On my mind

I am on vacation. During the next few weeks, this space will feature vignettes—short scenes or incidents—written mostly in the early to mid-90’s, when I still entertained hopes of getting paid for writing. They are all true.

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But first: It would seem that between the new “Help America Vote Act” passed in 2002 and the latest version of the “Uniformed and Overseas Citizen Absentee Voting Act,” which went into effect on Jan. 1, 2004, it is now possible for former mainland residents who are U.S. citizens and now live in the CNMI to cast a valid absentee vote in the upcoming presidential election. In the HAVA’s definition of states to whom the Act applies (Section 901), the CNMI has been left out. As it has been explained to me, former U.S. residents who are U.S. citizens and now live in the CNMI thus become “overseas voters” and thus eligible to cast absentee ballots The federal voters’ assistance page at www.fvap.gov states in its “frequently asked questions” section: “Your ‘legal state of residence’ for voting purposes is the state or territory where you last resided immediately prior to your departure from the United States. This right extends to overseas citizens even though they may not have property or other ties in their last state or territory of residence and their intent to return to that state or territory may be uncertain.”

It continues, “Exercising your right to vote in elections—for federal offices only—does not affect the determination of residence or domicile for purposes of any tax imposed under federal, state, or local law. Voting in an election for federal offices only may not be used as the sole basis to determine residency for the purpose of imposing state and local taxes.” While the federal page offers assistance in obtaining an absentee ballot, a site that’s easier to use for doing so is www.overseasvote2004.com.

Though it is a Kerry-sponsored site, that does not matter. You are simply asking for an absentee ballot—how you vote on it once you receive it is up to you.

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REFRIGERATION—ISLAND STYLE

If people had tried to tell me, before I went shopping for a refrigerator/freezer, that the 16-cubic-foot size wouldn’t be large enough for me, I’d have laughed in their face. First of all, I live alone, so there’s only me to cook for. No picky kids or junk food addicts, no teen-age sons with bottomless stomachs, no steak-and-potatoes spouse to have to keep the fridge stocked for—just me.

And I don’t like to cook. So I don’t need space for three kinds of fresh pasta, seven different wok vegetables, all those ingredients that go into “real” spaghetti sauce, or even those supposedly ever-so-versatile boneless breasts of chicken.

Since cooking is not one of my favorite pastimes, and I’m no masochist, I never invite people over for dinner, much less for lunch, or brunch, or even a backyard barbecue. My social life may suffer some, but obviously, there’s no need for a roomy refrigerator on that score either.

So I thought I was pretty safe when I purchased my 16-cubic-foot refrigerator-freezer. But I’m not laughing anymore. That refrigerator gets so full that sometimes I have to give the door an extra push to get it to close.

I keep bread in there, of course, because otherwise it would turn moldy in the heat and humidity. A loaf of 7-grain bread, what passes for the local version of pumpernickel (when I can find it), plain sliced white for toast, and sweet rolls for Sunday breakfasts. (I mean, just because I don’t like to cook doesn’t mean I can’t have gourmet tastes, right?) I keep my instant soup and gravy mixes in there, too, because they always seem to get buggy if I leave them on the shelf. I also store my supply of typhoon-emergency batteries in the refrigerator, because someone once told me that was the best way to make sure they stayed fresh, and didn’t rust out first. And things like medicines, antiseptic salves, so they don’t go stale, or dry out.

Then there’s the family-size jar of applesauce, the economy-size containers of orange and V-8 and grape juice I’m forced to buy because those groceries only come in economy, jumbo sizes out here.

There’s also four packages of baby Swiss cheese I bought before I knew the stores would start carrying it on a regular basis, and the three extra packages of the small cream cheese I always buy because the big ones spoil too fast, and the stores keep running out of small-size packages that aren’t outdated.

I know that sounds like hoarding, and I know it’s unpatriotic to do that—or at least that’s what they used to say when I was growing up during World War II. But out here, it doesn’t take long to figure out that you better buy it when you see it, because the next time you look for it, it won’t be there.

Then there’s the stuff I keep in the refrigerator so the ants won’t get at it—like sugar, the container of honey spread and the bottle of regular honey, my supply of instant energy, like peanut-butter cups, Milky Ways and chocolate bars. I also keep the supply of fruit drops that my son sent me—under the mistaken impression that they would be good substitute for cigarettes—on a back shelf.

Not to mention all the ordinary stuff one normally keeps in refrigerators, like butter, milk, kosher pickles, soda, eggs, mayonnaise and salad dressing, a tomato, a couple of onions, a few potatoes, cottage cheese, a can of jellied consommé. I have to admit they’re sometimes hard to find, what with all the other stuff in there, and sometimes I do lose an opened can of spaghetti sauce or olives until it’s too late to do more than admire the lovely shade of mold they’ve grown.

You might think that I could divide some of that stuff up and put it in my freezer, like half the loaves of bread, or half the cans of juice, or that half-used jar of spaghetti sauce, for instance. But my freezer is a crammed as my refrigerator, because I keep my supply of Thomas’ English muffins (minimum of two six-packs), frozen quiche (at least four) and the frozen microwave meals that are my mainstay in there. And two bags of ice, so that when the power goes out, the freezer will stay cold longer, and I won’t lose quite as much food as I would without them.

What really takes up the most space in my refrigerator, though, are the dirty dishes and silverware. I don’t like washing dishes either, so I generally use paper plates—though I haven’t yet succumbed to plastic eating utensils. But I can’t throw the dirty plates in the kitchen trash after the meal because the ants will get them. And it’s too much hassle to take them to the outdoor garbage pail after every meal. So I stick them in the refrigerator. Since it doesn’t make much sense to fill a sink full of soapy water—assuming there is water—just to wash one knife and fork, I put those in the refrigerator, too, after I have eaten.

The problem is that it doesn’t take long for the paper plates and the paper napkins and the empty microwave trays and the occasional cereal or dessert bowl to take up an awful lot of room in that refrigerator—though they do get cleaned out every other week, when my cleaning lady comes. She gets paid to do dishes.

I guess it’s a good thing I don’t drink beer, so I don’t have to find room for six-packs of that as well, and I prefer red wine to white, so I don’t have to find room for that either. Then I’d have to buy an even larger refrigerator-freezer.

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LATTER-DAY GRIPES

I suppose it is indicative of the level of sophistication we have reached that the thought of complaining about how my groceries are bagged even enters my mind.

I don’t stand at the checkout counter any more wishing I could have found fresh cottage cheese, or yoghurt. There’s no longer any need to go from store to store in search of local cucumbers, fresh mushrooms or cauliflower. Kosher dill pickles, fresh fish, even bagels and healthy dark breads are now in plentiful supply. I’ve long since taken for granted that the bag boy will also take my groceries to my car, and without my having to tip him.

A few things are still lacking, like calf’s liver, corn toasties, and muenster cheese, and Thomas’ English Muffins are only intermittently available. None of the stores yet have insulated cold bags, so that I can safely take ice cream home. But there is fresh orange juice not made from concentrate, and even, on occasion, buttermilk and ready-to-bake Pillsbury rolls. The packaging of my groceries—to take them home—on the other hand, is still in its primitive stages.

I try to separate refrigerated and frozen groceries as I unload my cart at the counter—so that they will be packed together, keep each other cold on the ride home, and be easier to sort, so I can put the frozen foods away before they get too thawed.

The principle, however, seems not to be understood by either cashier or bag boy. In accordance with a system understood only by the cashier, the groceries are rung up and passed on to the bag boy willy nilly. And he, in turn, blindly bags them as they come to hand.

Asking that the cold items be kept together has no effect. Nor does it endear me to either of them when I pull the butter from his hand, remove the cheese from amid the canned goods, shove the frozen spinach into a bag he’s already set aside as full. When I remember, I bring my string bags to the store. I already have more than enough plastic bags at home. Since I never seem to get the same bag boy twice, each time they are viewed with doubt and suspicion.

Each time, it takes the cashier’s encouragement before he even picks one up. And each time he has to be shown anew just how much they can hold.

Bag boys don’t seem to understand the difference between bulk and weight either. Once they discover the capacity of the string bags, they industriously load them up—all the canned goods in one, all the packaged milk in another. It doesn’t seem to occur to them that while I have their help in getting the heavy bags from the store into my car, it is I who have to heft each one of them from the car into my kitchen, and I am not as muscularly endowed as they are.

Nor do they seem to have much of a sense for packaging. Time and time again they will put all the glass bottles in the same bag—the bottle of grape juice next to the bottle of soy sauce next to the bottle of wine, without any cushioning to keep them from bouncing against each other on the pot-holed ride home in my tough-springed jeep.

They are profligate with the plastic bags when I forget to bring my own.

The newspapers are always separately bagged. So are shrew traps. Or roach spray. And then they knot each and every one of them to close them. In such a way that lifting the bag tightens the knot. Most of the time I manage to undo the knots before the bags reach my car. But not always. At which point I vow once again that I really am going to offer a course to all bag boys on how to properly bag a customer’s groceries.

(The writer is a librarian by profession, and a long-term resident of the CNMI. To contact her, send e-mail to ruth.tighe@saipan.com.)