Soft Soap

Hello World, Happy July! Now that school is finally out, and we've gone past the halfway mark in the year, we know that summer is well and truly upon us once more, and there's no time to lose for grabbing all of its fleeting pleasures while we can, as they spread out before us like a shimmering oasis of surf, sun and fun. It always seems that there's plenty of time to enjoy all that summer has to offer, but all too soon, there's autumn nipping at our heels - so let that be a reminder to all, that while the treasured memories of summer may indeed last a lifetime, the season itself is deceptively transient. Of course, Wednesday was July 4, and we all know what that means. (For the KGB agents monitoring my email, and I'm sure we all realize by now that their name is legion, may I take this opportunity to say, "Declare your independence from snooping, and mind your own business!") I hope that your holiday was a red-letter day all around, and parades, fireworks and barbecues would not be out of the question under the circumstances, I dare say. I regret to report that this was not The Flag Brigade's finest hour around the old homestead, in spite of good intentions, alas. The flags were put out early, upstairs and downstairs, and with dispatch - however, it wasn't long before Bill noticed that one of them appeared to be hanging upside-down, no thanks to the cable tie that should have been holding the top of the flag to the pole, but now was nowhere to be seen. He promptly remedied the situation with a twisty-tie, and we were prepared to get on with the rest of our day in peace, without offending the patriotic spirit of the aggrieved Barbara Frietchie of lore and legend. However, there was more mischief afoot, and when the flags were brought back in later, this very same flag with its fly-away tie, now saw its eagle decoration jettison itself off the top of the pole, and plummet into the bushes below - where in spite of the fact that it was only small and plastic, still managed to shatter into many separate pieces, some of which will never be found, and I ought to know. While I do not hold The Flag Brigade responsible for this star-spangled fiasco of ceremonial protocol, I thought it was unfortunate that their sincere efforts were not rewarded with better results. And that goes double for Barbara Frietchie, I shouldn't wonder. But speaking of better results, we were just lounging about at home on Wednesday night, when suddenly the sky was ablaze with rockets' red glare, and the sound of mortar fire that set off car alarms in every direction. The fair Queen City on the Sound was presenting its annual fireworks extravaganza at the nearby Hudson Park, and while it's certainly true that we could easily walk right out of our front door and be there in nothing flat, the fact is that we never do. It turns out, this time we didn't have to, and for the first time I can ever remember, we could watch all the fireworks in their sparkling glory, right from the comfort of our own upstairs porch, and it was a sight to behold, I can tell you that. I don't know if they decided to shoot the shells in a different direction, or perhaps they were higher than usual, but I do know this was the first time we've ever done that before, and it was truly magical. Even better, since this was part of the porch renovation project, we were able to relax and enjoy the show with tranquility, not trembling in fear that all of the porches would collapse and the whole side of the house would wind up in the neighbor's yard instead. So this was our very own special bright and shiny porch fireworks, o'er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming, great Scott! And while we're on the topic of unexpected improvements, it came as a shock to just about everyone at the employer of last resort two weeks ago, when a cadre of industrious workers descended on the premises en masse, and summarily replaced all of the old beat-up bathroom amenities with brand-new dispensers for paper towels, bathroom tissue and even soap, I kid you not. These newfangled fixtures are from our friends at Kimberly-Clark, and have numerous advantages over the previous Georgia-Pacific models, which I thought were badly designed, confusing to use, and malfunctioned on an irritatingly regular basis. For institutional customers like the hospital, it's customary for a large manufacturer to provide their dispensers at no cost, as long as you purchase the consumable supplies that go with them, and while this can provide some real cost-savings for cash-strapped hospitals, you can also find yourself stuck with a campus-wide plethora of dispensers that everyone hates. So I don't know if this change-over was the result of a blizzard of complaints from disgruntled employees, or just a routine alteration for contractual reasons - although I will say that it has never been my experience in 20+ years of working there, that any amount or volume of complaints has ever made any difference as far as changing anything for the better, in fact, it's been notoriously the opposite, where it usually goes from bad to worse instead. But this is one time that it didn't, at least so far, and I added my voice to the clamor of admirers for the new dispensers, especially their delightful soap, which is almost too good to be true. Why, except for the unfortunate fact that it's been about 150 million degrees in our ladies room for the past two weeks, a person washing their hands there could be forgiven for thinking that they had somehow inexplicably found themselves transported to some posh and elegant resort, where a trip to the bathroom is a treat for the senses, and not a test of endurance, by golly. Also at work, I had occasion to carry an invoice to Accounts Payable earlier in the week, since the affronted vendor had been calling me all the live-long day, every single day, not because he expected me to help him (which he did) but because he had consistently failed in his attempts to reach the A/P department by phone, despite serious effort on his part, he assured me. At least I have the advantage over him, in that I work in the same flea-bag rattle-trap as the entire Finance fiefdom, on two floors from side-to-side and front-to-back, and in fact, often run into the various and sundry bean counters in the hallways, stairwells, or the new and improved ladies room on a regular basis. So I handed the offending invoice to the A/P manager, and explained that the vendor was anxious for payment on it as soon as possible - although I diplomatically neglected to add that I would never be lonely, as long as this overdue item remained open. For her part, the manager waved it away impatiently after a cursory glance, and snarled: "What are they complaining about? It's only 30 days!" Inasmuch as the original invoice was dated May 1, and it had still not been paid by July 3, I found myself helplessly blurting out, "But it's 60 days." At that, I clapped a hand over my mouth and crept away, since it was obvious that using logic under the circumstances was likely to be of no use whatsoever. Yes, it seems that I had inadvertently stumbled upon the Achilles heel of the Accounting department, which is that it had been cleverly staffed with math-challenged individuals who not only couldn't count, but also had no clue as to what month it was - and which might sound to an impartial observer as a completely crazy idea, but for a not-for-profit organization that hates to pay bills about as much as nature abhors a vacuum, this is what you call "crazy like a fox." When I got back to my office, shaking my head the whole way, I don't mind saying, I realized that it certainly explains a lot about why we have so much trouble getting our bills paid around the ol' House o' Quacks, and it wasn't likely to get better any time soon, as long as the A/P manager believes that two months is only 30 days, and I say that as someone for whom arithmetic is not my strong suit, believe me. Well, as everybody should be aware by now, if July 4 has already come and gone, can my vacation be far behind? I think not! Tomorrow will find me out in the wilds, hopefully basking in the sun and sand, and enjoying the glories of nature on every side - not to mention, the spies, spooks and assorted covert operatives, who have become as much a part of my camping experiences as the very chipmunks, campfires and famously wandering picnic tables, that mysteriously migrate separately out of their individual campsites, and clump together somewhere else. I will be out of the reach of technology for a week, which as we all know, can be a double-edged sword, although I daresay that the KGB agents will know exactly what I'm up to, and there's probably a feature on their web site just to keep track of my whereabouts. So as the dinosaurs and I used to say back in our beatnik days, "Plant you now and dig you later, Daddy-o!" Elle