The eyes have it. And want to give it back.

As an editor of a trade newsletter I have to review legal and compliance articles for our monthly publication. These articles are seldom fun to read. And since I don’t write these articles, it is a chore to slog through words that are only found in legal dictionaries and decipher enough acronyms to fill an entire gallon of alphabet soup.

Lawyers and those who dwell in regulatory purgatory seem to relish the use of words and phrases known only to those of the same breed. It’s like a secret language they share and are fiercely protective of their right to confuse common folk like me with their $64 mil words.

In recent months, my right eye has been wholly uncooperative in the proof reading process. Blurry vision in that eye forces me to cock my head at odd angles in order to focus. Two ophthalmologists are stumped by the fact that a cataract has formed in my right eye. Usually affecting those who qualify for senior citizen discounts, cataracts are not very common in people my age. It’s nice to be acknowledged as “too young” though it would have been better if the reasons were flawless skin or tight abs, not an untimely eye affliction. (For the record, I have neither flawless skin nor tight abs.)

This leads me back to proofreading legal and compliance articles. I have to conclude that this arduous task is what ultimately caused my right eye to cloud up. From a medical standpoint, I am too young to have a cataract. I have not suffered trauma to my eye recently. (Getting bashed in the face with a door 20 years ago by an angry ex-husband does not count.) I am very good about wearing sunglasses and my regular glasses are UV protected. So it stands to reason that compliance and legal articles cause cataracts in unsuspecting editors. All the run-on sentences, multi-syllable words, and cryptic abbreviations are hazardous to your optical well-being. And let’s not forget those annoying symbols. Is § really a necessary part of our language? Yes, it is which makes it even more irritating.

My cataract surgery takes place in early March. Though I have to check into a hospital, they will let me go home after the procedure and I am deemed lucid enough to walk out the door. I’m sure I’ll be forced to wear one those tacky hospital gowns that never quite cover your behind. Local anesthesia is all I’ll need says my doctor, though I tried my best to negotiate for general anesthesia, which is denied. I may get some back up drugs, but I must be awake for the procedure.

“Don’t worry,” my doctor reassures me. “It’s a fun surgery!” Maybe for him, but invasive medical procedures are not high on my list of fun things to do. But I give my doctor credit for enjoying his work.

Secrets behind the fast food counter

For months, my teen son has talked about a secret menu at Jamba Juice. The inner cynic in me dismissed my son's talk as urban legend. Frustrated, teen son directed me to a Google search that uncovered secret menus, not only at Jamba Juice, but Starbucks and MacDonalds. Suddenly, I was thrust into a gustatory Da Vinci Code mystery that needed investigating.

Not wanting to appear foolish at the counter, I made sure I read up on these secret menus. Sour Patch Kids, Apple Pie, White Gummy Bears, and some chocolate concoction that came with a disclaimer were at one point regular Jamba Juice items. But decision makers at the health-conscious smoothie business decided to pull the high calorie items off the menu. The recipes were kept "under the table" for those willing to risk a diabetic coma.

Starbucks' secret menu was less about the product type and more about how much more money the coffee behemoth can French press out of customers. One "secret" at Starbucks is the "short" size cup. The regular menu items are served up in sizes "Tall", "Grande", and "Venti". However, those who know about the secret menu can order their coffee "short" and save. Of course, Starbucks doesn't want everyone short-ordering their over-priced coffee drinks, so mums the word.

MacDonald's secret menu seems to be the fast food giant's way of serving high fat fare without attracting the attention of the Food Police. Did you know you can order biscuits and gravy during the breakfast hours? Or how about substituting the regular hamburger patties in the Big Mac with quarter pound patties? And would you like fries with that coronary?

Curiosity got the best of me, so the Hubs and I took the rugrats to Jamba Juice today to test the validity of the secret menu. I wasn't sure what level of security clearance was needed to access the secret menu, but I was not going to stand for a wand search and my belt and shoes were going to stay on, thank you very much. The first order attempt was met with confusion at the counter. Sour Patch Kids and Apple Pie apparently were not made at this location. White Gummy Bear and Chocolate Covered Strawberry, however, made the cut. The young man at the counter chuckled when we told him about the secret menu items we found on the Internet. He even offered to make whatever secret menu items came with recipes next time we visited.

I wonder what other secret menus lurk behind fast food counters. It is a mystery worth unwrapping.

Clueless people debunk theory of evolution

I try not to let my inner cynic rear its ugly head too often. As a God fearing woman, I have to remind myself that we are all God's creation - some more refined than others - but the Lord loves us all.

In the past week, I've come across people who have truly tested my "What-Would-Jesus-Do?" resolve to be patient, loving, and understanding. These encounters convinced me that clueless people - especially those who get mad when they realize how clueless they are - totally debunk the theory of evolution. Clearly, if the theory was true, these sorry souls would have died off millenniums ago.

My first encounter was more sad and funny in an ironic sort of way. A sweaty young man wandered into my office, sporting dreadlocks, smudgy clothes, and a scent that was less than fresh. Confused, he indicated he wanted a job with the Census office, couldn't locate the building, but came in because my office address was close.

"What's the address?" I ask. "Let me Google Map it"

"It's 1650 S. King Street," he replies.

I Google Map the address. It points to the cross walk in front of our building. Thinking I'm not seeing a clear enough view, I switch to satellite and sure enough, the end point of 1650 S. King Street lands right on that cross walk.

The confused young man with questionable hygiene exits even more befuddled than before. My curiosity piqued, I call the local Census office only to discover the actual address is 1560 S. Beretania Street. I also learn census takers are paid $17 per hour, which probably piqued the young man's interest. Unfortunately, if this young man is dyslexic and illiterate, he may not be the best candidate for the job.

My next encounter was a bit more irritating as it happens more times than necessary. As a trade association representing credit unions, many people mistakenly call our office thinking we are their credit union. Granted many credit union names begin with "Hawaii" but our organization's moniker includes the word "League" which, to me, differentiates us enough. Unless, you are terminally clueless.

This time, a woman calls and says, "I want you to check my account balance!" Sensing an attitude issue, I muster up my polite voice so I can sweetly reply, "Excuse me?"

"Check the balance in my account!"

Now my inner bitch is awakened. It takes all my strength not to snap back. Instead, I remain polite. "Oh, I'm sorry, we are not a credit union. Which credit union are you looking for?"

Here's where the realization that something clueless has occurred causes the clueless one to get a bit testy.

"I'm calling Hawaii Central. That's my credit union," she retorts.

"Let me give you the number," I offer.

"Never mind, I have it!" Click!

I swear, calls like this happens at least a couple of times a day. It amazes me that some people have no idea where their money is deposited. Sometimes, people are embarrassed and apologetic and I have no problem helping them located their credit union. But people like Ms. Testy make me want to play along and say, "Oh, I'm sorry. All the funds were withdrawn and that account has been closed."

Definitely NOT what Jesus would do.

The Teen Years - Part 1: The Girlfriend

I had my suspicions for weeks. The whispered phone calls. The endless g-chats and Facebook posts. All the signs were there, but wasn't sure I was ready to face the inevitable. But it's now official. My son has a girlfriend.

Last night I was playing The Game of Life with my 10 year old daughter and her dad. Well, I was actually losing The Game of Life with over $200,000 in debt, but that's a whole other issue. Suddenly, my 13 year old son enters the room full of nervous energy.

"Mom, come..."
"Why, what's wrong?"

"Just come, I wanna show you...something."

I followed my son to the TV room where he plants himself in front of the computer for more hours than I'd like.

"Here," he says quickly. "She wants to chat with you." My son quickly types in "Here's my mommy!" and dashes off to take a shower.

The Girl! I knew it! Now I can find out what's really going on! Never one to mince words, I type, "Are you guys BF and GF?"

"Yes. I wanted him to tell you, but he was scared, I guess."

That surprised me since my son always told me what was on his mind. In fact, I used to tease him about never having an unspoken thought. Now he was afraid to tell me about a girlfriend? Teenage boys should come with an owner's manual.

A few months ago I asked my son if he would tell me when he had a girlfriend. His quick affirmation was comforting. My boy would not withhold information, I thought. So when I found out - through the girlfriend no less - that there was love in the air, it was a bit disheartening.

To his credit, my son indicated this BF/GF status was established less than a week prior, so it wasn't like he was actually withholding information. And he did let me chat with the girl and was willing to let her break the news to me.

"As a parent, I think you should know." said this obviously intelligent girl. She's smart enough to know the importance of being nice to your boyfriend's mom.

I breathe a sigh of relief. This girl doesn't appear to be one of those giggly, socially incapacitated teens that infest the malls. I find myself chatting online with a most delightful girl. Bright, polite, sweet, and apparently enamored with my son.

That night, I had a hard time falling asleep. I keep remembering my son as a baby - cute, chubby, happy, and mommy's little guy. Then it hit me. I was no longer Alpha Female in my son's life. I felt sad.

"They always come back to Mama," my friend reassures me today. She has two teens of her own, so I assume she knows from experience.

It's time to shift the Mom Gears again. No longer holding his hand, I know I have to let my son find his way through this adventure called adolescence. But I know I will always be here whenever he needs some mom time. And I look forward to that.

Look Ma! Uncle Bobby's on da Internet!

It’s Wednesday! Time for another round of, “Look Ma! All these drunks got busted last week!”

http://www.honolulupd.org/traffic/OVUII/arrestees.htm

Today’s highlights: Angelina MENDOZA looks like she’s thinking, “Whaaa? Me drunk? Drink no neva I went!” Naoro CARELESS lived up to his name by driving drunk and getting caught. And someone needs to tell Jade R. GOIN, “This is ...a mug shot! Not your chance to be American’s Next Top Model!”


Every week I look forward to what is probably becoming a favorite reality show in our fair city. On Wednesdays at 10:00am the Honolulu Police Department posts its drunk driver arrests from the past week. It's a voyeuristic adventure into the lives of those dumb enough to drive drunk and get caught. Check it out. You may see someone you know!

Dead man sleeping

After nearly 20 years working at my office, I experienced a "first" today. Bright and early this Friday morning I drove up to our parking lot to find it full of police vehicles. Standing in the middle of the driveway was our company vice president, a petite woman who looked even tinier surrounded by burly police officers. She was holding a cell phone to her ear with one hand and motioning at me to drive in with the other hand.

"You may park in your regular stall, but just to let you know, the homeless man who sleeps in our lot passed away."

If the caffeine had not kicked in at that point, her bit of news woke me up.

Homeless dude. An unnamed fellow who decided a few months ago that our parking lot was a great place to camp out each night. I only ran across him once or twice as he was very good about clearing out when the first employee drove in before dawn. Sometimes, he would oversleep, but when car headlights woke him up, he would silently pack whatever belongings he had and move along.

By the time I parked my car, the firefighters and paramedics had arrived. I often wonder why firefighters get dressed up in full gear to respond to ambulance calls. They spent maybe 10 minutes at the most on the scene, then left the paramedics to do their work. I found it interesting that the paramedics hooked up a heart monitor and took a blood pressure reading from an obviously dead man. I mean, the full-rigor status was convincing enough for me, but I guess protocols must be observed. A couple of hours later, the coroner arrived to officially pronouned the man dead. Another hour or so passed before the morgue van came to whisk the man off to his final destination.

I am often nonchalant about the homeless people who wander the neighborhood where I work. In the past few years their numbers increased dramatically when the city closed Ala Moana Park at night to discourage homeless camps. I admit becoming highly annoyed when the Waikiki Health Center opened shop two doors down from our office and their homeless clientele used our parking lot as a toilet. (The center left the area after a few months.) But looking at the lifeless body of one of these forgotten souls made me realize homeless people are human just like the rest of us.

At one time, this man lying dead in our parking lot was someone's baby. He may have been someone's brother or uncle or even husband and father. One of my co-workers said she had heard he was employed. Another said that she would say "Hi!" to him when she had to come to the office after hours.

It is sad that this man died alone in our parking lot. No one was there to hold his hand as he took his last breath. No one shed tears when the last essence of life left his body. I'm sure this scenerio plays out all across our city every day. The remains of unattended deaths probably fill the city morgue. But getting an up close look at such a tragedy makes you wonder: What happened to this man that brought him to this place and his ultimate demise? And how many more like him are on a similar path? There are no easy solutions and no quick answers.

Welcome to Life in the Cube

Change is supposed to be a good thing. Just ask the baby with a loaded diaper. I don't mind change as long as it's loose and causes cans to fall out of the soda machine. But a recent change in my work environment unleashed a surprising sea of emotion.

A misunderstanding led me to believe I needed to move out of my cozy little office at the back of the building into a cubicle next to the lobby. I had been in my office for 10 of the nearly 20 years I've been at my job. It became somewhat of a sanctuary when office politics became overwhelming or when certain coworkers became unbearable. Now my office was needed as a small conference room, which is what it used to be before I moved in.

Trying to be the obedient worker drone I said yes when my boss asked me to make the move. A few days later, she informed me that it was "just a question" and not a directive. Funny how one message comes out of one person's mouth and enters another person's ear completely different.

This happened at a particularly challenging time when the inability to meet deadlines on the part of others became emergencies on my part. Bogged down with work, I was unable to really think about moving out of my office. The enormity of this change hit me when I got out of a meeting one morning and the entire contents of my office were now placed in the cubicle. The lack of privacy and sense of loss hit me hard. As one sympathetic friend said, "Welcome to Life in the Cube!"

Day One in the Cube

Trying to look on the bright side. More square footage allows me to spread my stuff out. There's nothing like having a place for 20 years of accumulated stuff. Wait! Where the hell is my stapler? I move 20 feet from my office to the Cube and I lose a stapler? What happened to that manila envelope I need to take to a meeting tonight? Aaargh.

Day Two in the Cube

Attempted to participate in a webinar without real walls and a door. Distractions abound! People talking on all sides of my Cube. Foot traffic in and out of my boss's door. Got to put on the headphones. Dang! Volume is redlining and I can still hear all the noise. Frustration sets in and I log out of webinar. Good thing I bought the downloads so I can watch later. In an enclosed space.

Day Three in the Cube

Requested an additional panel to block distracting foot traffic passing my Cube on the way to boss's door. Unfortunately, the Cube panels are not high enough to prevent my taller coworkers from peeking over at me like an army of "Killroy Was Here" characters. (Now there's a Google-worthy 1970s reference!)

Day Four in the Cube

Talking to business associate on phone. Suddenly the entire staff gathers in the lobby, whispering. Looks like they're getting ready to sing Happy Birthday to big boss. What? He's not in his office? Must be in the men's room, which is right next to my Cube. I hear shuffling around and muted giggles. Suddenly 15 questionable warblers burst into song as big boss exits the men's room. This effectively ends my phone conversation. (Insert heavy sigh here.)

By the end of the work week, I was emotionally drained. It surprised me how moving from one space to another could affect me so deeply. I've had challenges in life before and either handled them well or completely fell apart. For the sake of my sanity and because I am a woman of faith, I resolved to believe that God has a plan for me that doesn't include four walls and a door. Why should I complain about where in the office I do my job when I am blessed to actually have a job? And though a misunderstanding with my boss precipitated this move, she is still an awesome boss. So with the Lord by my side and a steady supply of dark chocolate, I will embrace my new life in the Cube. Just know that if you peek over my Cube panels, you do so at your own risk.