Susan's Scribblings the Blog

My home life is a sort of solitary confinement, since I have no regular visitors, so my mental stimulation and social exposure both come from going out to public places like the mall. Also, after breaking a 45-day television limited period, my news was coming from my computer via trusted sites and social media.

Never have I been more depressed about the condition our country is in.

While I was in a store finishing my purchases, the woman behind the counter chatted with me about general things, and somehow the subject was brought up of a student suicide attempt where she is on the faculty. The student in question was suspected of having a mixed home life (with a possible dishonorable parent present). She apparently downed a handful of over-the-counter pills in the restroom, then called 911 on herself and sat in the main lobby waiting for the paramedics to arrive, not even alerting the main office staff. The subject of bullying came up, because I told her how I felt about the issue. Earlier this year, a student in a school system not far from mine died by suicide to rid herself of the constant bullying she was experiencing. The woman at the counter told me that nothing was ever done to bullies, because detention or other attempts to call attention to bad behavior hurts their feelings.

So bullying is not only okay in schools, but the system is discouraging punishment for it.

As I was leaving the store (a women’s clothier), a young lad of about three years old was being driven through the mall in a kid-friendly push cart by his father. The kid was raising the retractable parent handle out of its holder and banging it down repetitively, with the wild-eyed look of overstimulation on his face. Other shoppers were trying valiantly to glance away and ignore the commotion, but having just been mentally blown away by the status of school-age behavior, I was in a bad mood.

Mind you, I never had the privilege of being around children, but I know enough about parenting techniques which are tested and proven that I just went for it. The father was looking at me sheepishly as I regarded the young man and said, “My goodness! What happens when it’s broken and you can’t play with it anymore?” This did give the tyke pause. The dad said, “Move on to the next thing to break.” I laughed good-naturedly, smiled at the poor dad and then continued speaking to the kid. “Do you know what’s better? Building things! Building things is great. You can make whatever you want, and then break it and start over.” I then extended my apologies to the dad, who didn’t seem put out by my presence, and I left the store feeling like the Lil’ Abner character Joe with the unpronounceable last name who had a perpetual cloud over his head.

I was three for three: the dinner I had before entering the store–two slices of mushroom pizza–was as cardboard-like as I had anticipated, and things got worse from there.

A woman with a rented retail cart approached me and wanted to use one of her straightening gizmos on my hair. Those demo model flat irons have been used on too many other people’s heads for my comfort. I had to back away like a scared cat and make a run for it. Working for commission or getting people’s attention for a start-up can cause desperation to sink in, but for goodness sake, don’t abduct people.

Back at home, I watched a few videos, and was disgusted to find that a college student thought that San Francisco was not in California, that another thought she and her significant other both needed to take her birth control pills (thus using up a 28-day supply in 14 days), and the reason a third pound burger lost its popularity on a restaurant’s menu was because people thought a quarter pound was more meat.

Then I was brought into a courtroom video featuring a sovereign citizen. This is loosely defined as a person who apparently likes living in the US because they can decide to reject government and invoke their own individual anarchistic method of living, in which they need not be held accountable for obtaining proper identification or obeying common safety-oriented laws. This means they have no license, their vehicles have no plates, and if they are arrested for suspicion of an offense, they simply say they won’t accept judgment nor the persons invoking it. That endlessly horrendous piece of time in my life I would not get back definitely beat out the folks on the docket who claimed Jesus to be their lawyer or represented (yawn) themselves in court (and often lost). Next was a woman who said she needed to breathe, so refused to cover her nose and mouth like the hundred or more passengers–who, obviously, were breathing just fine–and enjoyed the chaos she created until she was escorted off the flight.

This is the current generation, developed over two to three decades of inattention, misinformation and gross neglect.

If I didn’t benefit from the walking and conversation, I would opt for the quiet of staying home with the computer and TV off. Better silence than all of this.

In my lifetime I have seen only two monarchs rule Great Britain, yet there have been thirteen Presidents of the United States since my birth. Imagine that. Britain had one queen for a long time, and now it has yet another king. Thirteen people (out of the 46 we’ve had in our history) took on the most important job in our country, and served for a few years each. This may support the idea that some people do have a job for life. That seems to be a passing concept these days, and not one we prefer.

The late Queen Elizabeth II devoted her entire life to the service of her country. She was born royal, she took on the great responsibility of being the monarch and retained that duty to her last breath. Not that one or two four-year terms of a president makes them any less devoted, but for the men who have served our nation, there have been times before and after that service in which they were ordinary people. Monarchs don’t do that.

We in the “colonies” are in a social system in which we like to switch people around. When election time comes, we don’t always let the last official stay in office, which sometimes means we fluctuate between one system of government and another every few years. Sometimes we find a huge population of our citizens feeling either contentedly stuck in the system they like, or mired in the wrong system for those few years.

The monarchy, however, stands strong with their people ready for record-holding periods of rule, and the citizens don’t seem to mind. The proof is that Elizabeth II had the longest reign ever (over 70 years) and Victoria placed second with 63 years on the throne (two kings came in next in the 50-year-plus category). We had one president (Franklin Roosevelt) who served three terms because it was available to be done, and another (William Henry Harrison) lasted a month.

The back-and-forth two-party government has been difficult and increasing polarizing lately, yet watching the coronation of the new rulers across the pond brings some hope that, whether one is born to duty or elected to it, we can handle change and thrive in it regardless of how it happens.

Who knows what will happen in the years to come?

Some places in America received too much winter weather. In California, the record-breaking total was over 56 feet of snow. That’s about the height of a half dozen or more average persons standing on each other’s shoulders. In the Sierra Nevada region, they experienced the second biggest snow totals ever (the first occurring in 1952). The snowpack determines the future of water resources, and the resulting melt will likely refill long-dried-out aquifers and remove much of the drought damage from the past several years.

In some places, the sight of rain is still the object of disdain. The past two days we’ve had rain on the East Coast, and one would think the cars had stopped working. Streets are nearly empty, and the only people who begrudgingly go out are the parents who pick up their children from school.

We tend to not like snow or rain, simply because things become wet when we don’t want them to. Both are a necessary part of life on this planet, and Earth would not thrive without the change of seasons. It may be inconvenient to wear a coat and hat or boots, but we seem to be the only species to be inconvenienced by inclement weather. The bison don’t seem to mind the snow, and in fact they look interesting dusted with white during a blizzard. Dogs and cats shake off moisture. Ducks and aquatic birds pay little attention. Modern man, however, gears up against the horrors of moisture in the air as if it were poisonous.

Sure we’ve had the issue of acid rain come up, but not lately, so don’t go there.

Visit any major city after a rainstorm, and you will see discarded umbrellas in trash containers everywhere. It seems that once the threat is passed, any reminders of it must be thrown away. Some of those unfortunate bumbershoots were blown asunder by the accompanying winds, and are nothing more than twisted skeletons with the skin of water repellent fabric hanging in tatters. Another popular discard is newspapers, which are either held overhead folded or tented to protect fragile hairdos. We never seem to be prepared for when rain will come, or we’re embarrassed when we’re ready for it and it doesn’t come. The scout motto “Be Prepared” no longer has a place in modern social circles.

There are pleasant things to look forward to after a rainstorm, such as a rainbow, or sunny beams emerging from a cloud bank. We sometimes rely on mechanical sounds of the rain to soothe us to sleep or relax us during mindfulness exercises. It’s the physical presence of water we detest when we’re not under the showerhead for the purpose of hygiene.

It would be nice to make peace with our planet and accept that a little rain is required to fall, and the occasional snow event is inevitable. We don’t have to hole up until they pass. And they do pass. At least places like California will have something better to look forward to when the last pile of snow melts under the spring sun.

People are likely to cheer.

That’s better than complaining about it.

I have noticed something new on a list of things that, like many that some of us of a certain age grew up knowing, may be going away. I’m talking about ginger ale.

Whether you’re the Canada Dry, Schweppes or Seagram’s type, we grew up with ginger ale as a choice of carbonated soda other than the popular trio of Coke/Pepsi, Mountain Dew or Seven-Up. The golden drink over ice was often employed to settle upset stomachs, because ginger is a known help for this ailment. In recent years, the Canada Dry people have stressed that they use real ginger in their ginger ale (as of 2018, this is not the case, as evidenced by a lawsuit about the company over its ingredients). Unfortunately, the soda is also known for its high sugar content, and some brands use artificial flavor.

The substitute we see most often today is ginger beer, which is a more fermented product and has a sharper taste. Both use some form of fermentation, according to sources, but ginger beer will have a slightly higher alcoholic content by nature of its brewing method. This may explain why the popularity has soared: people want something with alcohol in it (even if it doesn’t need to be sold at the wine and spirits counter). And yes, it still helps calm upset tummies.

I have had trouble finding real ginger ale. Besides the gold standard from up north, a brand called Fever Tree is also a natural version in a bottle. The problem is, the ginger beer is on the shelves, while the ginger ale isn’t.

I did find a brand called Q in a can which is quite pleasant, but I’m down to my last two cans.

In a world of crazy colors and combinations, the lowly mixer may be just another victim of being too ordinary when compared to the promise of drinking something with “beer” in its name.

Since I’m not particularly fond of beer, I guess I must make some effort to seek the holy ale.

I’ll see myself out.

I am starting to cultivate a dislike of tacos. I make a weekly stop at the local fast food distributor of these items, and I purchase a couple of the crunchy versions to go, which is where the problems begin.

Crunchy tacos must be the worst portable food in the world. They’re supposed to be handy. I don’t see it.

They are born on an assembly line resembling a corrugated ramp; the shells are slid down to a preparation station, where a worker dumps a proportioned lump of hamburger, which is moist enough to begin the process of eating through the corn shell at the bottom. The worker then adds the lettuce, tomato and cheese, and attempts to carefully wrap the rather stuffed thing without breaking the shell.

From the moment the bag leaves the pickup window, the tacos begin getting soggy. By the time I get them home, set up my eating space and unwrap the first taco, it’s breaking up at the top and dropping toppings through the bottom. Also, the hamburger juices have stuck the taco to its wrapper.

If, by some miracle, the taco is still viable and does not stick to the wrapper, the first bite usually sends a cascade of lettuce, tomato and cheese all over creation.

And the taco is cold.

When I witnessed the domestic incident a couple of weeks ago (see “What My Eyes Saw”), my tacos more closely resembled a nacho plate after somebody sat on it, when I finally got home.

Mind you, this degradation process happens during a less than ten-minute drive from the warmth of the assembly line to the warmth of my eager stomach. Despite my best efforts, it still happens.

You might think I can avoid the issues and simply get a soft shell taco, which is essentially a mini tortilla with the same ingredients. Like the burrito (which is another fun adventure in eating), if you want to add sauce to your food, the tortilla sticks to itself, making it nearly impossible to peel apart the edges to add sauce unless you take a bite first. This means you take a bite for the team, since it won’t taste of the ingredients you like jacked up on sauce. At least I can get the flavor I want the minute I open up a taco, because the top is open and ready to be sauced.

Oh, and the burrito is never fully folded correctly. There is always a gap for leakage. Even if the gap isn’t facing downward, the juices will overflow it like a clogged sink and drip onto the consumer.

I have considered adding a lobster bib to my taco consuming ritual. There is also the notion of eating shirtless. I hate having to run laundry to get an orange beefy grease stain off any color upper body wear, since it shows up on anything. I have lost more arguments with tacos than any burger, ice cream or water ice in the land.

So I have decided to try ordering nachos instead. At least I know I won’t sit on the plate. They’re already a mess, and I will get what I’m paying for. I may even have some crunch left in some of the chips when I get them home.

One of the things I miss about working in an office is getting nachos for lunch. We had a cafeteria staff who could put together the most salivating inducing and luscious platter of nachos. You picked your toppings, and they took a ten-second trip to a table where one could enjoy the variety of flavors spread before them. No sauce required.

If it works, I may leave tacos behind, and only visit the occasional burrito.

I made egg salad today to consume tomorrow, because any good egg salad preparation expert knows that it tastes better after having absorbed all the flavorful goodness you’ve stirred into it, and that takes at least 24 hours to accomplish.

For those who might need a recipe, here is mine:

Tangy Egg Salad

Six (6) eggs, hard-boiled
One (1) container Miracle Whip
Onion powder to taste
Celery salt to taste
Course black pepper to taste

Alternate add-ins: paprika, chopped celery.

To hard boil eggs, pierce the blunt end of each egg with a pin through the shell, then set eggs in the bottom of a saucepan and cover with water. Bring to a boil, then turn heat down and cover pan with lid. Continue cooking on low for 12 minutes. Drain water and replace with cold water, then jostle the eggs in the pan to crack or do so on your counter. Peel through the shell and inner membrane at the blunt end for best results.

For egg salad, cut eggs to desired size by hand or with egg slicer and place in a suitable-sized bowl. Start with a spoonful of Miracle Whip about a third the size or less of your egg volume; add seasonings to lightly coat the dollop, then stir lightly with a fork. Add more of any ingredient until combined without being too creamy or spicy. Cover and refrigerate. Makes approximately two servings.

During this process, the wire in the egg slicer broke, thus bringing an end to the long life of a kitchen gadget that has been in the home for as long as I can remember. Ordered another from Amazon before I forget and end up with no slicer when I need one.

Nothing brings back good childhood memories than the sight of an egg salad sandwich, crunchy with fresh lettuce–and a few select potato chips for garnish–between two fresh slices of bread.

Some readers may balk at Miracle Whip, and I can tell you that mayonnaise, any brand, is just fine if you’re not a “whip” fan. I have found that “whip” fans often do enjoy mayo, but not the reverse. It’s a matter of palate, and I’m certainly not going to argue that here. What is important is the love that goes into the making of a special meal.

Break out those eggs. And don’t break the egg slicer.

Often we read about domestic violence and assume that it tends to happen at home behind closed doors. News articles tell us that police are called to a home on such-and-such a block, and we usually ignore the details. Sometimes, however, violence comes outdoors, and I witnessed something brutal between two people last week shortly after posting for this weekly blog.

On my way home last week, I stopped to pick up dinner, and I was waiting for traffic to move from the opposing direction before heading town a secondary road. As I slowed down near a supermarket parking lot, my eye was drawn to something light moving to my right, which turned out to be somebody parked perpendicular to the other parking spaces, leaning into the back seat of a two-door white vehicle. I quickly saw that it was rather lanky man wearing sweatpants which were tenaciously held up at his hips. That makes the seat portion of any trousers wrinkle with every move like a tethered flag struggling to free itself. I didn’t pay more than a second’s attention as I pulled further forward waiting to merge.

It was then that movement caught my eye again, and as I looked over, the man had retrieved a woman from the back seat, pulled her from the vehicle, dropped her to the ground, and was now standing over her with fists raised and his voice filled with anger. The woman held up her hands defensively as she tried to back away while he restricted her movement.

In an intense moment like this, lots of things happen at once; I determined, first of all, that he was not wielding a weapon (thank goodness), then that I wasn’t sure if anybody else was in the vehicle, for my thoughts went instantly to whether children were witnessing this. My next idea was a course of action, so I activated my emergency services in my car and asked the advisor to contact the police department for me. The next thought that came to me, while the advisor was talking to me (was I in danger, what was happening that the police needed to come, etc.), was whether I should intervene, pull out my cell phone and record, or something–anything–to put a stop to what was unfolding. The police station was literally two addresses down from the shopping center, but being a weekend, nobody was there, at least not in front of the building.

In the time it took for this, a matter of seconds, the man had stepped back, and the woman got up and entered the car again through the passenger side.

The answers to my first questions to myself came up as no, and I felt my best action was to get away from the traffic, so I drove the few yards and pulled into the police station parking lot as the dispatcher came on the phone. I relayed the details of what I had witnessed. A police vehicle, which had apparently been in the back parking lot of the station, sped out of the driveway, lights flashing, as I finished the call with dispatch.

She thanked me for calling it in, and I told her that if I were in such a situation, I would hope that somebody would call for me.

I left contact information, but nothing ever came of it. I will never know if they were still there, or if the woman was okay. I will say that I believe the assistance available out there can help a person get out of a situation of domestic abuse, so I am including the Domestic Abuse Hotline at 1-800-799-SAFE (7233) or you can text 88788.

I’m glad I didn’t do nothing, but I can still see the images of that terror in my mind, and I can’t do anything about that. They may never go away.

“Leave the driving to us” used to be the Greyhound bus lines’ signature phrase. Taking a bus to select destinations is, or used to be, a great way to go someplace without the hassles of a car trip (where to park the car, how many gas stations–or soon, how many charging stations–do you need to visit).

The problem I just had was that there wasn’t a place to board the bus.

Before ranting about my misfortune, I’ll preface it by saying that Greyhound has had its share of difficulties over the past few years. Bus travel is convenient, but sometimes has a reputation of being a more casual and working class choice over driving or flying. Bus terminals can be crowded, under-decorated or minimalistic gathering spots, with questionable cleaning standards and vending machines from ancient times holding junk food of uncertain origin or age. Not because they don’t care, but because they can’t keep up with the constant comings and goings of folks riding to new lives or escaping from something (and mixed in with people like me just going on a day trip).

Over the past few years, ridership went down to nearly nothing, and tensions among the passengers who did ride when travel opened up again were high at the best of times. Staying afloat could not have been easy for them.

The company made a decision a few years ago to shut down a station that had been in service for ages. They simply pulled up stakes and shut the doors, leaving potted plants inside to die of starvation and putting desk attendants and maintenance personnel out of work. A simple sign directed passengers to the new location across the turnpike, less than five minutes away.

I say location because it was not even a station; Greyhound never set up there, but the hotel which was accommodating them had a huge parking lot sheltered by countless solar panels, and our queue was designated to form under one such row of panels. No more indoor waiting or seating. If you arrived early, you waited in your vehicle.

That was how I planned my trip. My ticket said the location was there; the address was printed on the ticket.

When I got there, a ton of cars were parked under the solar panels and, since dark windows make it hard to see and it was a rainy morning, I figured people were waiting in their cars until a few minutes before the bus arrived.

The bus didn’t arrive. No queue formed. A couple a fellows arrived five minutes later, but I was starting to get nervous. There is never not a line for this trip at least twenty people deep. I double-checked my address and happened to glance at the bottom of the ticket. The map showed surrounding hotels, but I realized that none of them matched the address on the ticket. This would lead to a logical assumption that the address is wrong and the map was right, but where was this location, and why wasn’t that address on the ticket?

In the time it took to work this out, more than fifteen minutes beyond the scheduled boarding time had passed. So here I was an hour in for a trip for which I had gotten up early and planned in advance, and it was for nothing.

I invoked Eric Cartman from South Park and said, “I’m going home.” The day was shot, and I had a $140 ticket for a performance which was about to become obsolete in a matter of hours. The morning was spent making phone calls and sending emails to Greyhound, which has a customer service form online (thankfully) to help me possibly get my bus fare refunded.

This still doesn’t resolve the issue of where the bus stop actually is. A search turned up a picture of the old terminal, the sight of which brought a nostalgic sigh from me. It also brought up two ground-level pictures of the possible new location. One is behind a manufacturing plant and seems to have a place to queue up as with the hotel, and the other appears to be an actual bus stop with protected benches and a circular drive for the vehicle to pick up and discharge. I could put a bet on either of these, because I have learned how the game of Greyhound appears to no longer have certain guarantees of knowing where you are going to board.

Every time I have gotten into a queue for a bus, the question is asked of those in line, and worded by destination only, to be sure it is the correct line, because signage is a rare blessing, and it could also be wrong. So I don’t know whether I will ever get a bus again or not. They’re playing hide and seek with passengers now. Accuracy, attention to details and courtesy advance notices have gone out the window.

As I checked my stored emails for my ticket receipt during the mad race for cancelation, I saw a notice in my inbox from Greyhound from late in the evening before with a heading I’m used to seeing: “Important Details About Your Upcoming Trip.” The content is always the same: this is the itinerary, this is the size requirements for any luggage, etc. I opened it to check after the fact, and nowhere did it say “Note that your departure location has changed,” so I don’t think it’s just me.

Even when a company is trying to reorganize after a global event which brought down most businesses, attention must be paid to updating online information and keeping customers informed. The two other passengers, I hope, found a solution to their issue. I chalk up the lack of other passengers at the same wrong location to a possible goof on my part which shouldn’t have been. I printed my tickets a few weeks ago, rather than waiting until the last minute, which can bring its own problems (no toner). So somebody may be asking why I didn’t use my phone. If I find somebody patient enough to explain to me the finer details of how to know you will have a ticket ready when you need it on a cellular device, I’ll start relying on that. Right now I don’t have a local ten-year-old to take on the job.

Two things I can say to make this experience seem not as bad: first, it rained all day, so I would’ve been hoofing around with an umbrella going to and from the venue and the departure point at my destination (if that didn’t change, too). Also, the principle performer for the program I was to see bowed out and was replaced. It just wasn’t meant to be.

Destiny, however, compels me to find out, once and for all, where the new bus stop is. Wish me luck with that.

I belong to a few writing groups, and we enjoy varying degrees of success. The group in which I pay dues has a ton of success stories, meaning that some of the group members have been published by actual agencies or self-published. In my other groups we talk about getting published, but that’s considered a hurdle to conquer.

Maybe it’s better to call a group of actual published writing people a bloc rather than a group. A bloc is defined as persons sharing a common purpose, and that is definitely the people with whom I associate the most. Over the past three years we have managed to keep in touch on social media and video, which has helped us to keep our writing dreams from dissolving under the oppression.

My dues-paying group has been meeting virtually every month, and recently we began doing write-ins virtually once a week, so I now see the same people half a dozen times a month. Sometimes we go to the local coffee shop and bring our laptops to type and sip. We also, finally, returned to our regular meeting place, where we try to combine virtual meetings with a live event. We’ve hired a young college tech guru to help us set up the video equipment and overcome our fear of gizmos (such as remote mics and universal remotes), and we’re happy to be together physically again.

We are united in the frustrations of being a writer, especially when regular employment actually pays the bills and daily life such as spouse and kids demands our attention.

Lately, my writing itself has been demanding my attention at three in the morning. That’s when my brain decides to put forth an entire chapter of wonderful ideations, bring marvelous prose to the mouths of my main characters, and resolve all the finer plot holes which I was forced to leave festering in my subconscious in favor of my overall health via some well-earned sleep.

For writers like us, the best place to jot down notes is the bathroom, the best time to try and remember that solution to the antagonist’s most profound moment is while the soup is boiling over, and an ideal setting for keying a few hundred pages is the plastic chair on the back porch, balancing the laptop on the place it is apparently supposed to go; your lap. Just don’t spill the beverage.

We admire our heroes such as Stephen King, who sits down to write in an actual office, has time to do it, and knows what the antagonist is up to. Of course, Uncle Stevie (we say affectionately) is a top-tier best-selling, guaranteed revenue type of author. Those of us in writing blocs are scrambling for whatever recognition may come our way.

We discuss successes and failures with equal enthusiasm. My article was picked up by a magazine. Bravo! I got my 30th rejection from a publisher today. All right, then! I didn’t manage to write a thing. You’ll get it all written down soon. It’s a wonderful band of like-minded people I associate with. Our purpose is strong, our convictions stable.

One is said to have writer’s block when we can’t write, but usually for us it’s simply a matter of getting five minutes to sit in that chair on the back porch. We overcome our obstacles one at a time and meet to talk about them regularly.

It feels good to know somebody is watching and is ready to celebrate our victories. It’s a sort of bloc party.

I’m watching my heart health, so the best readily available source of potassium for me is bananas. They’re likeable by nearly everybody and are easy to find in the grocer’s. At 450 milligrams per medium banana, the average human can start to meet part of their daily 4700 mgs by grabbing one with their morning cereal. I usually grab two a day.

Bananas have a rather interesting history, and an uncertain future. The journey starts with their origins being farmed by what is now known as Chiquita with its trademarked lady on their labels (which, by the way, are applied to bunches of bananas by hand). Before they were Chiquita, the company went by the rather dull-named United Fruit Co. There were issues with how their employees were handled, and finally the workers staged a strike over conditions. Novels such as Marquez’ One Hundred Years of Solitude told in part the story of the innumerable deaths resulting from the revolt back in 1928 Columbia, when military suppression caused many workers to lose their lives. Of course the company has long been restructured into a better place to work and, through mergers and other practices, now operates in 70 countries. They have expanded into other food products such as Fresh Express salads.

Oh, and Fyffe bananas? They’re also part of Chiquita. Dole and DelMonte are still separate companies who provide bananas to the American market.

The original crop we may have grown up with was a variety called the Gros Michel, but that type succumbed to disease, so the ones we see on market shelves today are likely Cavendish, which is more hardy and resistant. There is a fear of a black rotting disease taking out these as well, creating the possibility of fewer crops and exportation in the near future.

The other alternative is ridiculous pricing. They’re imported already, so if disease takes out most of the crops, there may be chaos in our kitchens. Imagine no banana splits at the ice cream shop.

I pick up bananas weekly, but only twice in my life have I mistaken plantains for bananas. In my defense the last time somebody threw them in with the others, I didn’t stop to think that the bunch I picked up was unusually green. They blended in so well with their sweet counterparts. It was their amazingly slow ripening at home that truly tipped me off. I froze them, sliced, and plan to fry them sometime soon.

Over the years that I’ve picked bananas, I’ve been amused by how we decide which to buy. They come in bunches of six to ten, or loose singles and pairs may crop up in a bin near the tiers of yellow inhuman hand-like fruits pointed in your direction. Sometimes they hang by hooks and are a bit difficult to remove, especially if they’re wrapped in tape to prevent separation. If they’re not abundant in the produce aisle, sometimes they’re hanging by the cereal boxes awaiting a hook-up with the wheaty bits going into your bowl of milk. They’re also difficult to bag because of their unique shapes. They tend to rock in the bottom of the bag or fall out the top.

Lately it’s tough to find bananas that don’t have hidden soft spots or bruises. Blame poor handling, or somebody dropping them and putting them back with a “who me?” attitude. No matter. When they’re too soft, they go into banana bread.

I also hear that they are interesting to view under florescent light.

At least for now, they’re readily available, which makes my heart sing.

And proves I’m not bananas.