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Not Seeing the Humor

26 Tuesday Aug 2014

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Last week, I received an email from my mother’s long-time friend. The email consisted of vicious, short-sided cartoons and quotes about President Obama, protesters in Ferguson, Muslims, Hillary Clinton, and Central American children who’ve made their way to America.

In the past, she’s sent skewed Republican crap, but this latest collection filled me with disgust for many reasons.

First, her husband was a vice-president at IBM, who no doubt had a hand in out-sourcing jobs, and scaling back American operations. Maybe he contributed to some of the bad decisions by upper management, which has resulted in nine consecutive quarters of losses, and IBM’s determination to sell off their PC, low-end server, and chip-manufacturing units.

Last July, Rich was laid-off from IBM, after training his “replacements” in Brazil. He was 18 months shy of the earliest date he could have retired. Fortunately, he landed a good contract role at Microsoft, but he missed out on IBM’s retirement benefits, and he’s certainly not earning the same amount of money or benefits as previously.

I’m sure my mother’s friend’s husband retired with full benefits, and a generous pension plan.

Since having to leave Microsoft, I’ve struggled to land a decent job. While my current role pays well, it comes with no healthcare insurance, no sick time, vacation or holidays. I can either go without healthcare benefits (not a good idea) or sign up through the Washington Healthcare Exchange. I’m mortified that I need to use a government-sponsored program, but what choice do I have?

Republican beliefs I’m sure my mother’s privilege friend is in favor of repealing what she’d term “Obamacare.”

One of the quotes she sent said President Obama’s presidency [could be] summarized in a chapter… fitting on one page… as a single paragraph… holding just one simple sentence… which would be abridged.” If Obama’s accomplishment from improving the economy to reducing unemployment, increasing energy production and efficiencies, reforming healthcare, expanded anti-discrimination laws, increasing access to student loans, and remaining calm and reasonable in light of outrageous occurrences in American and around the world, than I can only imagine what would be written about Republicans in Congress.

Words that come to mind are inflexible, unpatriotic (i.e. involved in activities that harm your country), deceitful, and intolerant.

I’m hard pressed to think of anything positive ANY Republicans have done to help anyone who wasn’t in the top 1% or a corporation. They’re adamant about outlawing abortion, but unwilling to support programs for low-income children that provide access to food, housing, healthcare, and equal opportunities. They’re vigilant about gun ownership, failing to recognize the horrendous shooting that flood the news. They rant about taxes yet ignore the fact that millionaires pay less taxes than factory workers. And many corporations avoid paying any taxes while enjoying record earnings, and paying their executives, thousand-fold more than the people doing the work.

A quote I found succinctly pointed out Republicans define democracy as allowing billionaires to spend unlimited sums to buy elections, implement voter suppression tactics against seniors, young people, low income citizens, and people of color, and gerrymander voting districts.

According to Senator Bernie Sanders (I-Vt.), “At a time when 1 out of 4 corporations pays NOTHING in federal income tax, in a given year, and when many working people pay a higher federal tax rate than billionaire hedge fund managers, it is time for REAL tax reform. The wealthy and powerful must begin paying their fair share of taxes.”

Making the rounds on Facebook this week, Senator Sanders continued, “Here’s what income and wealth inequity is about. Last year, the top 25 hedge fund managers made more than 24 billion, enough to pay the salaries of 425,000 public school teachers. This level of inequity is neither moral nor sustainable.”

It’s inconceivable that Republicans can be so critical of President Obama and the democratic policies, yet so forgiving of eight years of the Village Idiot who not only burned through the budget surplus left over from President Clinton, but bankrupted the US Treasury, creating the largest annual national deficit in US history. Two million Americans lost their jobs during his first year in office. Personal bankruptcies soared, there were record home foreclosures, a massive drop in the US stock market, and we entered two groundless wars. While people perceive the Village Idiot was fiscally conservative, he increased the national debt by 115% versus 37% by President Clinton, and 16% by President Obama.

Yet, my mother’s friend found it necessary to share a Photoshopped picture of an African American girl handing money to President Obama who is holding a bag labeled “Deficit,” with a caption that reads, “Are you sure that’s your fair share?”

Other cartoons she sent are about President Obama going on vacation while the Middle East is in turmoil. Unless you’re a Republican, I doubt you’d see anything wrong with the infrequent vacations President Obama has taken to spend time with his young daughters and wife.

After all, Congress has been on vacation since the end of July, and is expected to work a handful of weeks between September and the end of the year.

In the eight years he was in office, the Village Idiot took 149 trips to Camp David, 77 visits to his Crawford ranch, and 11 trips to his father’s Kennebunkport mansion. That’s an average of 30 trips per year, at tax payers’ expense on Air Force One. Each trip to his Texas ranch cost over a quarter million dollars.

My mother’s friend lives in Reno, Nevada, where 20% (3% above the state average) of the people have incomes below the poverty level, which is $11,490 for a single person, and $23,550 for a family of four. The Nevada minimum wage is $8.25 per hour, which works out to a little over $17,160 per year if you work 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, taking off no time for holidays, doctor visits or mishaps like lack of transportation, sick family members, or having to attend to personal business like voting (unless you live in a gerrymandered district where your liberal votes don’t count).

I wonder how much my mother’s friend contributors to her local community? Does she realize the poverty that exists when she shops at her community, buys a hamburger from a middle-aged woman working at a fast food restaurant, complains about the condition of her upscale hotel room cleaned by underpaid cleaning staff, and loses patience with the kid pumping gas who couldn’t possible earn enough to pay his way through college and earn an engineering degree like her husband did in the 1950’s?

This discussion bring me to another theme, which ran through the collection of cartoons she shared, that of children from Honduras and other Central American countries making the dangerous trek to America, in hope of a better life.

The observation she shared, titled “Some food for thought,” provided an analogy about “3 year old to 8 year old” children walking from Houston to Minneapolis by themselves with no food or “belongs” to sustain them. The analogy continues, babbling (in 6th grade English) about avoiding towns and cities, having no maps or “sun protection,” and how the whole truth isn’t being shared. Concludes the missive, “Someone created and assisted this, and the media should be figuring out who it is.”

First, young children aren’t making the journey themselves. They travel in groups, usually at night, often with the assistance of smugglers. They don’t walk the entire way, they ride on top of trains, take buses, and maybe even hitch rides in cars. It can take months to arrive at the border. Many perish, get injured or are victimized.

Putting the journey aside, consider how desperate the parents of these children must be to sell everything they have, and trust them with shady smugglers with the hope, they’ll make it to America, and miraculously be allowed to stay.

No doubt, if my mother’s friend and her family lived in Honduras, with the world’s highest murder rate, coupled with rampant gang violence, and dire poverty, she’d do whatever was necessary to get her twin grandson’s to a safe haven, even if it meant selling everything she had, and making the gut-wrenching decision to send them on a dangerous journey. Maybe then, she’ll understand there’s no humor in poverty, corporations outsourcing jobs, protections for the rich, and the rapid disintegration of the American middle class.

Invocation #35: Justice

18 Monday Aug 2014

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It is commanded: Justice shalt thou pursue.

A worthy admonition, yet it is not enough to merely pursue; we must act and judge with justice. We must administer justice fairly, evenhandedly, and without bias.

For if we cannot extend equal justice to all, we cannot be assured of justice for ourselves.

Nor can the scales be reset for each one, pressing a thumb too heavily, or tilting the balance too favorably.

It is said Justice holds the scales, eyes blindfolded, lest she be accused of a blink, but O Lord, in our pursuit of justice for all, we must keep our eyes wide-open, and untarnished with self-interest or prejudice.

If justice we seek, justice we must ensure.

I initially read this invocation during the recent Supreme Court Hobby Lobby lopsided debacle, which is actually not as horrendous as the Court declaring corporations are people. When a corporation can audibly fart, I’ll believe it has the same rights as an unborn embryo, but certainly not as many as those of a Honduran or Salvadorian orphan who’s slipped across the US border, hoping to escape rampant violence and tyranny.

The point being, justice has become a travesty in America. Its definition twisted, depending on the political or religious slant-of-the-day. Forget the amusing analogy of Lady Justice pressing her thumb a bit too hard or blinking. What’s happening is frightening.

A fetus that can’t survive outside the womb shouldn’t have more rights than a pregnant woman who got that way because of incest or rape. And a teenager who’s seen his family and friends indiscriminately shot, shouldn’t be sent back to the same place after they’ve miraculously made the journey to America.

Corporations? Maybe they’re human. After all, they exhibit the human traits of greed, selfishness, and arrogance, distilling their efforts on making money for executives and stockholders rather than funneling earnings back onto their infrastructures: rewarding and motivating employees, strengthening their physical and virtual infrastructures, conducting research and development that supports and extends beyond their endeavors, and investing in their communities and environment.

While the definition of a corporation is a group of persons united or regarded as united in one body, they’re more akin to expecting the many to benefit the few. Case in point, Adecco has 31,500 full-time employees whose salaries is gleaned from the mark-up on the hourly rate of 650,000 associates in temporary positions. In 2013, 91% of Adecco’s revenues came from temporary workers.

In the United States, Adecco realizes excellent earnings by offering associates few benefits, including “preventive” rather than full healthcare coverage, no paid time off (sick time, vacation or holidays), and fluffy words like “Better work. Better life,” which does little to pay the bills.

For the first half of the 2014, Adecco revenues increased 2%, 5% in constant currency. Their gross profits were up 4% or 8% in constant currency, owing to a gross margin of 18.4%. To reduce costs in North America, they restructured, reducing full-time head count, branch optimization (i.e. fewer people, doing more work), and moving to a single headquarters.

While Adecco associates in America are forced to do without healthcare insurance, and take national holiday off without pay, Patrick De Maeseneireb, the CEO of the company, earns 6,072,310 Swiss Franc or around $8,134,000 per year.

No doubt, Adecco has a platoon of lobbyist, manipulating politicians’ and governing entities to ensure they can write-off as much as possible and skirt having to offer benefits, unless required by law.

At one time, America set the bar for civil liberties, quality-of-life, ingenuity, and opportunity. The bar is slowly inching down, compromising justice and equity for all.

Invocation #34: Honor Thine Own

10 Thursday Jul 2014

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It is commanded: Honor thy father and thy mother.

Who attempts to deny or separate themselves from a mother or a father would be denying the reality of themselves and who they are.

We are not born out of thin air, and mist at the touch of a magic wand. We are born out of a miracle of creation, the mating of a man and a woman, a father and mother.

In all of time, and space, no other pairing except this mother and father could have created the unique being that we each are. Nor brought us out of the void of nothingness into a life and its living.

We are made of what they are: virtues and flaws. If we resent the flaws in them, stress the virtues in ourselves.

For the miracle of our birth we must pay heed to the dictum, honor thy father and mother, lest in cutting our self away from the source of our being, we become spiritual orphans.

This invocation is particularly germane with my having to place my mother in an assisted living center in early June, due to her progressive lack of mobility, and tendency to fall while getting out of bed. My decision was overdue, but wanting to avoid her wrath, Rich and I kept procrastinating until her caretakers (Visiting Angels) resolutely recommended we move her into a facility, which could offer 24-hour care.

Previously, she lived in our house in Mount Vernon, with twice-daily visits by Visiting Angels, who helped with dressing, cooking, laundry, cleaning, and chores, like feeding the cat, bringing in the newspaper, and changing the linens. On weekends, Rich and I took over, giving the Visiting Angels a break.

We’ve been deeply involved in my mother’s care for the past two years from setting up and overseeing care when she lived in Oregon to moving her to Washington, refurbishing her Oregon house, managing all aspect of her life (i.e. setting up services, paying bills, purchasing groceries, etc.), and most recently, moving her into a care center.

My brother, meanwhile, who lives in Oregon (and at one point, worked a few miles from his mother’s house), has done little more than visit her a few times in the past two years. While he’s offered lots of advice over the years, he’s done little to remediate issues.

When my mother lived in a two-story house, and kept falling, and complaining about the stairs, it was Rich and I who drove to Oregon to move her bedroom furniture, clothing, and personal items downstairs. My brother managed to show up for less than two hours to help, while Rich and I were there for days cleaning, doing home repairs, and purchasing items she needed.

My brother’s participation in moving my mother was to spend less than two hours helping load her furniture into a U-Haul. Rich and I spent the subsequent four months, driving to Oregon (over 3 hours each way), every other weekend (and sometimes every weekend) refurbishing her house so it could be leased.

A year earlier, I’d asked my brother to coordinate services with Visiting Angels. He did nothing. Finally, I made arrangements for an initial visit, which needed to be done during the workweek. My brother agreed to be there, but at the last moment, backed out. In the end, a woman who cleaned my mother’s house – and proved to be a great friend – worked with Visiting Angels.

Returning to my grandmother’s invocation, she wrote, “We are made of what they are: virtues and flaws. If we resent the flaws in them, stress the virtues in ourselves.” My mother has many flaws, the most pronounced is her narcissism. She’s always placed her needs and feelings above others. When my brother and I got sick, we’d be scolded for getting sick, and promptly sent to school to minimize the possibility of my mother also catching our illness.

Even though my mother stopped working when she was 28, and was widowed when 40, she felt housework, cooking, and gardening was my responsibility. She resented that I had homework, and saw nothing wrong with forbidding me from going out and being with friends. She argued my chores were more important, and since my projected future was to marry, have kids, and build a mother-in-law apartment, there wasn’t a need for me to do well in school.

Fearing my brother would turn into a “mama’s boy,” my mother sketched a different plan for him, ensuring he had time to be with friends, participate in Boy Scouts, and attend school events. His room was relocated to the far end of the house so he had his own bathroom, and privacy. While I was cooking, cleaning, and sewing or doing needlework at night (my mother felt these skills were more important than school work), my brother was in his room with the door closed, doing as he pleased. Ditto for the weekends. When he was done with his chores, his time was his own.

My time was rarely my own.

When my mother’s parents grew older, my mother would visit once a year, and then spend the next three months complaining how stressful it was to visit them. Towards the end of her parents’ lives, my mother refused to fly from Portland, Oregon to Burbank, California to see them. She didn’t go to their funerals or participate in helping close up their estate. Instead, she complained it was taking too long to get her inheritance.

Now that my mother’s life is drawing to a close, it’s easy to see why my brother’s participate has dwindled. He has the same flaws as his mother.

While I’m equally flawed, I’m proud to have the character and virtue to do what’s right, even though it’s been burdensome. I don’t honor my mother. I simply do what’s necessary and expected.

Movie Mud Startling for Unexpected Reason

27 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by in Health and wellness, Movies, News and politics

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A few days ago, Rich and I watched the movie Mud, featuring Matthew McConaughey and two young actors in a drama set in De Witt, Arkansas. Wanting to learn more about the town, and the actors, I want online.

Mud-Movie-Poster-Matthew-McConnaugheyOne actor, Jacob Lofland, grew up Briggsville, Arkansas, 180 miles northwest of DeWitt. Unincorporated, Briggsville, is located in Yell County, which had a population of 22,185 in 2010, and per capita income of $15,383, making nearly 12% of the family and 16% of the population below the poverty line.

Briggsville, and Yell Country, however, is flush compared to De Witt. The county seat for Arkansas County, De Witt had a population of 3,292 in 2010 with a per capita income of $3,408. That’s not a typo. The median income for a household was $2,545.

A quarter of De Witt residents live in poverty, including a third of kids, and nearly 22% of seniors (age 65 or older). Arkansas County is slightly better off than Yell with the per capital income being $16,401 and only 18% of the population, living below the poverty line.

This is America.

It’s not a fictional, award-winning movie or some imaginary place. It’s the despair, and generation-upon-generation of poverty that exists across America in towns and cities of all sizes.

According to the website Poverty USA, one in six Americans live in poverty. To put this statistic into perspective, the number of people living in poverty is around 46.2 million, equal to the combined population of Texas, New Mexico, Oklahoma, Kansas, Colorado, Arizona, Utah, Wyoming, Nevada, and Nebraska.

The organization’s interactive poverty map, shows Arkansas has an overall poverty rate of 19.8%. Mississippi, on the other hand, has the highest rate with 24.2% people living below the poverty line.

Think about it. One in four residents of Mississippi probably run out of money by the end of the month, even if they’re working full-time. Earning $7 per hour equates to $14,560 per year or just $1,213 per month, which needs to be stretched to cover housing, utilities, transportation, healthcare, childcare, clothing, household supplies, and food. Earning a dollar more per hour, equates to a paltry extra $173 per month.

Now imagine living on $3,408 per year like people do in De Witt.

Poverty in America isn’t something you can switch off when the movie ends. It’s the stark reality of what 50 years of self-interest economic and social policies have wrought.

Chicken Pot Pie Success

24 Tuesday Jun 2014

Posted by in Food and drink

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Before we married, one of Rich’s favorite dishes was a plate of rice with a Marie Callender chicken pot pie turned upside down, and plopped on top. For years, he’d slowly wheel past supermarket freezer cases, reminiscing about the “good old days” of heating up frozen pot pies, taquitos, breaded shrimp, and fish sticks.

Whenever we were apart, due to travel or attending events, Rich would sneak off and purchase his old standby, a Marie Callender pot pie.  Pot pieA few years ago, I decided to make a batch of mini chicken pot pies. While they looked lovely in pretty ramekins, they were a culinary failures. I had invited a friend over for lunch, proudly serving my pot pies. However, she found them tasteless with too much crust, and a mediocre filling, sadly missing salt.

While disappointed, I reconsidered my use of salt. Because my father had a heart attack when I was nine, and it was believed high blood pressure had led to his condition, I got used to cooking with little or no salt. In reality, his arteries narrowed with cholesterol.

Nevertheless, my tasteless chicken pot pies, coupled with Rich’s proclivity for hiding his food under a layer of fresh ground pepper, pushed the issue over the edge. I needed to start using salt!

Last week, with a bin full of vegetables, and time on my hands, I decided to give pot pies another try. Happily, it was a success, with Rich declared my pot pie every bit as good as those made by Marie Callender!

Since I don’t use recipes, here’s an approximation of what I did:

Filling

  • Red potatoes (don’t peel)
  • Walla Walla onion
  • Carrots
  • Celery
  • Frozen peas
  • Bouquet garni: sage, oregano, parsley, rosemary
  • 12.5 ounce can of chicken (or cooked chicken)
  • Rice or tapioca flour
  • Salt
  • Pepper
  • Worcestershire sauce

Cut the red potatoes and onion in chunks, and place in a pot along with the fresh herbs, salt, and pepper, and enough water to cover. Cook until the potatoes are slightly hard. Add chunks of carrots and celery, along with frozen peas, and enough water to cover. Cook a few minutes longer to soften, but retain the color of the vegetables.

Drain the vegetables in a colander, over a bowl to catch the broth. Remove the herbs.

Strain the broth back into the pot, and add the juice from the can of chicken. Bring to a boil. Mix rice or tapioca flour with enough water to make a slurry. Add to the boiling broth, stirring constantly to make a gravy. Taste, and adjust flavoring and color by adding Worcestershire sauce, salt, pepper, and finely ground herbs.

Gently simmer to cook the flour, and stabilize the consistency. If you want the gravy to be thicker, add a bit more flour (always blend with water beforehand, and slowly pour in, stirring constantly to avoid lumps). If the gravy is too thick, add a bit of water.

Crust

  • 1 cup of whole wheat flour
  • 1 cup of white flour
  • 1 cube of butter
  • Finely chopped fresh herbs
  • Salt

Make the crusts by combining the flours, chopped herbs and salt. Blend in the butter. Add a few tablespoons of water, and use a fork to blend. Continue adding tablespoons of water until the dough forms a ball. Place on a floured board and lightly kneaded.

Divide the dough in half, and roll-out to fit a deep-dish pie pan. Trim the dough so it doesn’t overhang the pan. Roll-out the rest of the dough, including the scrapes from the bottom crust.

Pour the cooled filling into the pie pan. Place the second dough over the top. Trim and press the edges of the two crusts together to seal. To ensure they’re sealed, flute the edges or use a fork to mash the two crust together.

Use a sharp knife to cut a few slits in the top. Place the pie on a foil-lined tray (to catch spills), and place in a 375◦ oven. Back for 30-45 minutes or until the gravy bubbles out of the slits on the top.

Training to Vancouver

04 Wednesday Jun 2014

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Memorial Day weekend, with my having to take two floating holidays before the end of June, and Rich starting a new job, we decided to take a quick trip to Vancouver, Canada.

Our journey started on Thursday at 5:30 a.m. with Egg McMuffins and coffee at McDonald’s. We then headed south to the Bellevue park-n-ride to a catch a bus to the Seattle King Street Amtrak station. After checking in, we chatted with a special education school teacher from East Los Angeles, who along with three other friends, were also taking the train to Vancouver for several days of “partying.” Although, I suspect they were more interested in sightseeing and getting away from the smog, heat, and traffic, given East L.A. is the most populous place in California with 16,973.5 people per square mile.

Our seats were on the west-facing side of car #8, just ahead of the baggage car. Even though we were running a bit late, we weren’t concerned because our expected arrival in Vancouver, was a little before noon, providing us with most of the day to enjoy the city.

Less than ten minutes out of the station, however, just past the Marriot Waterfront, the train came to a stop. The conductor announced there was a flat spot on the engine’s tires, which they wanted to check. A flat spot occurs when a wheel has been dragged along the rail after the wheel/axle has stopped rotating, the result of faulty brakes or bearings, or if the wheel locks up.

We crossed our fingers, as the minutes dragged on. Finally, they announced the bad news: The train needed to return to King Street for the mechanical crew to assess the issue. We then waited another 10 minutes until the train was cleared to back-up. Once back to station, we were allowed to get off the train, at which point, we chatted with one of the maintenance people who explained the wheels were in bad shape.

Within in minutes, we were told to get back on the train, which traveled south for a few miles until it got to a turn-around (wye). Since there was an engine on the back of the train, this engine would be used for pulling the train with the bad-wheeled-engine tagging-along at the end. Car #1, which was initially in front of the train, was now at the back.

As we approached King Street, the train slowed and a maintenance man got on. He then walked through each car, flipping the seats so they facing forward. Unfortunately, our seats, which were on the left side of the train, ended up on the right. The left is preferable because it enables you to see out to the west and the Puget Sound.

Nevertheless, we were happy to be finally heading to Vancouver, over an hour late.

Train Travel Ain’t Speedy

Let me preface by saying, “I love taking the train.” It’s relaxing, stress-free, comfortable and scenic. Regrettably it’s not particularly fast. While in some sections, it zips along at a healthy pace – around 70 miles per hour – in others, it barely chugs along at 10 miles per hour. The curvy track in Washington, and especially Canada, coupled with rickety bridges, and waits for freight trains turns what would be a three hour trip by car into four hours by train. Or in our case six hours!

View King Street Station

King Street Station, Seattle

Plus, once you arrive in Vancouver, they initially unload all of the luggage, and then allow passengers to leave, starting with car #1. With us in car #8, we were the last to depart… and subsequently line up to go through customs. By the time, we hit the streets, it was nearly 3 o’clock! Fortunately, we’d packed food to eat on the train so our hunger was satiated with hard boiled eggs, scones, an orange, an apple, and trail mix.

Cranky and tired of sitting, I demanding we walk to the hotel, rather than figure out the bus system. We’d packed our clothes in a backpack (Rich) and messenger bag (Julie), so we just needed to start walking. Of course, what felt somewhat light after getting off the train, became progressively heavier with each step. Happily, the weather was splendid, the sites fabulous, and our determination energized by Starbuck’s frappuccinos.

Vancouver is known as the City of Glass with blocks of glass skyscrapers, divided into offices, condos, and apartments with birds eye views of English Bay, Coal Harbour, False Creek, and the Burrard Inlet. The fourth most densely populated city in North America – behind New York City, San Francisco, and Mexico City – Vancouver is masterpiece of efficiency. High-speed trains along with buses, and ferries whisk residents to-and-from work. Wide sidewalks make it pleasant to walk to whatever you need from up-scale, name-brand boutiques to restaurants, mini and suburb-sized grocery stores, barber shops and salons, PC repair, book stores, pet supplies, libraries, museums, performing art centers, shopping malls, hospitals and medical and dental clinics, florists, parks, marinas, and much more.

View Vancouver

Vancouver, B.C.

For more than a decade, Vancouver has been ranked as one of the most livable cities in the world, with the fourth highest quality of living of any city on Earth. On the downside, it’s Canada’s most expensive city to live in with the second highest overpriced real estate in North America. A 400-square foot condo in downtown starts in the mid $200,000. Near the Expo, a sign for high-rise under construction touted 1-bedroom condos, starting at $350,000. Check out some of the condos on Vancouver Condo.

Real estate is so loony in downtown Vancouver that if you can’t afford a condo, you can invest in a hotel room, and stay there for up to 30-days per year. That’s right for $168,000, you can purchase a 226-square foot room in the Marriott Pinnacle Hotel, and stay in the room for free for up to 30 days per year.

Room in the Sky

The walk from the Amtrak station to our hotel, the Empire Landmark was just 2 miles. Along with way, we passed many of the buildings, which were constructed in 1986 for the world fair held in Vancouver. Called Expo ’86, the fair featured pavilions from 54 nations and corporations, and was opened by Charles and Diana, Prince and Princess of Wales.

Both Rich and I went to the fair. At the time, Rich went with his girlfriend, mother, children, and nephew. I went with my mother. The only exhibit I remember from the fair was “Highway 86: The Middle of the Road.”

Making our way around False Creek, we walked by Science World, Plaza of Nations, and BC Place Stadium, all built for the fair. We then headed to Yaletown, where several high-rises were under construction. We stopped briefly at the Starbuck’s by the Microsoft Vancouver Development Center for frappuccinos before walking west on Robson Street to the Empire Landmark Hotel.

Robson Street is one of the key shopping zones with every imaginable store and restaurant from Aldo Shoes and Armandi to BCBG Maxazria, French Connection (which sported a sign that read “FCUK,” the abbreviation for French Connection United Kingdom), Gap, Foot Locker, Guess, J Crew, Lululemon, Sunglass Hut, and Tommy Hilfiger. And because Vancouver is a very diverse city, there is a plethora of Chinese, Japanese, Malaysian, Indian, Korean, Mexican, French, and African restaurants… along with bakeries, coffee shops, and juice bars. With blocks of high-rise apartments, condos, and businesses, every eating establishment was full.

View Empire Landmark

Empire Landmark Hotel

By the time we got to the Empire Landmark, I was super tired and cranky. Rich had made the reservation online as part of an Amtrak special. However, the offer was for a room with two twin bed, and it took several calls to the hotel to ask them to place us in a room with at least a queen-sized bed.

Needless to say, I was convinced our room would be on the 2nd floor of the 42-story hotel, with a view of an alley or next to the ice machine. I felt a bit more confident after chatting with Rachel, the desk clerk, who took a genuine interest in making our mini vacation a memorable experience. I could contain my glee when she announced our room was on the 18th floor. Surely, we’d have a view of something!

We took the elevator up, dashed around the corner, and inserted the key, and then in concert exclaimed “Wow!” Outside the sliding glass door was a VIEW! From the balcony, we had a 180-degree view, and were able to see Burrad Inlet, Stanley Park, English Bay, and everything in-between. We spent 15 minutes taking pictures from every angle.

While small, the room was charming, clean, and cozy with delicate white furniture, pretty sheets, and a lovely bathroom with chamomile shampoo, ginseng body lotion, birch leaves bath gel, comfrey soap, and fluffy ivory towels.

We couldn’t be happier!

Vancouver at Night

Refreshed after dropping off our bags and sitting for a few minutes, we set out for Stanley Park, which is 1,001 acres, encompassing miles of walking trails, swimming pools, aquarium, gardens, miniature railroad, outdoor theater, and monuments.

We started walking near the rhododendron garden, which was spectacular, and ended up by the seawall, which was crowded with walkers, runners, bikers, and in-line skaters. There are many establishments near the park where you can rent bikes by the hour. Many of the bikes we saw, I suspect were rented since they were stripped-down for leisurely riding.

Hungry after our walk, we sought out an ethnic restaurant. Rich choose a small “dive,” which offered freshly made saimin, similar to what he used to eat in Hawaii. He chose a soup with a miso broth, fish ball, slices of lean pork, boiled egg, noodles, bean sprouts, and green onions. Mine was similar, but made with a pork broth.

Our bellies full and feet refreshed, we set out for the Heritage District and Canada Place, which was originally built for Expo ’86. Resembling a large ship with fabric sails, it’s the main cruise ship terminal for the region. This is a great picture of what it looks like from above.

We wandered around, admiring the water and high-rises, absorbing the Zen of the city, and seeking out a place for a decadent dessert. With no bakeries along our path, we settled for A&W root beer floats. There are numerous A&W’s in Canada, but relatively few in America. Although, in America, they put soft-serve ice cream in their floats. In Vancouver, they dropped in an ice cream pellet, and added root beer. A bit strange, but tasty.

At any rate, our perception there’s an A&W on every corner was confirmed when I looked up on the internet there’s eight A&Ws from Tacoma to Everett, and seven just in downtown Vancouver, and at least another twenty in the neighboring suburbs. Canadians are obviously fans of A&W’s All American Food from hamburgers to hotdogs, chicken strips, and of course, root beer.

After a quick stop at Safeway for fruit, hard boiled eggs, and drinks for the following day, we then hobbled back to our room at 9:30 p.m., feet sore, but soul satisfied.

SkyTrain Around Vancouver

On Thursday evening, we’d plan to rent bikes to tour around the rest of Stanley Park, but the clear night turned into a rainy morning. Fortunately, Rich had grabbed a TransLink brochure, and talked to a street performer – in the transit center – who said we should ride the SkyTrains instead of renting bikes.

We awoke early Friday morning – after staying up late to admire the city from our balcony – and enjoyed a hearty breakfast in our motel room (food we brought or bought the night before), before pulling on our rain parkas, lobbed our bags over our shoulders, and heading to the nearest transit station to purchase all-day passes.

The driverless, automated SkyTrains run continuously, with no more than a 10 minute wait between trains. They’re clean, quiet, and highly efficiently. We enjoyed riding them for several hours to New Westminster, Richmond, and King George, watching commuters, college kids, and shoppers, easily hopping on-and-off, and seeing the many new shopping centers and high-rises being built near the SkyTrain stations.

At the Richmond station is the River Rock Casino Resort, consisting of a casino, two hotels, conference center, several restaurants, and theater for live performances. Upcoming performers include Martin Short, Justin Hayward (Moody Blues), Earth, Wind & Fire, Engelbert Humperdinck, Herman’s Hermits, and Boz Scoggs.

We had a sandwich bag full of Canadian coins, which we decided to spend in the casino, but when Rich went to turn it the coins in for script, they gave him a $5 Canadian bill, which is super cool with a plastic strip that has a cathedral and man, printed on it with iridescent ink. The bill is also embossed area. It was so pretty, I couldn’t bear to put it in a slot machine.

The pit boss, who figured out we were dumb-cluck Americans who were more interested in swooning over a $5 bill than spending it, explained all Canadian bills are color-coded, and equally ornate. Here’s the $20, $50, and $100 bills.

Bad Planning Lead to Disappointment

We’d planned on having dim sum for lunch in Chinatown, but with it only being 11 o’clock when we got back to downtown Vancouver. Instead, we opted to take a bus to the University of British Columbia (UBC). It was a regrettable mistake. Not only was the bus infuriatingly slow because of the traffic, and numerous stops, but we wasted time wandering around the campus, looking for totem poles I recalled seeing decades ago when I visited the museum with my mother.

The campus is ginormous, and we headed for “Totem Park,” when we should have gone to Museum of Anthropology at UBC. If we’d made it to the museum, we could have seen the totem poles by looking in the windows of the Great Hall! Plus, we would have seen the outdoor exhibits.

Instead, we trudged along, carrying our respective backpack/messenger bag, growling at each other, and getting more famished and thirsty, having only eaten an apple since breakfast. Frustrated, we traipsed back to the bus stop. Studying the map, we realized we could get off at the bus, and catch a SkyTrain to Chinatown. However, Rich got a phone call in the middle of transitioning to the SkyTrain, and followed the crowds up an escalator to an upscale department store… but the escalator was broken going down so we toured the floor several times before we found the elevators down…

Could it get worse?

Yes! Because it was nearly 2 o’clock, we didn’t think there’d be a good selection of dim sum at the restaurant we’ve eaten at previously. Instead, we chose Jade Dynasty, which advertised dim sum all day. It was the WORST dim sum we’ve ever had. Frozen dim sum from a convenience store would have been better! And it cost $23 for two cups of tea, and four selection of ghastly dim sum.

Even more disappointing, because we had to be at the bus station by 4:30, we didn’t have time to take a water taxi to Granville Island.

We did, however, stop in a Chinese bakery, and get three yummies for $5: a coconut tart, piece of Black Forest cake, and piece of mocha cake. Chinese bakeries have the most amazing pastries, buns, cakes, and other delicacies, at ridiculously low prices. Here is an example of what you might find in one of these bakeries.

With our mini vacation drawing to a close, we walked to the train station, and waited to check-in. We were amazing when we got the identical seats going back to Seattle, as we had coming, car #8, seats 11 and 12. This time, we were on the right side of the car to see the Puget Sound.

The rainy morning had turned into a sunny afternoon, and spectacular evening, making for a wonderful trip home. As we approached White Rock, British Columbia, we looked out over the ocean, and counted half a dozen blue heron… and then another cluster of blue herons… and two bald eagles on a rock… and more blue heron. The birds were obviously taking advantage of the low tide to hunt for fish before the sun set for the evening.

As we crossed into the United States, we saw a coyote in the marshes, and more blue heron and predatory birds. Because it’s nearing summer solstice, it stayed light for most of the trip.

Near Seattle, the conductor announced the Mariner’s game had just let out. Our first thought was “We’re never going to get on a bus.” As soon as we got off the train, we sprinted to the bus stop. Happily, there were few people waiting, which soon grew to a crowd. The bus, which finally arrived, was already full.

We pushed our way onto the bus, head to the back, and grabbed a handrail for the 20-minute trip to Bellevue. In spite of the conditions, people were gracious, striking up conversations, having come from the Mariner game or Northwest Folklife Festival.

Our 48-hour escape to Vancouver was a nice respite from our workaday lives, and the challenges we faced in the coming week.

Invocation #33: Tantrum

26 Monday May 2014

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The child rolls on the floor, fists pounding, legs kicking, big tears flooding down it’s checks, each new cry demanding that it be denied no longer. It wants what it wants. And right now.

We adults, of course, can’t indulge in such tantrums. We can’t throw ourselves on the floor, kicking and screaming. But, there are other ways to be bratty. Ways subtle and not so subtle.

We can pressure, and threaten, and coerce, even steal. Because we too want what we want when we want it. We too, resent being denied.

Then, sometimes, like the child, when we finally get what we were yelling for, we find we really didn’t want it after all. All we wanted was to assert our authority.

Or we disappointed. It wasn’t what we thought it would be. We had deluded ourselves.

O’Lord, teach us that we cannot get everything we want, and what we want is not always best for us. Make use see that difference between acquiring on our own, and the injustice of making demands on others for our own self-gratification.

O’ Lord, let the child in us outgrow its tantrums.

While grown people typically don’t engage in tantrums, laying on the floor, kicking and screaming, I think many people don’t outgrow the behavior they exhibited as children from timidity to bullying.

While my grandmother interpreted some people as asserting their authority to get what they want, even if they later discover it wasn’t what they coveted, I believe these people never had the self-control necessary to quiet their need to constantly get what they want. As babies, they were pampered, getting their way. In kindergarten, they were the ones grabbing other’s toys, and as they grew, they were the bullies, and overbearing teens who trounced on others.

In adulthood, they became entrepreneurs, top sales people, athletes, and promoters who are determined to “win” at all costs. Their tantrums evolved into tirades, intimidating and over-powering co-workers. They are the ones who always need the last word, the most praise, and the perceived, most prestigious positions. They trounce on others to cover up for their deficiencies and slipups.

Hoping these people realize there’s a difference between acquiring on their own, and the injustice of making demands on others for their own self-gratification is naïve. There are stark disparities in how baby boomers, Generation X, and Millennials or Generation Y, see the world. The latter have been shown to have an elevated sense of entitlement and narcissism, having been raised with technology an arms-reach away.

There’s no need to wait or be tolerant when answers are a click-away through a search engine verses wading through a book or encyclopedia. Photos instantaneous instead of waiting for film to be developed. Communication as quick as putting a cell phone to your ear, typing a few sentences (or characters), and clicking “send.” Since childhood, they’ve be entertained and coddled with access to programming that makes learning and passing the time fun and easy. Should they do poorly, they’re told “It’s okay. Everyone’s a winner.”

What’s to be done? There’s nothing to be done, but to realize and acceptance some people will never outgrow their tantrums, and will pin anything that goes wrong, impedes their quest to get ahead, or acquire what they want on the unfortunately people who cross their paths. For them, self-gratification is a higher calling than collaboration and working towards a common cause or attainment.

Invocation #32: A Misdirected Stare

12 Monday May 2014

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Some years ago at the supermarket, I was pushing a cart down the aisle. Up the aisle, with a child in her cart, came this pretty-faced, broad-bodied mu-mu-gowned lady.

Not until she drew alongside me, and her words heavy with sarcasm fell on my ears, “Did you have a good look? Did you see enough?’ Did I realize I’d been starting at her?

Stunned with embarrassment, I stood stock-still. She walked on, and even when she turned the corner, I could hear her voice angrily protesting to her companions about ill-mannered, oafs like me.

Coming to, I wanted to run after her, explaining that I wasn’t looking at her, but at the yoke of her dress. By coincidence I was making a dress similar to hers, and having trouble setting in the yoke. And that’s where my eyes were fastened, to see how the yoke of her dress was set.

I should have gone after her. I didn’t. My spirit wanted to, but my feet were rooted.

My explanation might not have made her feel better, but I would have one less regret to carry around on my conscience.

O Lord, all these little regrets. They lie asleep then suddenly awaken to prick our memory with the sting of a needle. And we must relive what we want to forget. Perhaps, they are meant to serve as reminders to be mindful of our manners.

As you age, and experience life, interacting with people socially and at work, the more regrettable memories accumulate. And while there’s a desire for a mental cleanser to erase them, there’s no cleanser, unless you’re devoid of scruples.

The worse regrettable moments are tied to sharp words, directed at a spouse, friend, or neighbor. It can be as an unintentional the slip-of-the-tongue when you point out something that’s troubling to the individual such as their weight, occupation, social status, or origin. Or it could be a well-craft barrage of words, designed to inflict emotional pain.

In either case, they’re awkward to take back, and can be difficult to recover from as the pile of insults, innuendoes, and barbs pile up.

My grandmother regards these “pricks of memory” as a reminder to be mindful of one’s manners. However, technology has resulted in a decline in manners. The niceties of truly talking to someone is now a call-on-the-run, a terse instant message, or hastily written email. One’s attention is reduced to sound bites, interrupted by buzzing phones, and dinging devices. No one is rude because almost everyone is preoccupied – getting updates, snapping selfies, responding to texts, checking an email, watching flicks, playing game or making calls or listening to what’s being piped into their ears via Bluetooth or earbuds.

Attention spans and courtesies have fallen off the ends of bell curves, becoming seemingly non-existent. As a result, if my grandmother would have spied the “broad-bodied mu-mu-gowned lady” today, she probably would have pulled out her smart phone, and brazenly snapped a picture of the women’s dress. She may have even posted it to Pinterest or maybe her Facebook page, commenting she was sewing a similar outfit.

Dwindling Wages Hard to Ignore

26 Saturday Apr 2014

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Thirteen years ago, I was a contractor for a large company in Hillsboro, Oregon. I had a cool job overseeing the architecture, and developing the content for a consumer-facing website. I also wrote a monthly newsletter and customer stories.

When it came time to renew my contract, I was told I was overpaid, and my contract would be renewed at a lower rate. It was a moot point because a week after my contract ended, I moved to Texas.

I always wondered what I’d done the 12 months prior to reduce my worth. Certainly, I knew a heck of a lot more than when I first walked in the door, and struggled to write two coherent sentence about the company’s products, let alone understand the ins-and-outs of their editorial and design standards.

Ten years later, I was hired for another contract role. This time with a Washington company. Along with overseeing their website (ranging from creating the content and architecture to managing the web developers), I was responsible for writing and overseeing their customer-facing blog, social media, creating sales materials, and collaborating with their public relations firm. And when they launched products, I was expected to be awake at 5 a.m. to ensure the updated web content, blog and social media posts went live within minutes of each other.

For this honor, I was paid $1.75 less per hour then I’d earned a decade earlier.

Flat wages? Higher expectations? Longer hours? Affirmative.

Nevertheless, I’m not complaining. Today, I earn $3 more per hour than thirteen years ago, and I have great benefits, work for a top agency, and do highly creative, fulfilling work. I feel lucky given the challenge of finding gainful employment in a marketplace where subjective factors carry a higher value than experience and accomplishments.

What’s got me “hot under the collar” is an email I received this morning. A local temporary agency was seeking people to ask survey questions over the phone in both Spanish and English. They pay $10.10 per hour, and expect candidates to work Monday through Friday 2 pm to 9 pm, and either Saturday or Sunday from 10 am to 6 pm for a total of 43 hours per week. The extra 3 hours per week equates to working nearly an extra month of work per year.

The pay for working 6 days a week is $434.30, less than $1,740 per month. The company graciously offers major medical, based on your gender and age. As an example, if you’re a 30 year old female, you pay $105.53 per month ($6.10 more than a 30 year old male) with a $2,500 deductible. Over the course of a year, you would be paying nearly 6% of your salary in medical premiums, along with the cost of your doctor visits, tests, prescriptions, and medical procedures up to $2,500.

After paying your monthly medical premium, you’d be left with $1,635.67 for housing, utilities, transportation, food, clothing, additional insurance (such as life and dental), and other expenses. You’d probably be stretched thin if you also had to support a family and pay child care.

Also in my email was a news feed with a link to an article in the Washington Post about the amount of money one would need to earn per hour, working a 40-hour week, 52-weeks per year, to afford a decent one-bedroom apartment.

The interactive map by US counties shows you need to earn $17.56 per hour or around $36,525 per year to afford a decent one-bedroom apartment in King County. That’s $13,942 more than the $10.10 job listed above

If you go south to Pierce County, you need $14.75 per hour. Better, but you’d still be short $8,096 a year for a “decent one-bedroom apartment.”

Income inequity People in Washington are better off than other parts of the nation, where the minimum wage is $7.25 per hour or around $15,080 if you worked 40 hours a week, 52-weeks a year. The minimum wage in Washington is $9.32 or $19,385 per year. The job advertised above, with earning 78₵ more per hour, and working 3 hours more week, nets an additional $1,623.

The inequities in pay across the United States are now getting front page coverage. The chart above from the U.S. Census Bureau clearly shows the unmistakable decline in income for the bottom 60% earnings flat for the next income bracket (pale blue).

It’s discouraging when job security is unpredictable, and the prospect of finding a good job diminishes with age.

Invocation #31: Touch Me Not

19 Saturday Apr 2014

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The words are meant simply as a mild rebuke for something the other had thoughtlessly done.

The tone was low-keyed. The manner polite. The intent friendly.

The other bristled and took offense. The retort came out angry.

So began an exchange of recriminations.

Friends are friends no more.

O Lord, why do people have to be so sensitive!

My grandmother was a copious writer. Recently, I found a notebook, which I thought was a collection of miscellaneous observations, but further reading revealed it was a diary from 1948. She’d typed pages of everyday occurrences and observations from the oppressive summer heat in her Burbank, California home to deep philosophical ruminations about world events.

She also wrote about family strife. Her husband, Morris, had seven eccentric sisters whose lives overshadowed the happenings occurring between my grandmother’s three sisters and three brothers. The latter lives, in contrast, were dull.

While the event my grandmother wrote about in the invocation above probably had nothing to do with her immediate family, it illustrates the perpetual drama, which became a part of her life, following her marriage. With seven artistic, energetic sisters-in-law, each trying to success in a world where making an impact requires more than determination, there were continual marriages, divorces, births, jobs losses and successes, housing changes, and bickering among each other and in-laws. Contributing to the discord was a generous helping of mental illness, ranging from narcissism to nymphomania and schizophrenia.