This Reminds Me

This week, I’ve found myself saying, “I don’t understand” more often than usual.  Granted, I am not always the sharpest knife in the drawer.  But still.

Keith and I generally take the bus downtown each workday but every so often, we drive so we can haul in cases of Diet Coke to keep at our desks.  Cokes in the cafeteria are $1@.  We buy ours at Costco for $.28@.  So the inconvenience is worth it.  For years, I marked mine in the communal fridge with a piece of Scotch tape over the ring tab that read “Becky,” to distinguish mine from those of others.  You’d have to remove the tape to open the drink.  Never had a problem until November, when I had to move to another floor.  And guess what?  My Cokes kept growing legs.  Almost daily, one and sometimes two would walk off.

These are Cokes I drove to Costco to buy.  And then drove downtown.  And paid parking.  And used a mail cart to take up to my desk.  And returned the mail cart.  Not a small investment of time.  And yet sombod(ies) kept thieving my drinks.

I finally typed a small piece of paper that read what my mom used to tell David and me:  “You don’t have to know whose it is to know it’s not yours.”  And signed my name before taping over the ring tab.  Since then – not a single drink has walked off.

What I do not understand:  Why did it take my taping a childhood admonishment on my drinks to stop their theft?  We work at AT&T.  We are all well-employed.  Nobody was swiping these drinks to feed their starving children at home.   Were they too lazy to go downstairs?  Too cheap to spend their own dollar for a discretionary item?  Did they never hear or heed that silly eighth commandment?  What?

Today, Julia’s basketball team played two games against other church teams of first and second grade girls.  The coaches are usually parents.  The bleachers are chock’fulla parents, grandparents, Sunday School teachers, etc.  Our first game -which we won, BTW – was against particularly vicious little thugs who hit, kicked, shoved and bit – yes, bit - our girls.

What I do not understand:  Why didn’t a coach, parent, grandparent, or Sunday School teacher jump out of those bleachers and snatch the offenders bald-headed?  I can understand the ref not seeing it all (though he saw plenty), but I don’t understand involved adults that would allow that to continue.  If one of my kids had done that, we’d be in the bathroom and my right hand would be throbbing.

Photo by Roxie of the Shearer Hills Monkeys, #2 in the church league!  Back:  Ass’t Coach Rachel, Coach Keith, Coach Ray.  Middle:  Julia, Garyn, Emily, Caitlyn.  Front:    Ashley, Gwen, Delaney and Nikki.  Now it’s on to the play-offs!  And we’re hoping a certain other team has had its rabies shots.

This week I haven’t understood:

-  Why not wanting to vote for Clinton or Obama for President makes me a bigot or a racist?  I tire of the editorials that brand me so.  Could it be – could it possibly be – I don’t like their beliefs (or lack of), regardless of their skin tones or estrogen levels?

-  Why parents buy high school kids brand-new, expensive cars?  Hello?  You figure that unemployed, partying son of yours stuffed in his Hollister duds really needs that red Nissan Ultima to run get his vente cappuccino?  Is stewardship ever a topic of conversation at your dinner table?

-  Why companies think you want to fund their charitable efforts?  If I want to give to a charity, I want to give to it.  I don’t want to give my money to HEB so one of their suits can pose with a big paper check.  Nor do I want to donate my My Coke Rewards points for Atlanta execs to act all magnamimous to Toys for Tots.  If a friend is collecting for something – with rare exceptions – we want to contribute.  But a corporation?  C’mon. Give your own money, in fact – start at your top floors in the offices with the windows.  (And if there’s a Diet Coke on the desk, see if there is any Scotch tape in the wastebasket with “Becky” written on it.)

Am I alone?  Am I the only one who doesn’t understand?  I’d love to have a comment from you on what you don’t understand. Really.  Click the “Comments” link below and fire away, baby.  Fire away!

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