The Great Curse of Costco

Last year I went shopping at COSCO and was hit by the COSCO curse. You know it, perhaps not by name, but it is very familiar to you. The errand was a simple one. My wife Jane, asked me to pick up four steaks for dinner. No problem. Heck I’ve done it a hundred times before. I mean how difficult can it be, right! So I set off with my brother-in-law and all the confidence of a rooster in a hen house.
 
I arrived and flashed my membership card. It carries that lovely picture that makes you look like it was lifted from the  FBI most wanted. Anyway I flashed the card and strutted right on through those doors like I owned the place. I’m aware the meat section is all the way to the back and so I don’t even take a cart because I only need four steaks remember.
 
On my way to the back I first wonder through the TV section because I’m a man and the eleventh commandment states that every man must never pass an electronic section without at least contemplating the purchase of the 93” 1080 p with HD ready flat screen with no less than 4 HDMI i/o... and then I snap out of it. I start my way down to the meat section and then call my wife to see if she needs a new IPOD because I only need four steaks and so I can carry one extra item and she was thinking about replacing hers.
 
Well after a conversation with her I set out once again to the meat section and run right past that new juicer that I’ve thought about buying before  but realized I probably didn’t need it and besides I don’t have a cart and only need four steaks. So I set off again and almost make it to the back but I’m interrupted first by the BOOK/DVD/CD table, the new BBQ section and finally halted by the wine and beer section. I wasn’t diverted by the Woodbridge, nor did the Brunello di Montelciano win me but the Sterling Cabernet Sauvignon cinched it.
 
I headed back to the front to get a cart and on my way back I stopped and picked up the juicer, and knowing I was buying some wine I decided to surprise Jane and replace those ugly wine glasses I bought last year with a new set of Crystal MIKASA’s. Then made it to the wine section, picked up 6 bottles of assorted deals and then proceeded to pick up two filets, two racks of lamb, two chickens, a pound of shrimp, enough asparagus, lettuce, mushrooms and water to feed and then sink the navy and finally bagels for the entire east coast.
 
When I got outside and tallied up the damage it was then that I realized I never did get those four steaks.

Alive and Well

Well its been 21 days since my last writing and one would have to imagine that it is impossible to be so busy that you can't take a few moments to write a small blog at least once in that time span. Well think what you will but we have been busy.

My wife and I just finished our move from NJ to Vermont. This is now our 6th move in 24 years of marriage. If you'd like to test your marriage (and I'm not sure why anyone would like to test their marriage), try moving. What's that you say. Having kids is harder; poppycock (I always wanted to write that) having kids was fun - raising them was a little more trying but moving is compressed pressure. Now, I have to admit, if my wife and I were telling this story together she would be injectung things like (what did you do?) etc. as I tell this story. Now you know why I blog. If she would like to tell it from her perspective let her write her own blog.

Imagine trying to sell your house in a market when both Fannie Mae and Freddie Mac are gasping for air like an asthma patient in a dust storm. You have to be nuts. Meet Mr. and Mrs. Cashew. In any event we put our house on the market and it sold in 4 days. Isn't that a stupid expression!!! It didn't sell in 4 days. We had an offer within 4 days which we accepted. Then all hell broke loose. The banks started crumbling like ancient Greek columns in an apocalyptic earth quake. The stock market dropped like bombs during the London air raid. With every passing day my stomach would flip thinking that the kids had found a way to override the worlds computers in an effort to prevent us from ever selling this house while belly dancing and tangoing (is that a word) their way through university.

The inspection happened and we had been told that it went very well. Well is very relative. We should have had an inkling of things to come when the radon inspection took longer than the creation of heaven and earth. Now I realize god is God but from now on I'm calling god for a radon inspection. The inspection came in with the normal riders like your house is falling down because I saw a crack in the downstairs window but we muddled our way through those issues. Then it was suggested that the buyers needed to obtain a chiminey inspection. This advise was offered up by the law firm of Dewey, Cheatum & Howe. Lo and behold, this law firm also happens to refer chiminey inspectors called Just Inspect. Let the cavity search begin. Just Inspect unlike what the name suggests also happens to perform the repairs of whatever work is found and even has the audacity to suggest that if the report of their findings is helpful in a real estate transaction that they be considered for the work. (I am shocked, shocked that their is gambling in this casino). You guessed it. Our chiminey's needed work. Lots and lots of work. In fact the suggested repairs would equal that of the Icelandic national debt (prior to bankruptcy).

Pass the Tums and my checkbook.

Let that not be the end of the story, because our lawyer (his paralegal) decided to just ballpark the figure and reduce our monies due by $15,000. and just when you'd think everything was done the Dewey lawyer called to say that there was garbage on the front lawn. Can you imagine that on garbage day there would be garbage outside the house. Oh yeah and leaves in a leaf bag in October - its an outrage!!! And these people have the vote. ughhhhhhhhhh!!!!

The Strap!!

When we were kids our family was fairly unusual in that both my parents worked and therefore punishment was meted out by both adults without degree of offense or time of day. They were full ranging and could be merely an assignment of all duties on the "duty chart" (that will be another story), through the bevy of increasingly more action to the ultimate strap.

The strap was used as the ultimate weapon and was feared much more than the wooden spoon or clip in the back of the head. The strap was my fathers belt and would be dispensed in measured increments evenly to both hands. If you were the offending party you were usually warned by the "don't make me get up" or "do it again" provocation which always seemed to me to be an order so I was always surprised that you got a licking when you did it again.

In any event, one of the most serious infractions in our childhood was playing on the street. Now, I don't care what anybody says, but there wasn't any place to play but on the street or in the stairwell, or in the electric shed or all of the other places which were named to be off limits. Nevertheless, these were the rules.

Now my borther Mike had been given a second hand bike which at the time was probably 10 years old and was fine but needed work, so one day we spent the morning and afternoon working on the thing tuning it up and getting everything in perfect working order. We pieced it all back together and Mike was going to take it for a ride. Each time we'd role it out we'd find one more thing wrong with it and would re-double our efforts. Finally, it was about 4 o'clock in the afternoon and Mike settled on the seat and shoved off using the sidewalk for momentum and scooted out on the street. The bike was running like a charm and I was so excited I started runnning after him jumping and laughing and yelling at him to go faster. I was so excited that I paid no attention to anything else until Mike scooted around a car which I came face to face with staring right over the hood ornament into my father's very annoyed eyes. That look accompanied the strap. No look - no strap. It was that simple. He merely pointed up towards the apartment and I knew immediately what it meant.

I headed up the flight of stairs with the understanding that with each step I was dead man walking. When I finally got to our apartment I marched straight to our room as would be expected but that's when I got to thinking. I was going to get it anyway so why not make it hard on everybody concerned. So I opened our closet door and hoisted myself onto the shelf. I gathered all of the clothes and boxes around me so it wasn't evident and lay very still.

When my Dad finally came into the apartment I could hear him taking his time knowing that with each passing moment I'd be ever more apprehensive about the coming consequence. Finally I heard our bedroom door open and silence for a moment. TED!!! came the voice. I shifted slightly but was resolute in my course. I could hear the footsteps as he looked under the bunkbeds. TED!! it came again with just a slight amount of annoyance. He opened the cupboard door but I wasn't there. JESUS MURPHY!! came the exclamantion as he proceeded to search the rest of the apartment. He came back to the room a second time and opened the closet again and as he searched there were more suggestions that I was only making it worse on myself. The annoyance was growing more and more and vesuvius was about to errupt. Now when I get really nervous I start to laugh. Sometimes uncontrollably but it always starts with just a giggle so when he opened the closet door for the third time it was unintended.

My Dad reached up and grabbed me from the shelf and I was jerked off and stood on the floor in the center of the room. He did this while spitting out that now I had done it. Now I was finally going to get a damn good tanning. All this while fumbling to pull of his belt. He told me to hold out my hand which I did while we wound up from the bleachers for the first swing. At the last minute I pulled my hand away and the belt caught him right across his own leg. I burst out laughing (that is a really bad reaction sometimes). LET THE BEATINGS BEGIN.

In the end my hands did recover and he was annoyed at me for quite a while. So it didn't make him feel any better either and let that be a lesson for you....

OLDS '98

My Dad had a 1956 Olds 98 when I was a kid and to this day that car affects my life in ways I would have never guessed. We had 6 kids in the family and so he needed one of those big ass cars in the pre SUV era. To the naked eye this car was sweet. It was a royal blue with white paneling. It had those big tail fins which were very popular amongst the car makers in those days (remember that the memory plays tricks so if the details of the car are sketchy, they belong to a kid who was about 7 and lived in his own little world and are now being recalled by a 53 year old man).

Our family used to love to sing, play guitar and learn proper harmonies in order to perform to friends, family and anyone who might wish to listen whenever the mood took them. The car was a perfect adjunct to that hobby. I had already indicated that the car looked fine but the inner workings offered some fairly critical flaws. The floor boards in the car were riddled with holes and apparently so were the tailpipes and in consequence the exhaust would seep up into the cabin of the car. Now one could imagine that that could be problematic for people of any age so in order to ensure that the affects of carbon monoxide would be minimal we'd drive around with the windows opened. Now during the summer time that was fine and downright enjoyable, but winter in the northeast offered a wholly different perspective. So to try and keep us warm and alive my dad insisted that we sing every where we went. It didn't matter the time of day or indeed night. There would be the entire LeBlanc clan driving around singing at the top of our lungs. "Dinah won't you blow, Dinah won't you blow......" Now as a kid you'd find yourself often looking to nap but if that even looked like a remote possibility in the car my Dad would turn around and start shaking you like the San Andreas fault misbehaving. Simultaneously, he yell "sing god dammit... sing!!!!" You could be delirious from lack of sleep but by god you were going to sing "Row, row, row your boat gently down the SING GOD DAMMIT SING....Merrily, Merrily, Merrily ...."

So when you see me driving down the street to this day I'm singing at the top of my lungs. But worse yet, every time I doze off anywhere I jolt wide awake thinking SING GOD DAMMIT, SING

FRECKELO

Like super hero’s, we all have an arch nemesis or arch rival which offer us the mirror into our souls and determine the human being we will be. Superman had Lex Luther, Batman had several but the Joker was the best and I had Freckelo.

Freckelo lived on 24th Avenue in a duplex which was directly en-route to our school. I never did learn his real name but suffice it to say that it was unimportant to the story. He was probably a year or two my senior, had carrot red hair and, as his name suggests, was one of those kids covered in freckles. I don’t know what made him so miserable but clearly someone beat him with a nasty stick early on. I had encountered him early on in my first year of elementary school when we were all called upon to make our own way to school. It didn’t matter that you had brothers and sisters because they wouldn’t be caught dead walking with you nor you with them for that matter.

The bullying began simply enough with the typical shove or blocked path but escalated at a fairly rapid pace to a point where Gregory Clark and I would try alternate routes, running, mingling or anything else to try and avoid the advances of this maniac and his clan of crazed cohorts but in many cases to no avail. He and his gang must have attended night school at the age of eight because they never seemed pressed to go anywhere or be afraid of anyone.

This bullying went on for several years and the gang seemed to get bigger and meaner with each passing month and year. Finally, Greg ended up being caught by them one day when I was left at home suffering from some childhood illness. I guess the fact that we always traveled together must have been a deterrent to their more diabolical violence because on this occasion they pulled the lid off a manhole and threw Greg down breaking his leg. I received a call from Gregory’s mother informing me that he wouldn’t be going to school for a few days and could I bring home his homework. The news sickened me and it was at that moment that the early designs of revenge began to hatch.

The following Saturday morning I woke early (my parents were still in bed and my dad used to wake the roosters so it must have been very early) and got dressed quickly and headed over towards 24th Avenue. I don’t know what gave me the courage because I was completely alone but I remember being quite certain that Freckelo would be too. I hung around his house waiting for him to show his spotted face and soon enough he did. I walked up to him and in my best sign language (Freckelo didn’t speak English) made signs that I wanted to be friends. He seemed taken aback by my audacity and amenable to the come on.

I invited him back to my apartment building on the premise that we would could get a couple of gloves and ball and play catch. Now we lived on the 3rd floor in a 3 bedroom apartment. The building was typical of those built back in the 50’s and had a gap between the window which ran the height of the building providing light to the stair well and each of the half landings leading to the summit. This gap was approximately two feet deep and so one could look down from the top floor all the way to the first floor with an unobstructed view of the front door of the building. In typical kids fashion we often would climb the space rather than use the stairs and while it seemed dangerous to the onlooker it was completely deadly to the novice unless one paid close attention to the path of sure footedness. I quickly hoisted myself up the gap and began to scale the path upwards with the skill of a Himalayan chirpa scaling Everest. Freckelo being my senior could do nothing else but follow my lead and scale the gap. Each half landing had a rail which allowed one to peer down to the level below. It also offered the staging for the next level just like in Super Mario. I was quickly beyond the first floor, onto the second and lifting up to the third and could see down and with each move Freckelo became more apprehensive but determined to keep up with the runt.

I reached the top floor and hoisted myself over the rail and looked back down just in time to see Freckelo beginning his climb from the second to third floor. He was very apprehensive and slowed by the strain of the unpracticed hand. He scaled up to the half landing and grabbed the rail as his feet slid off the ledge of the window so he was slightly swinging in mid air holding on for dear life to the lower rail mount. He began to scream and clearly feared for his life as well he should. Time slowed to a crawl as I looked down on him and he tried to see me through the outstretched arms as his swing arced back towards the window frame. He was unable to swing his feet back and his grip was desperate and straining. I waited for that moment where our eyes could make contact and when it did he knew exactly what I was thinking. The fear was obvious and heartfelt. He probably could sympathize with Greg right at that moment.

I finally ran to the apartment and called to my dad to come right away ‘cause Freckelo would fall. The beat of my fathers’ footsteps on the floor could be heard all over the building as he donned his pants and ran to the noise which was now reverberating throughout the early morning quiet. He reached over the rail and grabbed the kid by the scruff of his neck and began to shake him like a wet rag. The tears were flying everywhere as the Freckelo went from bully to sissy in a heartbeat. Once the tirade slowed my dad put him down and yelled that he better not come back again lifting his foot to give him a swift kick just to accentuate the notion.

My dad looked at me and knew deep down that I was absolutely involved and showed little remorse for the near catastrophic incident. He asked me who the kid was and I told him I thought he might live over on 24th Avenue because I’d seen him from time to time on my way to school.My dad for whatever reason probably thought it was prudent to leave the questioning and we never spoke of it again.

Freckelo never did bully us again and in fact he often turned and walked the other way when we passed his house. It’s funny because I never did feel all that good about what happened but was satisfied with the result.