Empty milk carton blues

I would call it the bottom blues.

Those times where a dear family member or friend is too lazy to throw away the empty milk carton. Or replace the toilet paper roll.

When they can't find it within themselves to cross the kitchen and throw away the Hostess Twinkie box after shoving the last one in their big mouth.

I don't think they are aware at the time how these actions bring them ever closer to being strangled - especially when they happen at the same time.

I'll set the scene - middle of the night, bladder on the verge of spontaneous combustion, so you scurry to the bathroom.

Plopping yourself on the toilet, you feel around for the toilet paper in the dark.

After several moments, you succeed, thus beginning the quest for the end of the roll. Turning it over and over again, the end finally falls, waving like a glorious bathroom banner.

Taking the piece in your hand, you begin to unravel but wait - is that tearing you hear?

Yes, the toilet paper roll is but one sheet. Someone has used it all and left but one little sheet.

You can't use one sheet; it's just not humanly possible. But you have to, at least to get up to search for more.

Pants down, slightly disoriented from the dark, you lean down to get into the vanity. There's usually a backup roll there.

But after you crack your head on the sink, it's just not worth it. Aggravated and annoyed, you ponder just who executed this atrocity. Oh well. Rub your head, pull up the pants and replace the toilet paper tomorrow.

Except now you're wide awake, and your stomach is the one complaining.

Ah! The twinkies, in the pantry, to the left, second shelf up. You remember because you were watching them go in, salivating like Pavlov's dogs at the sight of those lovely golden cakes with their delicious filling.

You need one badly, no matter the cost of calories. To the twinkies!

Slowly you pat the cabinet down, trying to find the handle in the dark. Anticipation rising, heart beating faster, hips and thighs screaming, "no," but your mind says "yes, just do it!"

You fumble around, smashing the bread down, knocking over boxes of mac and cheese, and - miracle of all miracles - you find the twinkie box.

Not sure which side is open, so you gingerly pull it out. You don't want to chance them sliding out and hitting the floor - if you smash that twinkie, you might as well have thrown it in a Dumpster. It's a disgrace to the snack cake world.

You find the open side, tip the box a little and eagerly stick out your hand to await your sweet, sweet prize - and nothing.

Is it stuck in there? Shake the box a little. Do you hear plastic? No. Shake the box some more. Anything? Shake it harder, you know there was one left. There has to be one left.

Finally, the stress starts to get to you. As you begin to realize there will be no twinkie tonight, the rage boils inside. First, the toilet paper, and now this. It's too much.

You feel hot all over and throw the box viciously, paying no mind to where it landed.

The search continues, and although you know there will be no satisfaction after a twinkie craving, you find the peanut butter.

Slightly sweet, it will do. So you rip out the silverware drawer with a wicked hope that it will clatter and wake someone up, and savagely tear out a spoon.

A few spoonfuls and you're done - it's so sticky, you can barely swallow - it just doesn't compare to a twinkie in all its glory.

But ignoring your rage over said twinkie incident, you decide a glass of milk will end the night well enough.

Over to the refrigerator you go, but your hopes are quickly dashed.

Someone has emptied the milk, leaving a pitiful tablespoon's amount at the bottom.

You know this isn't enough to take care of that peanut butter.

Your eye starts to twitch as you stare off down the hall, your mind whispering, "you know who it was."

Your hands, shaking with rage, crumble the milk carton handle as you conjure up ideas of torture.

Mindlessly dropping the carton, you walk down the hall horror movie-style, and all you can think about or hear is the stabbing music from "Pyscho" in your head.

"Ree! Ree! Ree! Ree!"

The bottom blues have struck again.

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Katy Blair, Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

Which side are you on?

*Writer's note - This column is atypical from my usual satire. My editor requested a column with my thoughts on the local MGPI strike regarding satisfaction of life issues. I decided to publish it, in the hopes that it would provoke thought about unions and their worth.


It’s the eighth day of the MGP Ingredients union strike — have you chosen a side?

Regardless of the community’s size, a union strike will cause bandwagon jumpers. Such controversy almost always results in sides being chosen, whether resolute or on the fence.

In a community such as Atchison, it is likely difficult to find a person without some sort of connection to MGPI — be it a family member, friend or your cousin’s friend's brother's ex-girlfriend who works there.

With such overlapping ties, I’m curious to know, where do the residents of Atchison stand on UFCW No. 74D vs MGPI?

As in any policy-related issue, there are many factors to consider when deciding which entity to support.
First of all, do you support unionization?

The benefits and drawbacks of unions are many, and each side would argue those points to the bone.

Unions were organized for the sole purpose of protecting workers from insufficient pay, hours and working conditions.

That’s precisely what unions do through strikes — take a stand against policies and such that violate the workers’ expectations of employment.

Through unions, American workers have elevated the standard for workplace conditions — no longer must they work 18 hour days at $2 an hour in hazardous conditions.

However, some critics of unions think they’re monopolies in progress.

Nobel Peace Prize winner Milton Friedman argues that unionization results in higher wages and fewer jobs, point-blank.

He explains that as the price of labor rises, so does unemployment because businesses no longer seek to employ those whose work is worth less than the union’s set minimum wage.

Having my own contacts in the MGPI sector, I have heard time and time again that shifts are too long and overtime hours are typically unexpected but obligatory.

I find myself now asking, does MGPI need more employees? Can they not employ more because of this vicious linear parallel between union wages and their own budget?

Logically, one would deduce that more employees would spread out the burden, easing the long shifts and quelling overtime.

Union representative Chris Pruessner stated recently that MGPI has reduced its jobs, creating more overtime for its employees.

Is that a direct effect from the company’s being stonewalled by unions, causing higher wages for fewer workers?

Whether the situation has become a monopoly that MGPI can’t overcome, union workers have a right to resist their current conditions.

They are being asked to work additional hours. They can’t call in sick without being docked, they can’t go home early to tend to a sick child.

For a two-parent household where both work, that’s not an easy situation. For a one income
home, it’s nearly impossible.

Instead of multiple call-ins counting as one point on their record, every call counts as one point — it’s eye for an eye.

So the standoff continues, and the groups on each side of the strike seem unwilling to compromise.

Has the union backed itself into a corner? Or is MGPI being stingy, hiring fewer employees and working them like dogs, all while flying a glamorous money and benefits banner?

Before you decide which side you’re on, take the time to look at both sides. You might find that you’re not the only one picking out a good spot on the fence for the longhaul.
———————
Katy Blair, a Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

'O' stands for Obvious

“Oh, you have to watch this part! This is good!”

Really? Here I am, sitting comfortably in my chair, eyes glued to the television, and you still have to tell me to watch the movie?

I don't understand the existence of these people, these over-anxious sharers, but make no mistake — they are a massive breed, taking over the general population.

In high school, my posse and I loving nicknamed these people “Chuck's,” after a certain excitable friend of ours who couldn't help but blurt out movie spoilers. Of course, many of his faux pas happened mid-movie.

I guarantee everyone has at least one Chuck in their life, relaying their “astute observations” at the most pointless moments.

Is it some sick excitement in taking away the surprise? Sure, the crazy guy with the machete is going to kill that bimbo — she's running away from town to escape him and what is now obviously her inevitable death. That's how those silly girls always die in horror flicks.

But now that you've told me something good will happen, I can just forget that little hope in the back of my mind that Barbie will somehow evade her ugly, misshapen murderer and prevail.

Nope, Barbie's going down as she would in any other pop culture film — mostly nude and falling constantly, as if her weak ankles have never experienced a thing called “running.”

I recall our dear friend pulling just this stunt once, proudly declaring the heroine's destiny was to die. Everyone in the room erupted into a chorus of, “Aww, Chuck! Why?!”

The true aftermath of the sin he had committed was to come, unfortunately — I believe it was Josh that began growling, an unearthly sound filled with torture and angst, as he sprang from the couch and wrapped his hands around poor Chuck's neck.

Chuck kept a watchful eye during movie night ever after.

But Chucks come in many shapes and sizes. Some simply enjoy inquiring about the obvious.

Here's my question for this Chuck: Honestly, if you can see what I'm doing, do you really need to ask me about it?

“Whatcha eatin there?”

“A unicorn.”

Is that what you want to hear? Because I can't glamorize a sandwich — it is what it is and everybody knows what it looks like.

I can't figure out just how to deal with these Chucks. Strangling a Movie Spoiler Chuck is one thing, but an Obvious Situation Chuck isn't the type to get derailed on a quest for knowledge.

In the end, a large portion of my responses to Obvious Situation Chuck are inevitably snarky — I just can't help myself.

“Are you on the phone?”

“No, I was just holding the phone on my ear here because I like the way it makes me look thin.”

A small part of me hopes that this answer will discourage any further questioning, but little do I know that this Chuck is filled with all the useless inquiries in the world.

Here's the big one, and I'll never understand why this question exists, unless purely to torture that poor soul on the receiving end: “Are you OK?”

Am I OK? Sure sure, of course I'm OK. I was just yanking the hair out of my head because I wanted that retro-mohawk look that my niece's Cabbage Patch doll got after she experimented with the scissors. And I launched my cell phone across the room because I hate hearing that I won the lottery, darn my good luck.

I'm not hyperventilating because your questions make me feel like banging my head against the wall until I black out.

No, Mr. Obvious, I'll be alright — bald — but alright.
——————

Katy Blair, a Globe reporter and Effingham native, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

My brunette is showing

I'm not old enough to be forgetting things like I do.

I've had genuine panic attacks from not being able to recall what I ate for lunch or if I locked the door on my way out of the house.

I truly forgot my birthday one year, and no, I wasn't soaking in a pool of self-pity that I reached the 22-25 age group. I just literally forgot after running around campus all day.

The worst part isn't even birthdays or anniversaries, which everyone is expected to forget eventually. It's all the little things - where I put the keys, the grocery list, the remote, did I put that check in the mail?

I recently used a pair of my trimming scissors to trim up my dog, Ryfle, who is somewhat of a pansy about the clippers being near his nose.

The last time he "allowed" me to trim the bridge of his nose, he jerked his head around and ended up with a chunk of hair missing. (I don't blame him for being hinky, I would be too if I had to look like a lopsided clown for four months.)

Thus, those scissors are vitally important to our clipping procedure - he refuses to allow me to use anything else.

Admittedly, I stole those scissors from Mom one day, years ago, and claimed them as my own. I like them - they work perfect for Ryfle's bangs, as well as my own.

So when they went missing several weeks ago, I was not pleased, but I knew it was my fault. After I finished with Ryfle, I put them down somewhere, gave him a bath and forgot to return them to the bathroom.

Then I forgot about them for a couple weeks, and by the time I remembered, they were long gone. I looked everywhere I thought they might be, because by that time, I also forgot where I initially put them down.

My beloved scissors were missing in action for a good three months, until one night while shuffling around the house once again, complaining they were misplaced, Mom conveniently tells me right where they are.

I have serious doubts about her innocence in all that scissor business, but I'll let it slide.

The real problem is, I get obsessed when I've lost something, and although I can't remember where it is to save my life, I sure remember it's lost. It would be better if I just forgot the whole ordeal but ... no.

In moments of crazed delusion, I actually consider the possibility of mischievous sprites stealing my possessions while I'm asleep and flitting away to hide them, so they can enjoy my frantic disheveling of the room later.

I get so angry sometimes that I just start losing grip with reality. For some reason, I insist that the item must be in one exact location, no matter how fuzzy my memory is on where it was last.

During my search, I'll check this location over and over again, wondering why it isn't there the next time I look. And of course, each time I make the rounds, my eyes pop out of my head a little and my hands start shaking.

The last time I lost my keys, I dumped my purse three times. Why the first two times didn't satisfy my suspicions, I have no idea. The same things fell out and went back in each time.

If I saw someone else going back to the same place every time to look, with that wild look in their eyes, I'd think they had gone nutty.

In the end, I will now and forever attribute my forgetfulness of late to the concussion I received in eighth grade.

All I really remember that day is the paramedics packing my frozen body off the ice block that Snow Creek apparently considered a triumph in artificial snow production.

Seeing the huge knot on my head, (oh yes, I plowed head-first into the ground), the paramedic asked me what day it was. I recall having a small panic attack as I tried to remember, until finally I said, "Saturday?"

I also recall ornery Mr. Royer walking beside the stretcher and laughing. "Oh, she's fine then. She never knows what day it is."

I think I even forgot to pay him back later for teasing me while half-conscious.

All this forgetfulness because of a little bump on the ice - why didn't I stay on the bunny slope?

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Katy Blair is an Effingham native and Globe reporter. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214 or at katyblair@npgco.com.

40 minutes or it's free

I just want to get in and get out. Is that really so much to ask?

The simple truth is that I don't want to deal with long lines when I go shopping, especially for three items. I get impatient - glaring at the people holding up the line, glaring at the people behind me glaring at me like I should do something about the holdup, glaring at the nearest employee not doing anything to speed things up. Glaring at everyone in general.

I'm not even going to broach the issues surrounding the ratio of customers to employees working the registers. It's a battle lost for ages.

So what do they do to help the lines along? Enter Fast Lane Self Checkout!

Yeah, right - more like "You're going to be here a while checkout." I'll tell you why.

My recent shopping experience concluded with the same results. I walked around, desperately trying to figure out what I needed, and when all was done, I had a headache.

Who knew shopping could be so stressful for a woman?

So with my headache, I marched up to the checkout area, scanning the line situation. Of course, the few that were in operation were all backed up.

As I have become a self checkout enthusiast - proficient in the art of scanning bar codes, I might say - I headed straight for my area of expertise.

Sure, there were a few people waiting, but it's self checkout - I assumed that people in that line knew how to wrap things up quick-like.

Here's one problem: Not only do they let just anyone into self checkout, but they also let anything. "Fast Lane" doesn't mean buy half the store. The general rule of thumb is 20 items or less, that is it!

The woman attempting to use the scanner when I arrived had a full cart.

Obnoxious as that was, I held my composure and took my place in line. After about 15 minutes and a time-consuming issue trying to write a check at the self checkout, which doesn't process checks without employee involvement, Satan incarnate finally concluded her soccer mom-charade and left with a heaping cart.

The next woman stepped up, and I thought for sure she was going to bat. She looked as eager to leave the store as I did.

She went a little slow, but then again, my standards are probably a little high. I speed-check, no time to waste.

Was it toilet paper or paper towels? I can't remember, but she could not find that bar code. I mean, it was a polar bear in a blizzard to her.

So scan, scan and scan some more. I don't know how many times she swiped that package with no resounding beep to comfort her, or anyone else for that matter.

After about 10 attempts, I was ready to jump in and show her the bar code. Heck, I was ready to scan the rest of her cart, put her inside and push it out the doors, careening all the way to her car.

Too far, I know, but I felt insanity closing upon me. I was frantic inside. She just kept swiping.

Swipe. Swipe. How many times can a person do that before they realize it's not going to work?

I don't think she even had the bar code near the scanner, she was just scanning the bottom as if it had to be in that one location.

I think I was having an aneurysm when she finally got that paper scanned. She was happily sacking it, all proud that she finally overcame the machine, and I was clinging to the railing, eyes rolled back, foaming at the mouth.

Needless to say, a 40-minute wait at the Fast Lane Self Checkout spurred me to finish my business quickly.

I furiously scanned, sacked, swiped, punched in my PIN and ripped that receipt. Marriages in Hollywood have lasted longer than that checkout.

My advice for all of you amateurs trying to play with the big dogs - stay on the porch. Fast Lane Self Checkout is for the serious shoppers only. You slow them up, and you may just find your mugshot on the "Slow Shoppers Most Wanted" bulletin board.

I've been watching a lot of The Shield lately. You take your chances in that fast lane and get caught, well ... I wouldn't resist arrest if I were you.

That's no lie.

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Katy Blair, an Effingham native and Globe reporter, can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214 or at katyblair@npgco.com.

Plastic makes for pensive shopping

I just know it - Coldplay is out to get me. So is Will Ferrell.

Obviously, I'm a big Will Ferrell fan, so, needless to say, I was chomping at the bit to get his latest movie, Semi Pro. I was equally excited for the new Coldplay album, Viva La Vida.

I was less enthused when I got home.

Not because of the quality, of course, I thoroughly enjoyed both. My significant other can attest to that, as last time we watched the movie, I was writhing with hysterical laughter.

In fact, I laughed so hard, I began that silent laughter - eyes closed, mouth wide open, maybe a little hiss or two. You know the one, where you have to stop yourself because you're no longer breathing.

No, it wasn't the product. It was the package.

Oh yes, that shiny plastic with its colorful stickers, gleaming from its conveniently placed spot on the shelf.

Of course, I can't avoid the plastic so tightly wound around my grand prize, so I reassure my delusions that this purchase is a good idea, no matter what.

When I get home, it's just me and that plastic

With a sigh, I pull it out of the bag.

First, I assess my nail situation - is there enough to do the job? Finding a sharp utensil is out of the question. My nails are right here, and sharp things are elsewhere. It's just too much work.

Furthermore, using scissors on this task is almost an insult. I can do it myself - I don't need no stinking scissors, as my father might say.

Besides that, scissors are never readily available. I can only find them when I have absolutely no use for them.

In fact, sometimes when I stumble upon them in the house, I'll frantically search for one of those pre-approved credit cards and chop it to oblivion. Just out of spite that I can't find them when I actually need them.

So I know I'm going to immediately regret this decision, but I choose to open that package with my recently filed-down nails and brute strength alone.

Here we go.

The first step is location - where are the edges sealed together? It's impossible to find an easy way to tear open that clear nonsense. There is no way I'm going to figure out which edge of the plastic is on top and which is on bottom.

So I'm running my fingers over the seal, trying to get a nail underneath, hoping I'll make it work this time and it will all be over with. It's unfortunate that I am always wrong.

Sure, I manage to break the glue and get a little corner of the seal sticking up, but this is several minutes after the scissors would have been done with the whole thing.

Ever so gently, I pinch the corner between my fingers and begin to peel it back. Feeling success so close at hand, a triumphant smile spreads across my once-troubled face.

Oh no, this fight isn't over so easily. To my horror, the plastic tears the wrong way and I look down to see only a sliver of it in my fingers, like a tiny glass shard.

The smile quickly dissipates. I take a deep breath, maybe two, and think to myself, "This is OK. You can do it, just peel slower."

So I get my nail under the opening and start peeling once again.

How can each effort produce such an insignificant amount of progress? I feel like I'm taking crazy pills at this point.

Finally, in a desperate act of self-preservation, I scramble with the case. Clawing, biting and screaming are all fair game; anything to get that plastic out of my life.

After several more minutes, and one or two people discovering me in a crazed state, offering to help, and receiving a low growl through my clenched teeth as a response, I break the plastic in a T-shirt ripping, Hulk-like manner.

I'm now laughing maniacally with the CD in one hand, raised triumphantly, and those nearby are staring in shock as they just witnessed a mental breakdown.

As I prepare myself to open the hard-earned prize, light shining on me and music playing gloriously, I hear a chuckle. Whether it's inside my head or someone in the room, I don't know because I'm past the point of no return.

I hear a quiet voice say, "Did you forget about the tape on the sides of the case?"

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Katy Blair is an Effingham native and Globe reporter. She can be reached at 367-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.

Eardrums and underwear

Here's a little-known fact about me - I have a bad ear.

As a Marching Jayhawk, I spent four years in the stands of Memorial Stadium, screaming like an idiot, waving my trumpet about.

I also spent those four years between the drumline, a bunch of highly-talented, arrogant noisemakers, and a friend, who liked to scream into my ear while also convulsing and waving his trumpet about, after each and every yard we gained.

My ear was accosted one hot Saturday afternoon by Scott, who lost his composure after something I probably couldn't even explain, despite the many years of Dad trying to teach me the rules of men senselessly beating on each other.

I don't think I will ever fully understand why he says it was "fun" to punch each other at the bottom of a tackle pile.

Beyond that, I still don't understand the rules and my ear has never been the same since Scott's girlish squeal bounced off my eardrum- football has done me no good.

And yet, I watch it on television every year, enduring the confusion and trying to enjoy the spirit. But that bad ear haunts me.

The camera cuts to the "talking heads" and then to a commercial, so Dad and I will begin discussing a play someone just screwed up, badmouthing a player or two, until we're at the point of yelling and Mom has to bang on a pot to get our attention.

Meanwhile, I can feel this strange frustration slowly creep upon me. I'm starting to get a headache and I can feel my neck tense at the strain in my voice.

What could it be, you ask?

The commercials.

Everything is fine until the commercials come on. We're having a jolly time discussing plays, I'm learning things, it's all good.

Then all of a sudden, the dog runs from the room with his tail between his legs. I'm not surprised - Cuba Gooding Jr. is yelling at him about how he's wearing Michael Jordan's underwear.

He won't be coming back because now people obviously afflicted with Tourette's syndrome are yelling, "It's my money and I want it now!"

The truth of the matter is, they don't even have to be yelling in the commercial. The commercial itself is so loud, I can hear the silence - it's buzzing at me.

Conversation has gone from discussing plays to complaining about how loud the commercials are when the plays are over.

The worst thing is, we don't realize how loud we are talking until the game is almost back on.

There we are, sitting three feet apart, practically yelling over Cuba's voice. It's as frustrating as if he were jumping around in the room, waving his hand in my face and singing, "I'm not touching you, I'm not touching you!"

I just feel like slapping him and shouting, "Shut up!" until I realize he's on the TV.

Sure, we can turn the volume down, but that requires a lot of planning ahead. Otherwise, we'll be blasted as soon as the green field disappears from the screen.

These days, we can't just enjoy the game. We have to be on guard.

Dad sits upright - remote in hand - ready to hit the mute button.

I watch intently, knowing the commercial is approaching, ready to cover my poor ear that's too sensitive to stand the decibels at which cavemen complain about their various injustices.

To make matters worse, it seems the television companies always pile on commercials near the end of a show, especially movies. For every 5 minutes of The Matrix, there are 20 minutes of loud commercials.

And why do the guys get all the good commercials? During 50 First Dates, you know you'll see at least one during every commercial break where a woman jumps into a lake because she's got the perfect tampon.

But for commercial breaks during testosterone-charged movies like The Matrix, there are action-packed, inventive commercials with tricked-out Mustangs recklessly engaged in off road, high-speed chases, and shower robots that meticulously shave your face.

I know that my boyfriend is praying there isn't an Axe commercial with gorgeous, half-naked women in it, or he'll feel my icy glare pierce his flesh from across the room as he watches blonde, busty well-groomed heathens tramp about.

So not only do I hate how loud the commercials are, but now I'm jealous, too.

What with commercial envy and Cuba constantly going on about those underwear, I can only think of one nagging, ever present complaint while watching television: "Loud noises!"

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Katy Blair is a Globe reporter and Effingham native. She can be reached at 376-0583, Ext. 214, or at katyblair@npgco.com.