Coffee heat rising

Service Dog…or Service Scam? Should You Have to Prove You’re Disabled?

Service dog vestSo while we’re on the subject of dogs… Did you realize that anyone — not just a legitimate handler — can get one of those dog harness vests that distinguishes the animal as a service dog? With one of those on cute little Fang, you can take your dog in a restaurant, grocery store, or just about any other establishment, and you can take your dog on a plane in the passenger compartment, for free.

Think how handy and dandy that would be.

Convenient, indeed. During a good five or six months of every year, you can’t safely leave your dog in the car here in Arizona, not even long enough to run into the supermarket and grab a few salad ingredients. In fact, you can be arrested for doing so.

Often when I would take the German shepherd for a walk in one of the desert parks, I’d have liked to drop by a store on the way home. That the dog couldn’t stay in the car meant I had to schlep her all the way home and then go back out for the errand — adding miles to the day’s driving. People used to take their pet dogs into the Home Depot on hot days, but after awhile the management issued a “No Dawgs” edict.

It actually occurred to me to try to trick out a standard harness to make it look like a service dog vest. I assumed that these highly trained dogs had to be certified and registered, and that you could only obtain gear like this from organizations that did that kind of training.

service dog vest 2Wrong. It’s all over the Web. Amazon sells them in all sizes, shapes and colors, some with free patches and ID cards claiming the wearer is a service animal.

You can get an ID card with the dog’s picture on it.Service Dog card You can get a card outlining the rights of disabled persons to use service dogs and informing people that they can ask you only two questions — “Is this a service animal?” and “What does it do to help you?”

Service dog info cardBusinesses cannot deny access to a service dog unless it behaves disruptively — and they have to take your word for it that the animal is a service dog. Fear of dogs or allergies on the part of employees or customers is not a reason to refuse entrance. Owners are not required to have the dog certified or registered as a service animal. Airlines have special policies on how they fulfill the federal law requiring them to let you take your service dog on board, but other businesses are not allowed to demand proof that the animal is trained and registered; they have to accept your word for it.

Landlords also have to rent to people with service dogs and HOAs must allow them in condo communities — whether or not they have a “no pets” policy.

To take an “emotional service animal” — a dog meant to comfort you if you have a psychological issue — on a plane, you have to provide a letter from a psychologist or other qualified mental health worker saying you need the critter. But guess what? You can get those online, too!  For $164 and a minimal amount of hassle, at least one outfit will provide a prescription letter! Turnaround time is 24 hours after you’ve jumped through the online hoops.

To take your service animal on a plane, you need a letter of verification. You can buy one online for $75.  The vendor wants to charge you $75 for an annual renewal, but obviously, once you have one of these things, it would be easy to reproduce it on a computer. “Test scores, raw data, test questions/answers, and subjective results of interview questions, and counseling session notes,” they say, “are not available to clients or other inquirers. Only the specific services purchased will be provided.”  That is, no one can verify it!  Airlines have to take this outfit’s word for it.

Not surprisingly, we are far from the first to realize that it’s pretty easy to faze Poochie past just about anyone you please by claiming she’s a service dog. Any dog, including a chihuahua or a poodle, can qualify, especially if you claim it’s there to alert you of a pending seizure or to head off a nervous breakdown. People with real disabilities are rightfully irked at fakers and their phony service dogs.

In general, asking the dog owner much about the need for the animal violates the ADA. To take the dog into a business or get it into a no-pets-allowed rental or condo community, you’re not required to prove you’re disabled. Skeptics are prohibited from asking just what ailment you have that requires you to bring your dog into their restaurant or lodge it in their apartment building.  You can order a card, also online, that outlines your legal rights, which you can then shove in the face of anyone who dares to challenge you.

Three federal laws give service dogs special privileges:

The Americans with Disabilities Act grants service dogs access to public places, such as restaurants, stores and offices. The owner may not be questioned about disability but may be asked about the tasks the dog performs. A harness or leash must be worn unless it interferes with the dog’s work — but there’s no requirement that this gear mark the dog as a service animal.

The Air Carrier Act allows service dogs to fly in cabin of airplane. Passengers with emotional support or psychiatric service dogs may be asked to provide proof of disability and treatment from mental health professional.

The Fair Housing Act allows people with disabilities to keep emotional-support animals, even when landlord or homeowner’s association prohibits pets. It allows some limited questioning about disability and animal support.

Some of this has gone beyond the pale. For example, a while back we had the guy who claimed his parrot was a service animal.  Miniature horses, monkeys, ferrets, and even an iguana have been declared to be service animals..

Over the past couple of years, the government has made some efforts to curb the silliness. Just now, we’re told, “Only dogs and miniature horses may qualify as service animals; other species are now excluded.” But it doesn’t apply in all contexts: the Fair Housing Act,which applies to most permanent and semipermanent homes, retains the old, broader definition.

What if you’re allergic to horses or dogs and might get seriously ill being exposed to them in, say, a restaurant? Whose disability trumps whose?

What do you think? Should owners of all service animals be required to prove they really are disabled? And should service animals be licensed and registered — through a government agency, not through some Internet enterprise selling questionable paperwork?

Dogs That Bite

Blue_nose_pit_bull_puppy Okay, folks. I’m about to make some of you very, very angry. Sorry about that. But what’s happened here — and what happens hundreds of times a year — makes me mad and it should make you mad.

Let me start by saying I love my dogs just as much as you love your dogs.

However. We need to be realistic about what dogs are and about what a dog can do. Any dog, even a little one, can inflict serious damage on a human, especially if that human is a child. Big dogs can kill. And they do. With surprising frequency.

This week yet another little child here in Arizona was killed by pit bulls. The mother had left her kids with a long-time, trusted babysitter, a woman who usually came to the family’s home. For reasons unexplained in the media, this particular day she decided to leave the kids at the sitter’s home. At some point the sitter went outside to tend to the dogs, carrying the two-year-old in her arms. After she released them from their backyard kennel, in a routine way that she had done all their lives, the animals unexpectedly turned on her. They grabbed the baby away from her and attacked both the child and the woman. She tried to protect the child by covering him with her body, to no avail. He was killed and she was gravely injured.

Folks. A dog is not your child. A dog is not your benign little pal. No, not even if nothing could seem sweeter than your canine sidekick. Not even if it’s true that the more people you get to know, the better you like your dog. If you’re going to have dogs around you, you need to understand and be realistic about what they are — for your safety and for the safety of everyone you and they meet.

A dog is a mutated wolf. Over about 20,000 years, it has evolved to live with humans, and during that time its biology and psychology have changed. It breeds more often than a wolf does. It no longer has that big scent gland at the base of its tail. It can thrive on a more omnivorous diet than a wolf needs. It can follow the direction that your hand is pointing in. To a degree, it can understand many of the words you utter, and it can grasp your intentions by the tone of your voice, the expression on your face, the body language of your stance and your gestures. It may even think you’re part of its pack. Most of these are things an undomesticated wolf cannot or will not do.

Canis_lupus_lupus_qtl1But it is still a wolf. Many of its lupine characteristics persist in beneficial ways — the dog’s pack instinct, for example, makes it a useful companion for pods of humans, and its instinct to work together with other pack members lends it to hunting, herding, guarding…and those are good things. But that instinct is double-edged.

Wolves are predators. They are evolved to kill, and they kill by biting. That is the underlying nature of a dog. It’s something you forget at your peril.

Dogs have not evolved by accident and merry serendipity. They have become what they are today because humans deliberately manipulate their genes by breeding, giving us a wide variety of dog types with a wide variety of dog mentalities. All dogs can and, under certain conditions, will bite. But some dogs are significantly more dangerous than others. These include pit bulls — yes! And German shepherds, Rottweilers, doberman pinschers, St. Bernards, malamutes, chows, huskies, all of the Molosser breeds, and mixed-breed offspring of these varieties.

All dogs are capable of biting, but these breeds can be exceptionally dangerous. If you don’t believe me, take a look at this site. Read this stuff. Look at the photos. Watch the videos. Every day a thousand Americans are bitten seriously enough to need emergency care. That’s 4.7 million bites a year, of which 800,000 require medical care. The most dangerous dogs are pit bulls and other breeds developed specifically for fighting (and I’m sorry to have to say this, but “Pitties don’t bite unless they’re abused” is a myth).  Between 1982 and 2006, pit bulls, Rotweillers, Presa Canarios and mixes thereof were responsible for 65 percent of the fatal attacks on humans.

And now let me tell you a little story about what happened to my son.

At the time M’hijito was born, I had a German shepherd. Her name was Greta.

Greta was the single most extraordinary dog I have ever known. She would allow small children to crawl all over her and even poke her in the eyes; when she grew tired of this, she would simply stand up, shake them off, and walk away. She could recognize the difference between a stranger who meant no harm and one who bore watching. When roused — as she was the time a burglar entered the house in the middle of the night — she could be utterly, unthinkably terrifying. But where her own humans and their friends were concerned, she was mellow.

Every day Greta and I would walk around the neighborhood.

By the time my son was a toddler, she was getting on in years. She always would heel off the leash, and in my youthful callowness I rarely put her on a lead when we took our strolls through the yuppified historic district where we lived.

Our neighbors across the street had a dog about Greta’s size, a German shepherd mix named Colonel. This dog was allowed to lay around the front yard. Often when my son, Greta, and I would go for a walk, Colonel would amble along with us.

My little boy thought Colonel was about the funniest thing that ever came along, and Colonel loved little children. Colonel would allow the kids to hold onto his tail as he led them around.

So it was this particular afternoon. Colonel led the way up the sidewalk, with my son hanging onto his long, pennant-like red tail. I followed about ten or fifteen feet behind them, and Greta brought up the rear, pausing now and again to pee on the neighbor’s lawns and smell the flowers. Or whatever it is that dogs like to smell. She was a good twenty feet behind me.

As we approached Third Avenue, we came to a house on the corner that had a large wall around the side yard. This wall blocked the view of the street to the left of us.

Third Avenue had a bicycle path that was popular with the Yuppie residents, who, like today’s young upwardly mobile types, cherished physical fitness and would use the road for jogging and running.

When Colonel and my son, well ahead of me, came to this corner, all of a sudden up from behind the wall came a willowy young woman at a full run, with a great Dane on a leash about a body’s length ahead of her.

My son was a very small boy, the sort who doesn’t yet fully know language. He expressed delight and joy with a high-pitched squeal and a flapping of his little arms.

The instant he saw this huge dog, he shrieked QUEEEEKIEE QUEEEEKIEEEE QUEEEEEEEEE! and he dropped Colonel’s tail and ran ecstatically toward the woman and the dog, waving his hands in the air.

The dog, not surprisingly, saw this as an attack. It responded accordingly.

Dragging the woman, it lunged at my child. I jumped after him, snatched at him, just barely caught his jacket — and he pulled away from me. The dog grabbed and connected.

My little boy’s entire head fit inside this animal’s mouth.

Colonel ran away.

At this point things started to move in slow motion. Everything went silent. The dog had the child. The woman managed to keep her footing. She hauled on the leash with exactly no effect. I swam toward the child and the dog as through molasses.

From my right side, something came flying through the air.

It was Greta. She had come up beside me and leaped airborne before she reached me. She shot past me at chest height and barreled full force into the Dane.

I plunged into the melee, caught the boy, and yanked him out from beneath the two dogs. They fell into an explosive ball right where he’d been a fraction of an instant before. Greta had knocked the Dane off my son, disconnecting its jaws from his head, so I was able to pull him away, miraculously uninjured.

Things didn’t look so good for Greta, though. She fell beneath the great Dane and it went after her.

As it set to tearing her apart, all of a sudden it collapsed. It had passed out.

Pulling on the leash, the young woman had squeezed its windpipe enough to cut off so much air the Dane lost consciousness.

Stunned stupid, I said to her, “Oh, I’m so sorry!”

“That’s OK,” she said coolly. The dog quickly regained consciousness and just as quickly returned to her control. “This happens all the time.”

Holy sh!t.

* * *

Well. There was a lot of stupidity going on there. First off, I was roaming around in public with my son and two large dogs, none of whom were directly in my control. That was very, very stupid.

But “This happens all the time“? What was that about? If you have a dog that weighs more than you do — as this animal certainly did, in the woman’s case — and you know it can go so far out of control that you have to haul on its collar until it freaking PASSES OUT, what on earth are you doing running up and down the streets with it?

Both of us had lost track of just what a dog is and how dangerous it can be. I was extremely lucky — no, make that my son was extremely lucky — that one of the animals involved happened to be on our side. My son came within a fraction of an instant of being permanently maimed, if not killed.

So, am I saying you shouldn’t have a dog? Obviously not. I’ve had four German shepherds and a doberman pinscher over the years, to say nothing of the beagle, the schnauzer, the Labrador retriever, the golden retriever, the greyhound, and the corgi. I wouldn’t be without a dog — they add a great deal of pleasure to life.

However, I am saying that you should keep your common sense about you when you have a dog and when you’re around other people’s dogs.

• First and foremost, please: Remember that it is a DOG, not your furry little child!

• Avoid breeds that have been developed as guard dogs, attack dogs, and fighting dogs.

• Socialize pups from a very early age — around other dogs and around humans, including children.

• Obedience-train your dog thoroughly. If you don’t know how to do so, refrain from imagining that you can figure it out from YouTube videos. Take classes. Hire a trainer. Be sure your dog will heel, sit, stop on command, and come to call. Keep practicing these skills throughout the animal’s life.

• Establish yourself as the head of the pack. If your personality does not allow you to pull this off, get a cat instead. Or maybe a goldfish?

• Never let your dog off the leash in public, even in your own front yard. This is for your protection and your dog’s protection as much as for others’ safety.

• Do not take your dog to dog parks. That is asking for trouble.

• Don’t run your dog beside your bicycle — on or off leash. For the reasons why not, ask a) your orthopedist and b) your veterinarian.

• Don’t let a dog into a room where an infant or small child is sleeping unattended. In fact, never leave a child unattended with a dog, even if you do buy the story that pit bulls were bred to be children’s nannies.

• Don’t be an idiot about other people’s dogs. “He doesn’t bite,” “he’s friendly,” and “he loves children” are statements that should be regarded as sentimental errors if not downright lies. When you have your own dog or a child with you, proceed with caution.

• Teach your children to ask if it’s OK before trying to pet any dog. And teach them how to pet a dog without alarming it.

• Do not leave your child at the home of a babysitter who owns one or more pit bulls. Or any of the other dogs regarded by experts as potentially aggressive, over-protective, or unpredictable. Let’s go over those again:

Pit bulls, German shepherds, Rottweilers, doberman pinschers, St. Bernards, malamutes, chows, huskies, all of the Molosser breeds, and mixed-breed offspring of these varieties.

• If your next-door neighbor owns pit bulls or any of the above-mentioned potentially dangerous breeds, do not let your kids play in the backyard unattended. Several of the tragedies in our parts have happened when neighbors’ vicious dogs have scaled or broken through a fence and gone after kids or elderly adults.

• If you imagine that you simply must have one of these breeds, be sure you have the skills and personality characteristics to train and handle it effectively. Videlicet:

♦ You need a calm and assertive nature.
♦ You cannot be violent or abusive — if this is your style, take in a convicted murderer as a roommate instead. It’ll be safer.
♦ You must have time and patience to work with the dog every day, several times a day.
♦ Your lifestyle must accommodate a “job” for the dog, and that does not include sitting in the backyard and barking. Agility training, advanced obedience training, herding, tracking, rescue, and the like are appropriate work for these breeds.
♦ If you can’t establish yourself as the head dog calmly and as a matter of course, do not get one of these breeds.
♦ You must be smarter than the dog…which may not be as easy as some of us think. 😉

About half of dogs in Phoenix’s shelters are pit bulls or pit mixes. They’re favored by criminal gangs, which are growing robustly in these parts as poverty spreads and drug use continues. Sometimes these people use them in dog-fighting; sometimes as guard dogs; sometimes just to show how macho they are. The result is that we have way, way too many of this type of dog. Do not breed pit bulls and pit bull mixes. Do not buy them as puppies, thereby encouraging backyard breeding of still more unwanted, potentially aggressive dogs. If you must have one, adopt it from a shelter.

And remember: it’s a dog!

Images:
Blue-nose pit bull puppy. Tattooedwaitress.
GNU Free Documentation License.
Eurasian wolf. Quartl. Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license.

Is Sugar Toxic?

Raw_sugar_closeupThe other day I had a weird experience — a bizarre reaction to ordinary table sugar. You know, in these ramblings I’ve often taken up the “sugar is toxic” hue and cry, but in a half-humorous way. Of course, I don’t believe sugar is poisonous. Or…didn’t, anyway. But now I wonder.

One of the choir members is THE most awesome cook, and best of all, she likes to cook. She brings in the most splendid, delicious baked goods you can imagine. Last Sunday we sang at an early service and so showed up for rehearsal at what feels, to some of us, like the crack of dawn. She kindly brought in a whole breakfast with a gorgeous egg dish and two beautiful baked sweets.

Well, I can’t eat unadulterated eggs, unfortunately. But there was simply noooooooo way to resist tasting the other goodies. So I had one-half of a small square of this astonishing coffeecake she’d brought.

Delicious beyond description.

And very, very, very, very sweet. As I was noshing on it, a thought crossed my feeble mind: This is more sugar than i’ve eaten ALL SUMMER.

Hm. Add another pound to tomorrow’s weigh-in…

About 15 minutes later, up in the choir loft, I started to get a bellyache. Didn’t think much of it, except to be mildly annoyed because the gut issues have completely gone away since the aftermath of the Prednisone episode finally died down.

Then a few minutes later, when we had to jump up to sing an anthem, WHACK! The minute I stood up I got a dizzy spell that was so bad I damn near fell over. Literally: the only reason I didn’t hit the floor was that I was jammed between two people on either side of me and a row of chair backs in front.

And, just to gild that lily, flicking heart palpitations.

Think of that. I haven’t had those since I started the diet.

Which is to say, since I quit eating refined sugar.

Before I determined to lose 25 pounds, I thought nothing of eating whatever sugary thing I pleased. And you can be sure I always enjoyed my co-religionist’s baking, with gusto! And ice cream. And cookies. And chocolate. And strawberries smothered in crunchy demerara sugar and heavy cream…

Then while we were standing there singing, a headache came on. It passed by the time the service ended. But the stomach continued upset, and I felt awful when I got home.

Decided that a dose of something with a lot of protein in it might help, and so whipped up a tasty xergis soup, which is mostly yogurt. Tellingly, that actually did help. After lunch, things healthish had gone back to normal.

Cardiodoc said that daily exercise would take care of the heart palps. And so it seemed. I haven’t had a spell of those in months…coincidentally, not in the three months since I started the weight-loss project.

But what if the explanation were not so much instituting the daily stroll but simply that I stopped eating refined sugar? Those two things happened at the same time.

The two food categories I quit eating were a) anything containing refined sugar, high-fructose corn sugar, or anything else whose name ends in -ose; and b) breads, potatoes, rice, and other high-starch items. It did occur to me that the coffeecake contained plenty of wheat flour, too — possibly I’ve developed the wildly stylish gluten sensitivity? But then realized not: the other day I had several slices from a baguette I served to La Maya — white bread. No ill effect.

No. I think the ill effect here came from eating enough sugar to choke an elephant, crammed into one little black hole of bakery. And doing so after having spent a quarter of a year abstaining from the stuff.

On this diet, I have indeed been eating a lot of sugar, in the form of fructose, because I eat two or three varieties of fruit every day. But none of it has been refined sugar. That was the first time in three months I’d consumed the kind of sugar that comes in a package — which is to say, chances are my body was no longer accustomed to coping with it.

If Sunday morning’s episode indeed was caused by scarfing down a megadose of sugar, it’s highly suggestive.

Can we say something that brings on a dizzy spell, heart palpitations, a headache, and stomach upset is toxic? In a world where you can be sued for libeling a food, probably not.

But we certainly can have our private suspicions, can’t we?

Image: Raw sugar. Editor at Large. Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic license.

Hounds!

So, how do you like Padauk?

paduak_webKind of a handsome fellow, isn’t he? Sixty-seven pounds, three years old, retired because of an injured rear muscle (supposedly). Cats: C (i.e., don’t go off and leave Puss’N’Boots alone with this thing). “I am a sweet, quiet boy who likes to be petted but I am a bit reserved when I first meet you.”

Read: “Typical greyhound personality, fresh out of the racetrack kennels.” They start to take on more character as they get adjusted to living with humans. Sometimes the character is very entertaining.

This is the dawg the Greyhound Rescue Lady would like to fix up with me and the Queen of the Universe. M’hijito also prefers him, based on eyeballing his photo and description. Me, I think if the C applies only to cats and not to corgis, he looks good. Very good.

Another one of GRL’s candidates is Smoke:

smoke_webHow cute can you get? Awwww…. It’s hard for a grey to get its ears to stick up like that. I’d like to see if he does that all the time or if he’s just staring at a rabbit-rabbit-rabbit. Two years, sixty-five pounds, Cats B; retired for ankle injury. “I am a sweet and loving boy who really likes people and petting. I am doing great with the kitties and other greyhounds in my foster home and quickly learning to be a good pet.”

Cat rating B, eh? Less likely to grab the Queen, but also less likely to chase Other Daughter’s accursed Kitty out of the yard and off the front patio. Two years may be a little young. Though adult greys make mellow companions whose preferred pastime is loafing, greyhound pups can be pretty energetic. Until they mature, they need a lot of exercise. Once they’ve attained their full splendor, though, they’ll live on your couch quite contentedly.

Now check out this gent, creatively named “Big Guy”:

big_guy_webThat coloring is called “black brindle.” Is he beautiful or is he not beautiful?????? GRL had a reason why she didn’t think he was ideal for Cassie’s and my situation…I can’t recall what it was, but it made sense at the time she was explaining.

Big Guy was retired because he evinced no interest in chasing mechanical rabbits. Instead, he ran off the track. His owners imagined he had a vision problem, but subsequent veterinary examinations have found no such thing. In fact, it appears that Big Guy simply has better sense than to chase a robot rabbit around in circles. Sixty-seven pounds.  Cats: B. “I am a tall, gorgeous black brindle boy with striking white markings. I am quiet but not shy and like to be petted.”

🙂

You need a greyhound!!!

That’s because everyone needs a greyhound! These are the most wonderful dogs ever. You simply could not get a better pet. Even if you think a goldfish is the ideal pet, a greyhound is better.

If you live in Arizona, get in touch with Arizona Adopt-a-Greyhound, the grande dame of greyhound rescue in the Southwest. Elsewhere, google “greyhound rescue” + your state, and up will come a bunch of organizations seeking homes for retired racing greyhounds.

Get. A. Greyhound.

Greyhound11

 

Brand-New Whole Foods…Meh?

Sashimi_for_saleWell, that was disappointing.  This weekend I dropped by the brand-new Whole Foods market that just opened in the old, empty site of a long-defunct Linens ’n’ Things. It’s right next door to the Trader Joe’s where I often shop and just down the street from the new Sprouts. So I thought wow! This is gonna be great.

But…maybe not so much.

To begin with, the place was just mobbed, it being the first Saturday after the new Whole Foods opened. I don’t enjoy crowds, and I don’t like navigating chuckablock jammed parking lots. And I particularly dislike the type of crowd attracted to the joint: in this town, people who are very wealthy (or pretend they are) are so self-absorbed and so rude that you just want to kick the twits. They think they own the road, the parking lot, and everything around them. And as for dumpy little old ladies in blue jeans? They look at you with a sneer on their face if they happen to notice you, which mercifully isn’t often because most of the time they look right through you. They’ll run you down in a parking lot, they’ll run you down with a cart in the store, and they’ll actually push you aside if they get a chance.

This is not an illusion. It’s very noticeable in certain parts of the city and in certain shopping centers. Shoppers at the AJ’s at 67th and Union Hills  behave that way routinely, and you’ll see it at the Whole Foods on Mayo Boulevard in Scottsdale and at Kierland Commons in Scottsdale and at the Scottsdale Quarter…heh!

There’s a reason we call it “Snotsdale.”

Social issues aside, I wasn’t at all impressed with the store, once I got inside the thing.

At the outset, it was instantly clear the building is not large enough for a retail operation with such grandiose pretensions. They’ve crammed so much junk into it, so tightly, that there’s hardly any room to move around. So customers shuffle from department to department in ambling lines, like madding crowds at Disneyland.

Then they’ve filled what space they have with stuff that’s just out-and-out absurd. A juice bar, for example, where you can buy glasses of fresh-squeezed juices for upwards of $6.50. A sit-down eaterie/coffee house at the north entrance that forces you to wind your way through stunned-looking noshers (who, in the time-honored manner of their social class, will not step out of your way but feel it is their privilege to block all and sundry who wish to pass). Giant tubs of locally roasted coffee beans, with a giant roaster display thing taking up an enormous amount of space…but no espresso beans that I could find, BTW.

Most ridiculous, however — IMHO — is that they’ve installed a freaking bar, front and center!

No joke. There’s a bar at the front of the store. It’s billed as a “pub” and serves 87 gerjillion varieties of boutique beers, many on tap. Plus food and champagne and four TV sets tuned to sporting events. For your convenience, unless you’re stocking your weekend cabin at the Pinetop Country Club, you can even pay for a small number of grocery items while you’re hanging out in the bar.

Now, it’s not that I have any objection to a nice, fun bar. Au contraire. As you may have noticed, I tend to enjoy my boozie-poos to a fault. So I’m not throwing asparagus at the patrons of said bar. It’s just that…well, the merry din coming out of a successful bar is less than conducive to deciding whether this avocado is ripe, whether that Hawai’ian mango is a better choice than this Mexican papaya, whether you’d like a pound of ahi or a nice chunk of wild-caught salmon, and whether what’s needed today is a cab or a syrah. It’s not a background that I find very comfortable when I’m trying to shop for groceries.

It was very loud and very annoying.

There was a whole lotta drinkin’ goin’ on there. One Yelper even noted a customer walking around the store with an open beer. This means that driving in the vicinity of 20th Street and Camelback, which was already plenty chaotic, is now going to be downright dangerous at pretty much any time of day or night. Nothing like a responsible corporate citizen, eh?

Deciding never to return to that place was a proverbial no-brainer. Far more disappointing, though, is the realization that I also won’t be shopping at the Trader Joe’s nearest to my house anymore. I am not going to do battle with some rich bitch or effete twit over a parking space for the privilege of buying a few artichokes, no matter how excellent and inexpensive they may be.

Happily, the Trader Joe/Whole Foods combo exists at a much calmer venue at Tatum and Shea, across the street from a mega-yuppified Fry’s on the fringes of Paradise Valley. Both strip malls have parking that’s up to the job, and the design for that Whole Foods is not bat-sh!t inSANE. The store is much larger, which means it can accommodate fun clothing, 1950s-style make-up (which is what non-toxic, cruelty-free lipstick and mascara are: perfectly awful, waxy stuff reminiscent of the Avon products some of us can recall kiping from our mothers’ dressing tables and painting on our young faces), a very fine sushi counter, and all the fancy foods and drinks you crave. With plenty of room to move around without being bowled down by the Entitled set.

The intersection of Tatum and Shea is a far piece from my house. However, by the time I reach Home Depot, I’m halfway there. When I’m on the college campus, it’s on my way home (more or less). And when I was a young thing living in the effete lawyer’s and doctor’s ghetto that was the gentrified Encanto district, I used to drive to Tatum and Shea at least once a week to do my grocery shopping, since there wasn’t a decent supermarket in the Phoenix city limits after Stan Felix’s redoubtable Madison Pay ’N’ Take It closed down. At least not that any of us could find at the time.

So it’s not that big a deal. It’s just…what? déjà vu, in its weird way?

Image: Nigiri sushi for sale at Tokyo supermarket. MichaelMaggs. Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 2.5 Generic license.

Shifting the Credit-Card Cycle: An Unexpected Outcome

You may recall that along about the first of this month, I came up with the wacky-sounding idea of artificially forcing my American Express billing cycle, which runs from the 21st to the 20th, to coincide with my real-life monthly budget cycle, which runs from the 1st to the 31st. To accomplish this, I used savings to pay off the credit-card charges made during the last ten days of August and reset my personal charge-card budget to begin on the 1st of each month and end on the 20th, resolving to use cash to cover discretionary costs for the last ten days of the month.

This would insure that I never buy things with money that’s not already in the bank account. It would allow the same monthly amount for discretionary spending — $1100 — but simply reduce the portion of that amount allocated to put on the charge card. Instead of putting $1100 on the charge card each month, I would put $745 on the card and pay for the remaining grocery and other discretionary bills with $355 in cash. Or less, depending on how much remained in the budget when I got to the last day of the credit-card cycle.

Well, here we are at the 21st. How did the scheme work?

It actually seems to have packed a little surprise.

Wouldn’tcha know it, this month brought two big, unplanned expenses: the pool’s backwash valve handle snapped off — $192 to fix that damn thing — and I bought a new back-saving chair for the TV room, one whose design will force me to sit up straight and not fall asleep in it. The chair cost $600.

I’d figured to pay for the chair out of savings. The two hundred bucks for the pool repair, though, had to come out of the grocery budget, since savings has been raped once too often of late. Yesterday, finding the cupboard running toward bare and the piles of paper on the desk nearly touching the ceiling, I went through all the receipts and bills and entered them in the spreadsheets. Unless I’ve made a mistake (always a possibility), something weird has happened:

When all is said and done, if I can keep purchases over the next nine days down to $180, I should only have to raid about $150 out of savings to pay for everything, including the chair and the pool repair.

There’s enough money in the checking account to cover almost all those expenses, assuming I don’t go berserk in the next week & a half.

How to explain this? Normally outgo matches income each month, right to the penny. But this month, I come up with almost $640 in wriggle room. And yes, that is after projected expenses right up to the 30th.

Could changing the amount budgeted to spend on credit cards make that much difference?

That doesn’t seem to make sense. Thirty days is the same as thirty days, no matter what period the thirty days spans.

I spent about $110 less in Costco this month than over the previous 31-day cycle. Although that doesn’t account for a $640 windfall, it’s an interesting development.

On average, I spend $295 a month at Costco. That covers food, household supplies, personal items, clothing, wine, the annual purchase of chlorine tablets for the pool, and the occasional small appliance. In July/August, I spent $318 there; between August 21 and today, $207.

It occurs to me that shopping at Costco may run up monthly expenses, even though in theory buying in bulk should keep costs down over time. And that’s bizarre: not having to run to the grocery store every time you turn around to buy toilet paper, detergent, and paper towels at inflated prices should save money, not jack up costs.

WTF?

I think the problem may be that Costco is Impulse Buy Central. And it’s that way because of a specific merchandising strategy:

You know that anything you see in that place is likely to be gone the next time you visit. Even things they seem to carry as staples — those wonderful camis, for example, and the incredible Borghese mineral make-up — eventually disappear from the shelves. So if you spot something that you think you’re going to want sometime in the near future, you buy it now, even though you don’t need it now.

You buy things you don’t need immediately because you suspect that in two weeks or so, when you’ll be back, the store will no longer have it.

When you think about that, it’s a brilliant piece of marketing, eh?

Since the start of this budget rejiggering scheme (August 21), I’ve shopped in Costco three times. But between the first and today, I spent only $85 there, hoping to preserve as much cash as possible to cover the last, charge-free ten days of the month. That’s because I’ve restricted purchases to only those things I can’t find anywhere else. Otherwise, I shopped in grocery stores.

Not even Whole Foods has the vast array of impulse-buy temptations presented by Costco. Instead of buying for future needs and grabbing that pair of red Gloria Vanderbilt jeans and snatching the cool little highly portable handy-dandy shop vac, I’ve been buying only what I actually need at any given moment. Even if that costs more than buying staples and household goods in bulk, I spent fewer dollars because when I’m not exposed to things that I don’t really need right now, I don’t buy them.

It still doesn’t account for a $640 windfall — there must have been more money in the account at the end of last month than I realized. However…it’s telling.

I’m thinking that a great deal of money could be saved, month-to-month, simply by staying out of Costco. The store does carry some things I can’t find easily anywhere else, certainly not for the price:

• tomatoes with flavor (those Campari-brand tomatoes actually taste like tomatoes, and they cost a lot less at Costco than cocktail tomatoes at other stores; their flavor is better, too)
• Glorias (jeans that fit grown women)
• chicken and pork for the dog
• dog veggies (frozen vegetable mix with no corn, onions, or artificial flavorings)
• chlorine tablets (vast savings!)
• toilet paper in lifetime supplies
• paper towels in lifetime supplies
• walnuts, pecans, and pine nuts
• cheap wine
• hard liquor in lifetime supplies

Really…that’s not very much stuff.

Maybe buying everything else in smaller quantities at other stores would push monthly costs down, even if the amount paid for certain things (meat and fresh produce, for example) would be higher.

Geez. If I could recover even $200 or $300 a month out of the budget — to say nothing of $640! — my life would be so much better! I could actually DO some things, rather than just getting by from day to day. Imagine being able to afford to go to shows, buy some decent clothes (new, not second-hand!), and go out to a restaurant without feeling guilty. Maybe afford the gas to drive up to Prescott or over to Bisbee now and again.

Imagine that.