Kindergarten at Sacred Heart

It's 1956, I'm 4 years old, and my parents decide I need to strike out on my own. They enroll me in kindergarten even though I won't turn 5 until December. I feel betrayed and I am scared out of my mind. My sadistic brother Jim has already filled my innocent and trusting mind with the horrors of Sacred Heart School and the evil child hating nuns, priests and teachers. I've already been exposed every Sunday to the angry rants of Monsignor Blecke, so I knew Jim wasn't bullshittin' me. Monsignor would get up in that pulpit and get more pissed than he was the week before. He was always wanting more money. So every Sunday we'd put a tiny envelope in a basket that some old guy shoved in the pew right in front of you. Pretty subtle method to grab a little kid's nickel. I hated Blecke because he yelled all the time. ( I also hated Fred Mertz from 'I Love Lucy', 'cause he yelled all the time too).
So even though I knew what I was up against, my naive and trusting nature hoped that everyone in charge at school would embrace me with genuine love and affection, and prove Jim wrong.
Turns out, Jim was right. Authority was everywhere. Suddenly I'm not allowed to talk. I have to get in line for recess. Gotta get in line to come back in from recess. There's a line for the drinking fountain. There's a line for the lavatory. (That's a bathroom in Catholic school speak). We have to lay on a rug and take a nap. We have crayons that we're not allowed to break. We have paste that we are not allowed to eat. We have to sit at a round table with three other kids we can't talk to. I sit with Jim DeDecker, Joe Loftus, and Teresa DeRuyck. Joe, Jim and I all claimed Teresa as a girlfriend. I actually kissed her on the cheek though, so I won. We had to drink tepid whole milk from Baker's Dairy. Little glass bottles with paper tops. That shit stunk up the whole room. I hated milk, especially that stuff. It was only slightly cooler than a cow's body temperature. Some of the little bottles actually had cow hairs stuck to the lids, and cow poop on the steel racks the bottles came in. I refused to drink that stuff.  It was just way too gross. I wasn't allowed to substitute, not even with water, so every day at snack time I choked my graham cracker down unaided. My teacher was an old bag named Mrs. Shamoscow or something. She hated kids. My outstanding memory of this witch haunts me still. There is an easel in the corner of the room. It has a tablet of big-ass art paper on it. This stuff is for finger painting. How cool is that? Fingerpainting! I can only imagine the fun that would be. Only one kid at a time was allowed to  finger paint. So after weeks of waiting my turn, I asserted myself and asked that woman when I might have a turn. She said after Easter break. Oh happy f***ing day! I get to finger paint! Finally, Easter break comes and goes. Every day I anticipate Mrs. Old-cow will give me my turn. Maybe she forgot our pact. So I got up the nerve to confront her with my concerns, and I finally asked her. That old bat said we're all done with finger painting for the year, kid. I thought man, what a bitch. Not the situation. Her. That cranky old hag caused me to hate school and never trust authority. On her death-bed I hope her life flashed before her eyes and I hope she saw the disappointed face of a naive little kid all over again.
Maybe it's time to let it go. The memory is 53 years old. Nah. I'll keep it. Maybe it will help remind me to be a better person than Mrs. Shamoscow.

Dirty 'Cabin Filters'

This happened yesterday, Septmber 16, We took our car to a local quick change shop for an oil change. When the job was just about finished, the employee came in the waiting room with what looked to me like a dirty air filter. He says that it's a 'cabin filter' and it should be changed because it's really dirty. It was covered with dust and had a couple of tiny bugs on it. I said how much will it cost and he replies $49.99 but there's a 10% discount. Sounded to me like a lot of money for some fancy folded paper and cardboard. I told him to put it back in the car and I'll buy a filter at the store and put it in myself. A couple of minutes later he comes back in with another 'cabin filter' and says to the lady customer next to me that her filter is dirty and should be replaced. This example he held was even dirtier than mine. It actually had dirt and dust and plant material piled up on it. She also thought the $49.99 price tag was steep. She said her  husband can take care of it and to put it back in the car. Fast forward to our favorite AutoZone store where we bought a new filter for . . . $15.99. The parts store employee said that the 'cabin filter' deal is the latest way that oil change shops try to get more dollars from unsuspecting customers. So we get home and I start to change the filter. I read my owners manual and it gives the steps to do it yourself. Part of the process is removing the plastic cowl across the bottom of the windshield. So I approach the job and notice that said cowl is covered with Maple tree whirly birds, pine needles and other outdoorsy stuff that lodge behind the hood. If in fact the oil guy had pulled a fouled filter out of my car, all that old plant trash would have been knocked off the cowl and ended up in the oil change pit below the car. So I figure this guy didn't remove the cowl or my filter. The shop must have dirty filters for any given car that might come in for an oil change. That way the oil guy can pitch to any customer the dirty cabin filter scam. I have a thing against spending money at businesses that employ weasels with crooked sales tactics, so three thousand mile from now I'll find a new and hopefully honest oil change shop.

Doesn't seem quite right.

The local gas station/convenience store seemed to be changing their gas prices a little too often. So my wife asked the clerk what their criteria was for setting gas prices. The woman said that when an employee has to leave the store for work related business, like going to the bank, the employee would take note of other gas station's prices. Upon returning to the store, the prices would be adjusted to the same level, sometimes several times in a day. So the gas prices they sell at have little to do with what they actually paid for the product. I don't know which is worse; Doing business in such a shady manner, or being dumb enough to actually tell someone.