we read his bold attacks on the warmongers.

A native Mountaineers, Haught was born in 1932 on a horse-operated farm near a town without electricity or paved streets. He was one of 13 students in his high school graduating class. In 1959 Haught worked for a few months as a press aide to Senator Byrd. He wrote: “I only lasted seven months.  I got an ulcer, gained 30 pounds, and fled back to the Gazette’s wonderful chaos.”

Partners with duplicate bridge director Alan Yngve, we scored a lofty 62.5 percent, finishing second to Dottie Hart and Terry Bauer. After the first hand, Alan noted that I could have bid 1 No Trump instead of 2 Clubs (I had 5 of them and play a short Club) after I opened a Club and he responded 1 Heart. He rebid 2 No Trump and went down one, as I had the bare Ace, King of Diamonds and he held the Queen spot.  Had either of us had a third Diamond, the hand would have made. Knowing Alan, I recognized that he viewed it as a teachable moment rather than negative criticism.  Later, a skilled players hesitated, deciding whether to double our contract; Alan made the bid by finessing her Jack and, once the hand was over, told her to make such a decision during bidding so as not to hesitate.  Alan teaches bridge lessons, so I asked at what point he explained scoring (when they’re ready) and how to get them not to lead out Aces and Kings on defense. On his handout, he states that beginners make the mistake of leading their high cards, and you do not want to remain beginners.

On a return trip from New Orleans Carol and Gale Osgerby stopped at Wilstem Ranch in French Lick, summer home for elephants Maika, Lovey, and Lou. Barbara Walczak’s Bridge Newsletter reported that there were no ankle chains, bars or whips and that they enjoyed “Spa Time” (washing, soaping, rinsing, toenail painting) and a lecture on elephants.

 Dave Bigler

Opponent Dave Bigler brought up having been stuck at IUN during the blizzard of 1967.  He was working and taking 12 credit hours, making him eligible for a student deferment.  The following semester an instructor had such a heavy accent he couldn’t understand what he said.  His academic adviser said he could withdraw and take the class for free the following semester. A few weeks after Bigler did so, he was drafted, no longer a full-time student. He spent the next couple years in the air force, then worked at U.S. Steel for 20 years, finally completed his degree at IUN, and became a special ed. teacher.  From his self-confidence and sunny personality, I’m certain he was a good one. He’s been on the Hobart School Board for 15 years and is active in Little League baseball.

Michael and Janet Bayer

 Andrew Gillum

When Michael Bayer, living in the Indianapolis suburb of Fishers, heard that mutual friend Mike Olszanski and I regularly have lunch on Wednesdays with, he convinced wife Janet to visit us overnight, and the three of us dined at Ivy’s Bohemia House in Chesterton.  He informed me that Tallahassee mayor Andrew Gillum, endorsed by Bernie Sanders, upset Gwen Graham for the Democratic nomination for governor, while Trump acolyte Ron DeSantis was the Republican winner in the Florida primary.  DeSantis ran ads showing his daughter building a wall and called Gillum a monkey.  While Toni and the Bayers enjoyed an Indian dinner, I participated in the 8-team LANE League fantasy football draft.  With the first pick, I took Rams running back Todd Gurley.  Eagle Carson Wentz was my first quarterback choice, but since he is questionable for the season opener, Steelers’ QB Ben Roethlisberger is a pretty decent backup. I also selected Philadelphia’s defense/special teams and Superbowl hero Zach Ertz at tight end.  Nephew Bobby was out celebrating daughter Addie’s tenth birthday and was on auto-draft, meaning that the ESPN app selected the highest ranked players available each round but in 5 or 15 cases the players are listed as questionable or out for the first game.

Addie Lane (with Crosby) gets breakfast in bed on tenth birthday

Terry Kegebein

Another sign on autumn: week one of bowling.  I was worried about the back holding up but felt no pain during the three games and rolled a 443 series, just slightly below my average.  The Electrical Engineers took two games and series as Mel Nelson and new member Terry Kegebein both finished about 50 pins over average. It was good to see everyone. Delia’s uncles now make up two different teams, with a few new bowlers.  When I asked Larry Ramirez about it, he joked that he and Uncle Phil had a falling out. At Nature’s Door next day, I purchased magnesium oil for the back, the roll-on kind rather than spray so I can administer it myself.

 Tiana Sanchez

IUN Elementary Education major Tiana Mercedes Sanchez’s “Ides of March” journal focused on her work, love life, numerus pets, and gaming at grandma’s:

  Introduction:I am 19 and from South Haven, a little town between Portage and Valparaiso with gas stations, car dealerships, a school, churches, and two neighborhoods. My grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins all lived minutes away. I managed the boys football team.  I prepared the drinks, ice baths, did wrappings, took care of equipment, cleaned the field, recorded the games, and helped the coaches with game preparation. I took care of the guys so they trusted me and treated me like family.  I also managed the girls basketball team, was in National Honor Society, all duel-credit or advanced classes, and focused on getting into a good college.  Junior year I worked as a cashier; at the end of senior year I was a CNA at a nursing home.  A crazy animal lover, I have three dogs, three cats, and two fish.  Starting on Sunday, I’ll be a cashier at Noodles and Company in Valparaiso.  I’m in a two-and-a-half-year relationship with Alec. When not at school or working, I’m usually reading, drawing, with Alec, or at my grandma’s playing board games (like Clue) and card games (Speed, Rum, Canasta, Screw your Neighbor, Poker, Spoons).  My goal is to teach kindergarten. I started at Saint Mary’s of Notre Dame but it was so expensive.

  January 26:Classes started 20 days ago, and already I’ve had a breakdown. Sometimes it’s overwhelming, but not just school. Life. I’m taking 18 credit hours and work almost full time. I volunteered at a boys and girls club and worked the front desk, dealing with basketball schedules, preparing practice equipment, stocking concession stand, answering the phone, and dealing with paperwork or payments regarding memberships or club fees. There aren’t enough hours in the day or enough days of the week, sometimes, to get everything done. Everyone advises that I calm down and take a break, but when I blink, it’s like I’m behind in 4 classes. Maybe it’s just the timing or just the weather - or just college. 

  February 2:I finished my second week at Noodles and Company, my first job where I don’t feel nervous when bosses come around. Everyone is nice and helpful. I’m open to different tasks (cashier, busser, dishes, kitchen help, cleaning, closing) so it’s never boring. Shifts go by quickly. Today I had a short shift, 5 hours, and left in a good mood. My cousin Zack filled out an application at my suggestion; he dislikes his bosses at Menard’s. College can be traumatic enough, I’m thankful my job is stress free. 

  Feb. 9:It took forever to reach grandma’s because of the snow. Alec and I stopped at Meijer for ingredients (half and half, sugar, eggs, vanilla, lemon juice, ice) for my step-grandpa’s homemade ice cream. It is part of his legacy, passed on to us. We played Probe, similar to Wheel of Fortune, then ordered pizza from Santino’s because in all the excitement of making ice cream, everyone forgot about dinner. This morning the main roads were clear, but South Haven’s seem never to get plowed. Driving down highway 49, all I could think about was how pretty the trees looked. 

  Feb. 16:I’m at a loss for words about the mass murder at a Florida school.  My heart aches for the families of the 17 victims and for America. We’ve had 19 school shootings this year.  Why is nothing being done? Why aren’t there stricter gun rules?  

  March 2:Julie, my best friend since seventh grade, is away at college. Last weekend I went to Ball State and enjoyed her sorority sisters.  Tthere were two 21st birthday parties. Going away to school can be fun, but personally I like being home and love IUN.

  March 15:Spending the night with Alec was just what I needed to stop feeling depressed.  He held me, rubbed my back, whispered sweet words in my ear, and touched my promise ring that he gave me for Christmas until I fell asleep on his shoulder. We slept in until noon when interrupted by a loud thumping outside his door from his pup Chevy. We cuddled for about 30 minutes with me wrapped around him next to Chevy and him scrolling through Reddit (a social media site full of funny pictures and texts). His grandma took us out to a Chinese restaurant on Central in Portage. I ordered delicious Mandarin chicken with broccoli. I stole a few bites of Alec’s sweet and sour chicken. Then we took a 3-hour nap; because I’m on spring break, I can do that sort of thing. At Dari Dip I dropped off a job application. I need the money to pay bills. Alec got cake batter frozen yogurt (his favorite flavor) on a cone; My choice was chocolate banana ice cream in a cup. We got Chevy a pup cup of plain vanilla. We dropped Chevy off at home and picked up pain medicine from Meijer for my mom before going over to Grandma’s for game night. Grandpa gave me a bunch of old crew necks and t-shirts that he’d outgrown. I’m wearing his “United We Stand” crew neck right now. We played Sequence and Screw Your Neighbor – where you get a single card and can keep it or switch with the person on your left. We ended the night with Straws: everyone gets dealt a set number of cards and there is one with a camel in the middle. Players place numbered cards in turn until you get to 50, which breaks the camel’s back.  The offending player gets no points, everyone else gets the points in their hand. I finally got home around midnight and am in bed watching The Mummywith my three pups. 

  March 16:Exhausted from yesterday, I slept till 1 a.m. In bed with me were two cats - Nala and Jacob - sleeping on my left side and my dogs Shelby and Clark on the other.  Little Man was asleep on the floor. I got up feeling groggy, washed my nose ring, and ate a bowl of Special K Strawberry cereal. Then I folded clothes from the dryer and lay on a couch with Little Man in a blanket watching YouTube videos of makeup tutorials. At Noodles and Company, we were slammed with customers for four hours straight, and me the only cashier. One asked if lettuce was in a salad; I almost lost my mind. At closing time two customers wouldn’t leave for what seemed like forever, even when I locked the door. Around midnight I took home a Tai green curry pasta with shrimp and tofu, which was super spicy and yummy! When I pulled up to my house, my Sephora package was outside containing mascara, eyeshadow palette, face mask, primer, foundation, and perfume. It was exactly what I wanted to see after such a busy work day. I took a long shower to get the smell of tofu off me.  I work 12 hours tomorrow… sigh. 

  March 17:On my break I ate the BEST sandwich from Firehouse Subs - called Hook n’ Ladder.  We were busy all night long. A group came in at 9:55, five minutes before closing. When we finally locked the doors, there were nine bus tubs on the floor, a dining room of dishes, more in the kitchen, and dishes in a slit between salad stations. We cleaned up for two and a half hours. I got home around one a.m., showered, ate, took care of all my pets, watched The Mummy Returns, and got to sleep at 4 a.m. 

  March 18:I had two tetras fish, Cleo and Willy, but Willy died. Because they are schooling fish, they need companions, I need to get one tomorrow.