There’s a new fudge place in Portsmouth. A friendly couple own and operate it.

I was so excited entering their appealing little store! But within 10 seconds of my arrival, I was aggrieved.

I greeted the proprietor and asked, “I’m allergic to peanuts. Do you…?”

“Oh, we use peanuts here,” she interrupted. “You shouldn't get anything.”

Of the six varieties of fudge in display cases, one clearly contained peanut butter. The others? Well, I assume they might contain traces of peanuts because the owners wield sloppy spatulas when whipping them up.

Is it too much to ask that food preparers take basic steps to prevent nuts from proliferating like loose nukes? 

I understand everyone's on edge due to legal liability. As I've learned over the years, no one will give me the gift of peace of mind and say, "I guarantee what we serve is nut-free."

Just once, I wish someone would say, “These items are meant to be nut-free. We take careful steps to prevent contamination. Mistakes can happen, but rest assured we use an entirely separate part of our kitchen when cooking with peanuts.”

That’s better than rejecting me as a customer, Mr. & Mrs. Fudgemaker! About 3 million Americans report being allergic to peanuts; that’s roughly1% of the U.S. population.

If you’re going to open a business, why drive away 1 out of every 100 fudge lovers?

When I tell my physician, “Doc, I’m allergic to penicillin,” I expect to hear, “Thanks for telling me. You’re safe here.”

No doctor would reply, “Well, I can’t guarantee that you won’t come in contact with penicillin here. We use it. Traces of penicillin even get on our thermometers--like the one I just jammed under your tongue.” 

At least, no doctor would say that now. After health insurance reform, who knows?

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Morey Stettner writes The Young Curmudgeon blog for portsmouthnh.com. He’s the author of five books including SKILLS FOR NEW MANAGERS (McGraw-Hill) and THE ART OF WINNING CONVERSATION (Prentice Hall) and the editor of the popular newsletter Managing People at Work (www.managingpeopleatwork.com).

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Virginia’s state flag bears the “Great Seal of the Commonwealth” which depicts a fetching Amazon goddess armed with a spear and sword. She towers over a defeated despot.

Permit me to decode this visual image for you: The goddess represents Virginia government and the cowering guy on the ground symbolizes a vanquished state employee.

At least that’s my hunch after reading an article in today’s Wall Street Journal about Virginia’s new program to provide emergency loans of up to $500 to state employees. How nice. The goal is to prevent employees from selling their soul to payday or car-title lenders that impose an average of 365% annual interest on borrowers.

At first glance, it looks like the state of Virginia really cares about its workers. But here’s the rub: The state will charge an annual interest rate of 25% on its emergency loans.

Yeah, I know. A 25% rate seems great compared to a 365% rate. But it’s still awfully high, no?

Here in New Hampshire, we pride ourselves on our thrift. We send rich guys with inherited wealth to the U.S. Senate and then lovingly label them “flinty.” We scour yard sales to buy broken phones. We haggle over price at a kid’s lemonade stand.

You surely possess the financial savvy to avoid predatory lenders. But some are desperate, sinking in circumstances beyond their control. And in a free economy, there’s always someone to offer an outstretched hand (pockmarked with greed).

Next time you see Gov. Lynch (and you will—that guy gets around the state like an airborne virus), ask him what NH is doing to help its workforce weather financial hardship. Emergency loan program? Financial counseling? Free refills at Dunkin’ Donuts?

Just don’t rave to him about Virginia’s benevolence to its employees.

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If you love gardening, stop reading. Go garden.

For everyone else, especially the Grudging Gardeners who grumble as they grab at weeds, what’s the matter with us?

Here’s a plan: Let’s meet for hot fudge sundaes and ditch this whole mulch-laden mess.

Gardening to grow food makes sense. And I’m all for victory gardens if our unending wars demand them. 

But I reject gardening just to enhance backyard aesthetics. When did we sign a social contract stipulating that all yards must meet certain tidy norms?

I prefer “natural” gardens. What you call an eyesore, I cherish as wild and primeval.

Organic food, we like. Organic yards, we deem ugly. Instead, we beautify them by digging holes, buying 80-ton dirt bags from Home Depot and depleting our precious water.

After three years (hours) of gardening this morning, I’m a wreck. Bugs, blisters and backaches all conspire against me. I cope by reciting my mantra, “Our troops are suffering even more.”

There are rocks buried in our soil the size of beach balls. I found a fork, broken glass, peanut shells—and roots more resilient than our economy.

Does that filth under my fingernails ever go away?

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Morey Stettner writes The Young Curmudgeon blog for portsmouthnh.com. He’s the author of five books including SKILLS FOR NEW MANAGERS (McGraw-Hill) and THE ART OF WINNING CONVERSATION (Prentice Hall) and the editor of the popular newsletter Managing People at Work (www.managingpeopleatwork.com).

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There’s a madness on the edge of town. That’s where you’ll find Market Basket.

Spend 10 minutes pushing your cart through the cramped aisles and you’ll fight off dozens of frolicking 5-year-olds. They barrel into you. They sneeze on your leg. They play tag--with you as the hapless lamppost.

It’s their private playground.

Where are the parents? They look exhausted and defeated. They’re resigned to their fate as their kid knocks over a row of mayo jars. They’re done parenting; they’re just trying to stay sane.

Kids possess great qualities: a sense of wonder, an innocence, a lack of pretense. They also have, well, foibles. 

In restaurants, they crawl under my table and pee. In airports, they carry on like extras in Gladiator. In libraries, they go primal.

But it’s the supermarket that fuels their inner beast. All the stimuli! The branded cartoon characters on cereal boxes. The easy-to-throw fruit. And all those glass bottles. It’s an arcade with endless games of fun and chance.

Do the parents deserve my sympathy? Or should I growl, “Hey, control your child” while tossing another tub of Anacin in my cart? 

If the meek will inherit the earth, it’s going to be a lonely planet. But there will always be a party at Market Basket—and you’re invited.

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I love dogs.

Actually, I hate dogs. I said I love dogs so that you don’t hate me.

OK, here’s the truth: I’m neutral on dogs. Take ‘em or leave ‘em.

If you have a dog, I’ll acknowledge it with some cursory petting. Just don’t insist that we play fetch or lick each other.

The other day, I knocked on a front door. A human answered. So far, so good.

Then a dog the size of a Smart Car stood on its hind legs and lurched onto me for a full frontal assault.

His paws scratched my face and forearms. The owner looked on indulgently and said, “Oh, he likes you.”

I care about what people think of me. But I don’t think, “Thank God I primped because I want this dog to like me.”

Moments ago, I glanced out my window at yet another neighbor walking a dog on Lincoln Avenue. The dog pooped on our lawn—as they all do.

Ninety percent of Lincoln’s dog walkers clean up after their pets. Do I confront the other 10 percent?

No. With wars in two countries, a deep economic recession and billions underfed worldwide, why add to the disharmony?

It’s raining again. Got to go and clean up the mess before it dissolves.

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Morey Stettner is the author of five books including SKILLS FOR NEW MANAGERS (McGraw-Hill) and THE ART OF WINNING CONVERSATION (Prentice Hall). He is the editor of the popular newsletter Managing People at Work (www.managingpeopleatwork.com) and his articles on leadership and entrepreneurship appear every Monday in Investor's Business Daily. 

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In the 30 minutes that it just took to prepare and consume my dinner, I've noticed a red minivan idling outside my window on Lincoln Avenue in Portsmouth. The driver has stopped--in the middle of the road with her engine running the whole time--to chat with a pedestrian.

I can't stand it any longer. So I march outside, apply my "Fake Friendly" personality (it doesn't fool anyone) and investigate. 

"What's wrong," I ask. "Can I help?"

"No, we're just chatting," the pedestrian says.

"You've been here for 30 minutes in the middle of the road with the engine running," I say, hoping to mask my irritation. Then I signal with a flip of my wrist for the driver to turn the car key--and she complies.

No more fumes! But this boat of a vehicle remains in the center of the road for another 10 minutes as cars (you know, the kind that actually move) navigate around it.  

Hey, drivers: What's with the chronic idling?

An idling vehicle wastes fuel, pollutes the air and can harm your engine. A year ago, you were paying $4 a gallon and complaining constantly. But you were idling then and you're idling now.

If you shut off your ignition after 10 seconds of idling, you will not burn more fuel when you restart it, according to the Environmental Defense Fund. It’s impractical to shut off your engine while you wait at a red light. But when summarizing the last 20 years of your life—day by day--with a friend along the side of the road, idling is unnecessary.

I know An Inconvenient Truth is long forgotten (sadly), but Al Gore is still distraught about the future of the planet. He’s just as unhappy about the pollutants spewing from your tailpipe as I am.

Maybe less so, because he’s probably jetting to some speech in Europe in the comfort of a first-class cabin while I’m having my dinner ruined by a red minivan outside my window.

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Morey Stettner is the author of five books including SKILLS FOR NEW MANAGERS (McGraw-Hill) and THE ART OF WINNING CONVERSATION (Prentice Hall). He is the editor of the popular newsletter Managing People at Work (www.managingpeopleatwork.com) and his articles on leadership and entrepreneurship appear every Monday in Investor's Business Daily, a national financial newspaper. 

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