Volunteering to Waste My Time

Last year I began the arduous process of becoming a volunteer at a local hospital that I won't name because that would be mean. Besides, I might get sick and end up in their ER, so it's best to stay friends.

It started in late August with an online application. After that was approved I was invited to an orientation meeting which took about an hour, not counting the half hour drive there and back. Next I went to an interview with the head of the volunteer program, followed by another orientation meeting, and then a training session on proper hand-washing, another on how to talk to patients and another to tour the hospital, have my ID badge photo taken and pick out my "uniform." (I had a choice of a fleece vest or a cotton cardigan, each imprinted with the hospital name and the words VOLUNTEER AMBASSADOR. I went with the cardigan.) Every step occurred on a different day and required me to drive downtown, find a place to park, then drive home again of course.

Once I was approved to work for no pay, I then had to have a TB test, wait a month, have another TB test, two blood tests and a couple of immunizations. By now we were deep into November.

Finally I was ready to "job shadow," which I did two weeks in a row to observe two other volunteers performing the same job I would be doing. After that I started for real, deemed ready to do what all my training had been leading up to: Push a cart around the pediatric ward and dispense fun-sized Halloween candies to the doctors and nurses on duty. That was the number one task. Really. Apparently they work so hard and are so stressed that they need the sugar, or something. Anyway, they all seemed really excited to get the candy. None of them ever spoke to me at all, they just chose their candies and walked away.

After the candy dispensing was done I walked around and knocked on all the doors to all the patients' rooms, using hand sanitizer each time, and asked the distressed parents of the sick children if they needed anything. They all always said no.

After that I quit. (Actually I voiced my displeasure, told the docs and nurses they should not be eating candy in a pediatric ward, and was reassigned. Then I quit.)

Moral of the Story: Volunteers are unnecessary and anything vaguely important that needs being done is already being done by people who get paid to do it.

My Favorite Columnist

We have the New York Times delivered to our home each Sunday, and each week I do the crossword puzzle and never even look at the rest of the paper. Heck, I never even see what's on the cover of the magazine, I just flip to the puzzle page and keep it there. Then when it's done I throw the whole damn thing into the recycle bin. I simply don't care to know what other people I have never met are thinking, writing, or even doing. And that Maureen Dowd-- she's a big deal over at the Times but her writing makes me nauseous.

So it's sort of crazy that here I am writing a blog and getting upset when there are fewer readers than I would wish. But then, why would anyone want to read what I write? One reason is that it's a blog, so I have no boss and make no money; part of the problem with the pros is that the things they write must pass muster with The Powers That Be.  And once published they are A, often full of grammatical errors (which really pisses me off) and B, heavily edited for content and thus something less than heartfelt.

Then there are the so-called "puff pieces," always about moronic topics like how to decorate your dorm room on less than $500 dollars or how to tell that your relationship is in trouble or seven foods never, ever to feed your dog, all things you already know. And I can't read the inane ramblings of political pundits because it's all just hot air and none of it pertinent to my life. Elections are mostly contests between inflated egomaniacs battling for the limelight, and how can we take them seriously when Mike Huckabee and Sarah Palin are considering a run for president but a seasoned pro like Mitt Romney is not?

Almost worse are those "human interest" stories that break your heart, or at least mine, which is problematic since I'm already hanging on by a thread emotionally most of the time. Like one I read today about a 51-year-old man in Ireland who was swept out to sea by a rogue wave while he was spreading his recently deceased sister's ashes into the ocean as his three young nieces stood by and could do nothing to save him. Is God a sadist or what?

I do enjoy reading my own words though, and some of my posts written years ago are often very funny and still crack me up. As for other columnists, they bore me.

Weather Willies

Something to ponder: If you walk out to get your newspaper at the end of your driveway while it's snowing and you suffer a heart attack and die, is it fair to label your death as being caused by the storm? I think not, yet the crazies over at the Weather Channel are fairly hysterical over the fact that "Winter storm Linus has already caused four deaths!"  Two were from shoveling snow and two were from car accidents. What about the people who die shoveling snow when there's no storm, like just on a regular, sunny day after the snow has stopped? Or in car accidents every day of the year? Who's to blame for those?

Illustration by Chris Piascik

Making matters worse, as if a killer storm is not bad enough, the word on the street -- actually on the TV-- is that the groundhog in Pennsylvania saw his shadow, or at least the people holding him up in the air saw his shadow, and so the prediction is for six more weeks of winter. This is dire news if you ask me, and in direct opposition to my trying to calm down, focus on the breath and turn my mind into an ally.

The fact is that every new batch of snow has a name these days, unlike when I was growing up and it was just "snowing" and actually kind of nice. This particular batch is named Linus for some reason, certainly not for the lovable dog in the Peanuts cartoon. Right now in New York City where it is "super icy," Linus is dumping "waffle-sized flakes" on the helpless citizens! (Personally, I would pay good money to see those.)

A Rebel in Patriot Territory

My husband is watching the Superbowl. That's to be expected I suppose. Still, I want nothing to do with it, yet he wants me to just hang out with him in the same room and watch the commercials, which cost like 4 million dollars a spot.

I arrived during the half-time show, just in time to see a singer named Katy Perry change into a lot of different costumes. At one point she was surrounded by dancers dressed as pieces of fruit. For the finale she was elevated over the crowd and carried around the stadium on some sort of platform like Peter Pan on acid while fireworks exploded around her. I wished so much she would fall. Not die or anything, you understand, just make it stop.

Now the game is back between the Cheaters who deflated the footballs and the Other Team. Apparently it is exciting, although my husband says he doesn't really like either team and so he doesn't care who wins. "Although we are in Patriot territory, " he adds. I have never understood why you are supposed to root for a team just because you live in that city or even only near it. I still love the Yankees even though I live in Maine now and we are in Red Sox country.

I'm just a rebel I guess.

Besides the Snow, There's This

Painting by Umberto Boccioni, 1910

What with snow, snow and more snow on the way, not to mention frigid temperatures and high winds, Maine in winter has a way of dampening the spirit. So I was excited when, in our local birdcage-liner under the heading "Diversions," I found the following notice:
Post-Mortem Mourning Practices in 18th  & 19th Century New England
The Maine Historical Society offers a free lecture on the mourning practices in 18th and 19th century New England on Saturday, January 31, at 1:30 pm. In addition to wearing only black apparel for up to a year, mourners in New England abided by fashions and customs that demonstrated intense grief. A board member of Portland's historic Eastern Cemetery will lead us in an exploration of these practices.

To Be Jewish in Maine: Just Sayin'

They don't have this here, among other things.

I was born 68 years ago in Brooklyn, New York, in a Jewish hospital in a neighborhood full of Jews. We moved to Long Island when I was a year old, where I grew up eating bagels and lox and celebrating Hanukkah and Passover but still playing with all the Catholic kids on my street, none of whom treated me any differently than they treated each other.

There were lots of Jews and non-Jews in my high school, and lots of black kids too. Everyone always got along just fine. My religion never seemed to be an issue for me or anyone else. Eventually I married a Christian boy I had met in college and his parents loved me and accepted me instantly.

Years later I married another Jew after the first guy turned out to be Mr. Wrong. We lived in Washington, D.C. and then moved to Utah for his work. All the Mormons were intrigued by us and were extremely nice. We made good friends. I was hired for several jobs in the four years I lived in Salt Lake City. One was as a columnist for the Mormon-owned daily paper.

Eventually returning to Washington D.C., things were peachy. Lots of bagels and lox, but also lots of other things. Oddly enough, my closest friends were not Jewish, but nobody ever thought a thing about it. Again I had many jobs, both full-time and freelance, and lots of dinner invitations.

Six years ago we moved to Maine. We have no friends here, except for one or two neighbors who have been superficially kind. I have interviewed for many positions, all far below my pay grade if you get my meaning, and been passed by. I have not been accepted as a volunteer at several places, one of them being the local YMCA. (ha!) Recently I was "fired" from a volunteer position which turned out to be a total waste of time and gave me absolutely no pleasure, but still, I was always punctual, willing and diligent, so wtf?

Besides New York, D.C. and Utah, over the years I've also lived in California and Maryland, but it's only been here in Maine, America's whitest state, where Jews comprise 1% of the population (in Utah that figure is .0.2%), that I finally understand how discrimination works: Stealthily, and under the radar.

Not Funny

I can still remember back when if someone said, "five to eight" or "ten to twelve," I assumed they were talking about an appointment time. Now I know they really mean how many inches of snow we are getting up here in the frozen north.

It's not funny.