Thank You For Not Littering

One cool thing about seeing life in terms of stories and pictures is that quite often, if you watch long enough, you discover amazing patterns.  When I say amazing I don’t necessarily mean awe-inspiring realizations but more the quixotic combinations that life forms from the amoeba to the human come up with to navigate their daily petri dish.




Jeff, myself and  Wendy the Cat

 It happens that I’ve spent the last four years living with smokers.  Back in Austin during my days with Jeff and Wendy, Parliament cigarettes were a food group at Casa del Pepe.  At home, at some else’s home or in a bar, the cigarette butts would be disposed of properly, but just out and about the butt would get tossed on the ground, maybe stepped on and left.  It made me crazy and in reply to my scolding to pick that litter up, I would be told that the butt on the ground represented a job for someone clearing the streets of trash in Austin.  Baloney, was my response.  Only sometimes would I pick up the butt, having to draw the line somewhere at just how much picking up I would do for someone I wasn’t legally responsible for, but I always put the empty cigarette packets in the recycling.  Eventually, butts were not tossed on the ground when we were out together and these days Jeff has more important things to put to his lips, like his beautiful pregnant wife and their precious little girl.

Jamie is also a smoker, though by American standards he is not only a light smoker but something of a throwback.  He rolls his own cigarettes and has for a long time.  The first time my dad saw Jamie pull out a pouch of tobacco and a paper he slapped his knee in amazement and said, “Now that takes me back.  My father used to roll his own.” Some people have that same reaction but the majority of folks here in the US who stumble upon this guy with tattoos and an accent fiddling with white paper and something leafy usually assume my husband is rolling a joint.  It can lead to some funny and sticky situations as you might imagine.  Twice at one outdoor concert, security guards told Jamie they didn’t care what was in the pouch, they didn’t want to see him rolling anything so he was left to covertly make his tobacco cigarettes while the drunk girls behind us spilled beer down my back and smoked their Marlboro Lights.

To his credit, Mr. Pearson is a stickler about disposing of his duff ends, even keeping them in his pocket (and subsequently into the washing machine!) if there’s no place to throw them away.  The odd thing is, it’s incredibly difficult to find hand-rolling tobacco these days and the stuff that is available is often horrid compared to even the cheapest tobacco that’s available in Britain.   Jamie’s favorite brand, Amber Leaf, is a Virginia or brightleaf tobacco, but it’s not available for purchase in the US despite its American origins, at least not that we have uncovered, even online.  Bless Jamie’s mum, Melody, for tucking a pouch of Amber Leaf and little filters into her Christmas box.  If he can’t get a “decent cup of tea or a decent pint of beer” then he can at least have a decent smoke.  (He’s just kidding about the tea and beer…mostly.)

One thing that is quickly evident if you happen to compare tobacco packaging from the US and the UK is that American tobacco producers are certainly doing the very least they have to where the obligatory health warning labels are concerned.  American warnings are printed quite small and put on the side of the pack where they won't get in the way.  When I first met Jamie in London and he pulled out a pack of cigarettes, I was flabbergasted at the words “Smoking Kills” taking up fully half of the front of the packet in large, screaming text.  Wow.  It’s not uncommon for the health warning to include graphic photos of mouth cancer, lung disease, at-risk fetuses and other complications associated with smoking plastered on the packaging.  If you are at all squeamish and considering taking up smoking, don’t start in the United Kingdom, kids.  Come to America.

As a non-smoker, I’d be just fine if no one ever smoked again.  I appreciate not having to eat in smoke-filled restaurant or not flying next to someone with a cigarette going.  I’ll speak up (sometimes) if I’m uncomfortable with the smoke you’re making me breathe in but for the most part your smoking is your business unless you are an idiot like the woman I saw today.

Let me first say that in my perfect world I would have access to things like motor vehicle records and DNA-based GPS for the purposes of tracking down people and offering them the chance to right their grievous wrongs perpetrated in my presence.  At the very least, I would have the wherewithal to join the YouTube nation of people filming things on their cell phones because isn’t far more embarrassing to have the whole world see what you casually do than to have one person point it out to you outside a hamburger shop? But I wasn't in my perfect world.  I was in Bradenton.

While sat at a table by the window waiting for our order of mind-blowing fabulousness at Five Guys Burgers and Fries, I noticed the two women at the picnic table outside.  They were both dressed quite elegantly in white linen blouses, smart-looking trousers, posh shoes and plenty of diamonds and gold to catch the mid-winter sun.  The taller of the two, a very attractive gal perhaps in her late sixties with perfectly highlighted blonde hair and a brilliant smile which she shared frequently with her companion, reached into her Coach bag, pulled out a package of Marlboro Lights and lit up.  It was like watching Lauren Becall having a burger and a smoke.  The cigarette was merely an extension of her exquisitely manicured performance.  Then she stood up, stretched her slim torso and tossed the cigarette butt on the sidewalk.  A quick grinding out of the last ashes with a practiced and elegantly-clad toe finished her act and she stepped around the butt, around the trash can that was three feet from her table and came inside to powder her nose.

I was beside myself with disgust and immediately began weighing my options as to what to do when she came out of the bathroom.  But then the burger and fries arrived and I was reduced to just watching the offender saunter back outside and join her companion in lighting up another Marlboro. Moral outrage is no match for half a double cheese and bacon burger and hand-cut French fries.  I briefed Jamie on the situation developing at the picnic table and by turns we scrutinized the women between mouthfuls of beef and careful monitoring of the ketchup to fries ratio infront of us.  I was very nearly in my happy place when the ladies beyond the glass started gathering up their things to leave, having tossed their finished cigarettes on the ground.  Purses were casually deposited on shoulders.  Extra napkins were wrapped around soda cups to catch the condensation, saving clothes and upholstery from moisture stains.  Both women slid their large Chanel sunglasses down to cover their eyes and stepped lightly off the curb towards their car.  But then the taller woman turned around, fumbling with her keys and the Marlboro Light packet she was trying to carry in one hand.  She took a few graceful steps back towards the restaurant and placed the empty cigarette package deftly in the trash can.

Thank you for not littering.

Life in Florida

Though there is constant interaction between both sides of my brain, it seems that I can either write or paint but not at the same time.  Today seems good for writing.  The last few months have been full of paintings and creative endeavors for art shows back home in Maine over the holidays.  My first attempt to enter the local art scene here in Bradenton was an abysmal failure.  Who knew everyone only buys tropical paradise themes here.  Thank goodness Mainers and a handful of Texans are more art curious and kind supporters.

Florida is proving a strange place to be living, a curious vortex of things that don’t quite make sense.  Despite orange groves everywhere and a Tropicana bottling plant just two miles away, orange juice is more expensive here than it was in Austin or back home.  Due to agriculture on a large scale, there are precious few small farms that sell their produce at road stands and farmers markets.  We have taken to buying our veggies off stands at the flea market where the prices and often the quality are much better than the local supermarkets but even there many items are coming from California or other countries.  “Shop Locally” is verging on oxymoron here.  Conversely, I have never been so excited to see fresh, baby bok choi as I was at the St Petersburg Morning Market last week.

Right now the strawberries are in supply from Plant City and it’s tomato season in Ruskin.  The trouble is, the berries have little taste despite their enticing color and heady bouquet.  The tomatoes, too, are an exercise in disappointment.  They are either hard or rotting and in either case mostly without flavor.  But to be fair, we have all become the guinea pigs of an economy where what matters is quantity and not necessarily esthetics. It’s not just here in Florida.

I think what makes it all the more unpalatable though is that false advertising is a very real part of life here in the Sunshine State, whether it’s the blush of a strawberry or a job ad in the paper. We have both become skilled at investigating any business that invites us for an interview, though even then they still manage to catch us out.  One place was scamming seniors on magazine subscription renewals, moving its office often to avoid the cops.  Another was an online newspaper that misrepresented the position they were hiring for after a lengthy and friendly interview discussing something completely different.  There was the pizza place that was more interested in human resources-generated questions than whether you could make pizzas under pressure. The young owner has obviously been putting those human resources profiling classes from his M.B.A degree to use with little success as he keeps advertising for help two months later.

I showed up for an interview at a cool and groovy shop/art gallery/bakery not far from our favorite beach. We had been to the shop many times with company or for a nibble.  When the owner finally came out from his office he said, “Do you mind if we go outside and do this so I can have a cigarette?”  I should have said, “Actually, I do mind, yes.  Thank you for asking.”  But I didn’t because to me that would have seemed as impolite as having to sit through an interview with smoke being blown in your face, which is what happened.  As it was, he spent more time talking with people on the sidewalk than he did with me.  Needless to say, I didn’t get the job nor have I been back for coffee.

Oddly, it’s been a pattern that the people running businesses here in the Bradenton area are often guys in their fifties from New York and Chicago in uniforms of stained t-shirts or Hawaiian shirts, baggy shorts, filthy flipflops, big gold chains on their necks, big watches on their wrists and even bigger attitudes.  They mock Jamie’s accent and ask me if I go around “shushing” everyone because I’ve been a librarian.

We try very hard to be circumspect as we meet each day.  Our landlords are great.  The postman is friendly.  The cable guy went beyond the call of duty.  The lady at the sushi place chats with us now when we stop in.  But after ten months of living here, we have acquired the feeling that many people, upon retiring here, start their new lives by abandoning their manners, their patience and to a large degree, their humanity.  Whether it’s road rage, aisle rage, queue rage or just plain rage rage, it’s tough sledding if you are a nice person.  You can forgive the tourists for being idiots; it’s much harder to forgive the locals. And maybe that’s just it.  Maybe it’s because most folks who live in Florida are not from Florida.  Like all of us who move to some place new, we bring our internal geography with us and attempt to force it into the contours of a new map.  Plus there is also the possibility that we were as rude in Ohio as we are here.

•Sexy, fashion-conscious blue-haired beauty, 80's, slim, 5'4' (used to be 5'6'),
searching for sharp-looking, sharp-dressing companion. Matching white shoes and belt a plus.

•LONG-TERM COMMITMENT

•Recent widow who has just buried fourth husband and am looking for someone to round out a six-unit plot.Dizziness, fainting, shortness of breath not a problem.

•SERENITY NOW

•I am into solitude, long walks, sunrises, the ocean, yoga and meditation.
If you are the silent type, let's get together, take our hearing aids out and enjoy  quiet times.

•WINNING SMILE

•Active grandmother with original teeth seeking a dedicated flosser
to share rare steaks, corn on the cob and caramel candy.

•BEATLES OR STONES?

•I still like to rock, still like to cruise in my Camaro on Saturday nights and still like to play the guitar. If you were a groovy chick, or are now a groovy hen, let's get together and listen to my eight-track tapes.

•MINT CONDITION

•Male, 1932, high mileage, good condition, some hair,
many new parts including hip, knee, cornea, valves.
Isn't in running condition, but walks well.

 http://www.funnyordie.com/lists/a27cc6b611/actual-personal-ads-from-florida-senior-citizens



(photo from Google Images!)

 Then there is the issue of aging and longevity.  It’s the active seniors cutting you off in traffic and shoving you aside in the produce department, not the ones relegated to nursing homes. As in any city, you only see those who are still able to be independent.  Independence coupled with a sense of entitlement in a concentrated population is, let’s face it, daunting.  Imagine a never-ending Sunday dinner with all of your relations being right about everything and you’ve got Florida.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for people living vibrant and interesting lives right up until their last breath but I’m relieved I never had to encounter my 96 year old grandmother in her bikini top and sequined pareo pushing me aside on her way to the tiki bar for another margarita while she complains to her Speedo-wearing (barely!) husband about the tourists.

 

For now we soldier on, thankful for things like fresh orange juice from free fruit and walking the beach with the sandpipers at sunset.  It’s a nice place to visit…