BeerPup's BrewHouse

Easy Peasy

2010-07-16T10:09:00.000-05:00

Here's something to do if you feel like wasting time at work: http://quiz.history.com/

But the questions are ridiculously easy. Reminds me of how I won my "2010 Census" coffee mug at Merry Main Street (our town's Christmas "doing"). I saw they had swag and walked up and said, "I want a mug. What do I have to do to get it?" So they asked me a trivia question.

"Not counting this year's, when was the last U.S. census?"

"2000." They handed me the mug.

"That's IT? That's all I have to answer? I don't even have to say it's mandated by the Constitution? Or that a bunch of the data ends up in Statistical Abstracts of the United States? Which is a GREAT book, by the way, and a huge bargain."

They interrupted me. "Um, no ma'am. Just the year."

"Oh, okay! Thanks."

I am a total weirdo, but I LOVE Statistical Abstracts of the United States. It's published annually by the Government Printing Office (www.gpo.gov) and compiles a gracious plenty of data about the US. When I was running a library (Ericsson, Siemens' Wireless) I used to drive to the GPO bookstore in downtown Dallas on the release date every year to buy my new copy. You could say that StatAbstracts was my Harry Potter. Except cheaper. And no one has to camp out in tents ahead of time.

Folk medicine

2010-06-16T07:30:00.000-05:00

Currently I have a cold. Or really bad allergies.

On top of that, I had a migrane yesterday. It's been a while since I've had one--a couple of years, at least. Therefore, I don't have any handy-dandy migrane narcotics on hand like Midrin or Tylenol-3 or whatever.

I was doing okay at home in the deep, cool, quiet of my tv room, but when it was time to take SassyZAF (no longer Stick Girl) to her piano lesson, it got bad. Here's a tip: if you have a migrane, do NOT go to a music store. Just sayin'.

About 30 seconds away from calling my doctor and asking if I could come in for a shot of Imitrex, I realized it would be cheaper to take one last shot at a home cure: 7-Eleven coffee.

People look at you weird when you buy coffee at 5pm. Not that I care. I mean, I KNOW it's been sitting there for hours, and that the pot is probably a combo of five different brews. As long as they're not decaf, I don't care. Thicker the better. Consistency of tar. Properties of paint thinner. Aroma of dog breath. That's the stuff.

It had a small effect over the next 90 minutes, which was enough for me to get supper [nominally] planned.

Then it happened. My head, I swear, actually felt lighter. The pain simply lifted and my scalp got all tingly.

There is no feeling so wonderful as being in pain, and then NOT. Ah, clarity! Joy! Euphoria!

All yours, available for $1.50 at America's favorite convenience store!

*And I know you're thinking this, but I'm actually not addicted to caffene. I don't drink it daily. Surprised, aren't you? So, no, my headache wasn't due to caffene withdrawl. I've had that headache. That's an entirely different headache. But thank you for your concern.

Hilights

2010-05-18T21:17:00.002-05:00

Today I:

Saw the hole in my back yard become something that looks like a pool.

Sprained my ankle taking pictures of it.

Finally fit into the bridesmaid dress.

Embarrassed my daughter.

Was confused by Lost.

Bought yet another pair of cheap sunglasses.

Was extremely impressed that the garbage trucks, who were prevented from collecting in my alley due to our pool construction, actually came back and got it later.

So my neighbors won't hate me. That's always a good thing.

Hypochondriocity

2010-04-21T14:09:00.002-05:00

This one's really boring, and only mildly funny in one or two spots. Don't say you weren't warned that this will be a total waste of your time. Anyway--

I'm one of those people who will some day have on my gravestone: "I TOLD you I was sick!"

I'm not always right, but here's the problem: sometimes I am. This does nothing to discourage a hypochondriac like myself.

I first got the reputation for being a hypochondriac in my teens, when I constantly had a headache. Have you ever had to PROVE you had a headache? Try. Think about it.

The thing is, I DID have a headache. And my shoulders were so tense my earrings generally rested on my clavicles. When I was a little older, people I worked with thought I drank a lot because I never looked well-rested, along with the headache thing, and so on.

I had doctor-hopped, trying to find out what was wrong, when I finally got lucky and found a dentist who told me the artificial implant in my jaw that was supposed to fix things actually fucked them up more, was probably shedding bits of teflon in my body, and had to be removed ASAP. I have the pathology report on the surgery. It's icky.

Point is: I was right.

Then there was the time, 8 years ago, when I had this tiny yet horribly itchy rash on my back. I went to the doctor and said, hey, I know that a little information gleaned from the Interwebs is usually a bad thing, so PLEASE tell me this isn't shingles.

He said sorry, I can't. It IS shingles and this has been a weird morning, because the first patient of the day was a brand new case of tuberculosis and I had to call the CDC, so sorry you had to wait. Shingles at age 34? Effed up.

Then, of course, is the constant battle with depression, and my years of working with my doctor to get the right medicine and dosage. It sucks, but at least the medicine helped me quit smoking. Then last year, Doc finally gave me Cymbalta, which has not only lifted my issues with depression, but also alleviated all those aches and pains I've been living with all my life, which are quite like fibromyalgia pain, even though for once I never self-diagnosed fibromyalgia. Okay, maybe once or twice in my head, but never asked the doctor about it.

So I was feeling GREAT!

Then, as you probably know, my Dad's illness which had already gone from bad to worse, went from worse to critical, then worse to casket. It exhausted me.

I expected the exhaustion to lift, but it only got worse, and the damn trees around me were blocking my view of the forest. Not that I could keep my eyes open to see it. I was sleeping up to 20 hours a day. Then I started craving, and I mean CRAVING anything with salt, that crunched. It was all I would eat: potato chips, bagel chips, saltines, anything. In restaurants, I wouldn't even need a to-go box, except maybe for my steak.

When I went to visit Mother at BeerHound's house in March, the 'Hound stared in awe as I ate an entire bag of potato chips (WITH dip) by myself, as I sat and complained about how swollen my ankles were.

Really, they looked like Stretch Armstrong's buddy He-Man: when poked, the dent from my finger would stay for a minute or two.

That's when the BeerHound said quietly, yeah, that's weird. Go to the doctor.

Now, BeerHound and I theorize on health issues on a daily basis. Due to her past and present professions, nutritionist and lab tech, respectively, she can spout diagnostic data prolificly. But since she's not a doctor, she can't and won't give out medical advice.

That's why, when she had NO other comments on my behavior and symptoms, I took her very seriously and went to the doctor the day after I got back.

At which time, of course, the swelling had dissappeared. So I guess I wasn't having heart failure, or kidney failure, or any other major organ failure. So that was nice.

Good hypochondriac I am, I'd already diagnosed myself with Hashimoto's. It's a type of underactive thyroid condition.

The doctor agreed to do some blood tests, and gave me a diuretic for my now non-existent edema. Then a week and a lot of frustration later, I learned that I was NOT suffereing from a thyroid malady; however, I was severely low in vitamins B12 and D. Now I get to take oral supplements of each, plus sit in the sun for 15 minutes a day, and get monthly B12 shots.

I have no idea why I was so anemic, but it feels really good to be awake again.

Thanks for reading this far. Now go sit in the sun.

Who ARE the people in your neighborhood?

2010-04-19T13:22:00.005-05:00

12:47 PM

me: i saw the funniest thing!

12:48 PM

David: ?

me: getting out of a car going into a house over on j*#&* street

a drag queen. skinny.

in a snow leopard print chiffon halter dress

12:49 PM

wearing a platinum Marilyn Monroe wig

and heels of course.

carrying..

A WHIP!

David: uhhh wha?

me: :-O

just re-read what i wrote.

;-)

12:50 PM

David: is it drag queen day at school today?

me: must be

12:51 PM

David: wonder what that was about? I mean I know there are lots of republicans living in Texas, but in our neighborhood?

me: i love you.

12:52 PM

David: :>

12:55 PM

Lance: gotta do a craigslist search to find who put in that ad

me: lol

I was bad.

2010-04-11T15:50:00.002-05:00

The last time I flew, I did something illegal.

You know when they ask, has anyone else handled your bags? Asked you to carry something, etc?

You say "No," and you really believe it, don't you?

This is from my (handwritten) journal entry:

This guy who has been sitting in front of me for about an hour, working on his computer, got a phone call 10 minutes ago. He started out talking while sitting in his seat but quickly got up. Can NO ONE in this country speak on the phone any more without the urge to multitask, even if it's only a facade? Guess not.

People used to have to stand still or sit to speak on the phone, since it was anchored to the wall.

The guy came back. I wonder if the guy to my right noticed what I did. Which was: I tore a blank page out of my journal and wrote: "You left your bag unattended! Bar Patron, DFW, beerpup (at) gmail (dot) com," and put it in his backpack. Wonder what the outcome will be?

The guy just took another call. Geez.

Non-sequiter: I'm really glad I haven't seen anyone in flip-flops yet today.

Man, that guy just dug thru his bag. I guess I put that note practically on top of his wallet. Let's just call him Mr. "O" for Oblivious.

Two lines, no thoughts, sorta drunk. Nachos sucked, just like last time I was here!

This is where we are before we're up in the air.

Watch this.

2010-03-31T09:23:00.000-05:00

Hey lady! Yeah, you!

2010-03-05T20:10:00.000-06:00

Confidential to the lady at the grocery store: Yah, you, bitch. You, the one who whined "Escuse me" to me as you manuvered your cart around me because I was looking for something. I wasn't blocking the whole aisle, and the store wasn't busy. Your "Excuse me" was totally unnecessary but once said, I was happy to give an obsequeous "No problem!" in reply.

But that look you gave me. Really. Not necessary. I mean, it would have made sense if you were a lesbian or something, but it was kind of obvious you're not.

How do I know? Well, you looked at me as if I should actually CARE what you think about how I look!

Which today, I've got to admit, did not adhere to the "Texas in March after dark" standard. Then again I decided long ago that such standards don't apply to me. I decided that about the time that I tried to figure out why everyone around me was wearing their shower shoes. I wondered if there was a rampant fungus going around which I hadn't heard about. Then, by my favorite method of research--also known as "eavesdropping"--I discovered they're called "flip-flops" and it is, for some reason, acceptible for anyone to wear them anywhere in Texas in the summer, though they are highly encouraged on airplanes, and probably frowned upon by the higher-ups at the Mary Kay Corporation.*

Shower shoes. Something people wear when they are otherwise completely naked. You know, like a condom or something. I just think it's weird, plus they're nearly impossible to keep on one's feet while walking, unless one curls one's toes, and that's just not good for your feet. Plus, I tend to feel that the curling of one's toes should be inspired by one's beloved, and not one's poor choice in footwear.

I have a very low standard when it comes to every-day dressing. It is: beat-up old tennis shoes, socks, standard underwear, a tank top in any color except that beige that washes me out, and either jeans or shorts.

It's after March 1, and the temperature was WELL above freezing today, so I was wearing shorts.

Herein I have strayed from what is acceptible in Texas, in March, after dark.

I was wearing a jacket, at least. Not necessarily an attractive jacket, but sorta cute. And sorta short-sleeved.

Really, I was only wearing that particular jacket because I still had it on from picking up the kids when it was sunny AND almost "warm" AND it covered up the fact that I'm wearing a tank top.

It's not really a good idea, when picking up one's children at school and when seen by school faculty and staff, to not dress in accordance with the school dress code. Believe it or not, I don't wear short-shorts or tank tops when I go there. I make sure to wear a jacket over the tank tops anyway. I also, and this is really difficult for me, do NOT wear anything that makes any reference to beer. I have tons of beer shirts and bar shirts and several shirts with my nickname on them, which means that if choose poorly when dressing in the morning, I will end up wearing a jacket at carpool when it's 80 degrees out because I don't need anyone asking me what "BeerPup" is and where this "TreyFools Roofing" company is located.

But a tank top WITH a jacket is totally acceptable, because the school dress code makes no reference whatsoever to clevage. And I can't hide my boobs anyway, and why would I want to? As I've said before: "THEY'RE REAL, AND THEY'RE MAGNIFICANT."

Even in this day and age, people make assumptions about women in regard to the size of their breasts.

So, then, lady from the store: I don't care. Thank you for amusing me, though.

Oh, and also: now you can go and tell your friends that now you know what hookers do on their day off.

Have a nice day!

*I know this for a fact. Also, it's not a good idea, if you work at Mary Kay, to change your pantyhose in the parking garage. They'd rather see a run in your hose. Want to change those hose so you don't get in trouble? Look for security cameras first.

Grana's Grits Casserole

2010-02-14T09:05:00.002-06:00

Grits Casserole

1 cup plain instant grits

3 cups boiling water

1/2 teaspoon salt

1/4 cup butter

4 eggs

1 cup milk

1/4 cup grated cheese

Pour grits into boiling, salted water; mix and cook until thick (do not follow directions/measurements on grits box). Add butter, beaten eggs, milk, and cheese. Bake at 350 for 30 minutes. Serves 4.

The Dave's grandmother used to make this for us at the ranch.

The Airplane Story

2010-01-22T14:28:00.002-06:00

I had totally forgotten that Northwest and Delta are now one airline that simply can't afford to re-paint their fleet yet. So when I got on my flight to Minneapolis--the first time I went up North--I was at a NW gate but had no idea the plane said "Delta" on the side. No big. Whatever.

My row was maybe 2/3 back. I had paid an extra $20 to have a more comfortable seat, because when I booked my ticket, all that was available were the emergency exit row seats and the ones in front of them which don't recline, and the roomier but more costly one(s) which I had booked.

The flight was progressing as normal. I was reading, the beverages were served and I had coffee, since it was still 0-dark:30 in the morning. I can tell you beyond a doubt that coffee is also what the woman behind me ordered.

I had taken my time drinking my coffee, as in 30-40 minutes at least to drink luke-warm stuff that I'm fairly sure was brewed by tying a string on a coffee bean and dipping it into my cup. Yes, it was a little on the weak side. The flight attendants had been up and back twice picking up garbage and my cup was long gone.

Then I did what everyone does at this point. I leaned my seat back.

From the sounds that emitted from behind me, you'd think I had pulled down my pants and shit in the woman's lap. First there was a splash, then a squak, then whining and yelping, then several beeps (the flight attendant button--did you know you can push it more than once?) and then…the bitching.

"Could I have a towel or rag or something? SHE leaned her seat back and SPILLED MY COFFEE ALL OVER.!"

In between her comments, she made many.pointed.exhales.of.EXASPERATION.

Then she stood directly next to me and told the person across the aisle from me that I had leaned my seat back and SPILLED HER COFFEE ALL OVER! I'm pretty sure she told the person in front of me, too. I'm not really sure, because I was trying to read my book, which was pretty good.

She finally sat down, but didn't shut up. She told the person across the aisle from her, which as you can imagine was totally unnecessary because I'm fairly sure they had actually witnessed the incident (when I had leaned my seat back and SPILLED HER COFFEE ALL OVER!) At this point, she was telling anyone who would pay attention, starting and stopping again every couple of minutes. A full half hour later, she finally remembered to thank the guy next to her for catching something or other.

That guy was the only person, aside from the flight attendant, who actually answered her. He said "You're welcome," and nothing else.

Once I finished my chapter and was wishing for the flight to end, I wondered what, exactly, did this woman think I, personally, had done wrong? How, exactly, was I to blame? Where the hell had her coffee cup been, that I was able to knock it over with my seat? Was I personally responsible for the tray table design for Delta airlines? Is there some rule out there that says I have to ask permission before leaning back? (Because, if there is, please tell me, and I'll pass that info along next time someone leans their seat back in front of me without warning, which would be, oh, EVERYONE who is ever going to sit in front of me on an airplane, ever. Maybe I should have little laminated instruction cards printed up and just hand them out. But I digress.)

So she put coffee in a stupid place and it spilled, and then bitches about it for the rest of the flight? Since I handn't looked at the woman when she wanted me to, I tried to imagine her. She had to be over 50, hair dyed and not very well, print button-up shirt, impractical shoes, and white pants. And she just HAD to be the kind of person who wears white pants on an airplane--in December on the way to Minnesota, no less.

My suspisions were confirmed as we de-planed. The guy who had been stuck next to her looked at me as he went past, glanced at her and rolled his eyes. I smirked and glanced at the woman next to me who was wearing a hijab, lifting part of it up to cover her mouth so her smile couldn't be seen, and then she rolled her eyes, too.

The woman in the coffee-stained white pants hurried up the jetway in front of me, eager to tell her story to people who hadn't witnessed it, so she could get some REAL sympathy.

Good luck with that.

Pharoh

2010-01-19T22:13:00.000-06:00

In the hospital, at the end, I was talking to my friend Jami's daughter Avi. She's 10. I was trying to prepare her for what it was like to see my dad the way he was. He'd lost a lot of weight, and dammit, he was BALD. It had been a shock to me, and I can only imagine what it would be like for her.

"He looks like…well, a mummy. Do you watch the Discovery channel?"

"No."

"Never?"

"Never."

I looked at Jami. She confirmed it. No Discovery channel, EVER! Such a travesty.

"Okay. Well, some day in school, you'll study ancient Egypt, or you'll get to watch the Discovery channel," I paused and glared at Jami. "They'll show mummies, upwrapped. Their bones are there, and their skin is there, but there's no…" I had to stop and think. "They've lost tissue. Some of themselves. And when they were buried, they did all kinds of other things to preserve the pharohs and stuff. It's really cool. But it's kind of shocking, how much they look like themselves, but they don't.

"So that's how Marvin looks right now. Himself, but not. It's okay to be a little shocked."

I'll admit I was rocked to the bottoms of my stupid pink tennies, the first time I saw him in that hospital bed.

"Dad! Look who came to see you!"

He opened his eyes--both of them, for once and said, "Toby! Jami!" and then, "Avi!"

They stayed breifly, talked breifly, and the the nurse had to do something without us in the room. Outside, I talked to Avi a little more.

I had never met Avi before that day. She was due to be born the same week as my first baby--the one I miscarried. Being determinded to have a baby that year, I got pregnant with Zoe and had her with an easy margin; she was born in November. Avi had been born the June before. I won't even pretend that Avi wasn't my parents' substitute for the grandchild who didn't arrive as expected. For a while, once I was definitely pregnant again, Mom--and Dad--were all, Avi this and Avi that, and I know that most of this was second and third hand information, but what can you do? They're Grandma and Grandpa. They were just doing what they do.

Avi was definitely uncomfortable, after seeing Dad.

"You don't remember him, do you?" I asked. She admitted she didn't.

"Well, at least now you know what a mummy looks like. Some day you'll see a picture of one and say, hey, that look just like Marvin did! It's okay that you don't remember him. You were only a baby. He doesn't have to be important to you. You're important to him."

The Pharoh had spoken.

Aunt

2010-01-19T10:15:00.001-06:00

My Dad had only one sister, Leona. This was in a time when farmers had as many kids as possible. I guess two was grandma's limit.

Leona ran as fast and as far as she could from the farm. I don't think she ever got over being stigmatized and terrorized by the "urban" kids from my home town. Way back then, they were unbelievabley cruel to "country kids," a practice which still hadn't entirely ended in my own time.

She never knocked that chip off her shoulder, but then again, she never bothered to look to far outside herself either. When I was young she was my favorite aunt, but as I realized just how self-absorbed she was, she became my least favorite. I could tell many stories about her self-absorption, but I'll just summarize it this way: She never bothered to learn her only brother's children's names. Oh, she could pronounce them, but every Christmas, our presents came addressed to : Sarah, Darrin, and Janis. EVERY FUCKING YEAR. FOR DECADES. Don't bother asking if we politely corrected her. We did.

For the record, they are spelled Sara, Darren, and Janice.

Bitch.

Unsuccessful

2010-01-19T10:03:00.000-06:00

It's been a rocky Fall and Winter for me. As most (or all) of y'all know, my dad died earlier this month from cancer.

Thus far I've been unsuccessful at writing, let alone posting, an entire cohesive piece about it. I just can't put it all together yet. Therefore, I've decided to post breif thoughts about my dad: his life in general, his illness, the funny bits, the sad bits, the surreality of it all. It won't all be in one post. I can't do that yet. Maybe in the end it will all make sense.

This will be very random--84 years' worth of life rarely ties itself up neatly.

(PS: Each thought will be an individual post. It's the only "order" I seem to be able to impose on these thoughts.)

Update: Merry New Year

2009-12-31T18:04:00.004-06:00

Howdy all. Several of you have asked for an update and it seemed easiest to post it here.

To put it bluntly, about my father: it won't be long now. I would guess hours but he may surprise us and live several more days. He is resting comfortably and high as a kite on fentonyl, in the hospital with hospice services. He's having more and more trouble breathing. He responded twice today: when the pastor said a prayer with us, and when my sister and I gave him a hug goodbye.

We as a family have talked about several difficult topics lately. These days talking about things isn't that hard; it's the thinking that kills me.

Anyway, personally, the week was really hellish and not so bad. Saying I slept where the devil lives? Well, it seemed that EVERY room in my mom's house last night was warm except the one I was sleeping in. The bedding was all polyester or a polyester blend and y'all know how much I hate that. And you asked what it smelled like? Um, old lady. Old tobacco smoke. I'll make y'all happy and add sulphur to the list. But mostly old lady.

I'm scheduled to fly home on Monday but I doubt I'll be getting on that plane; most likely I'll be booking three more tickets for my family to fly here, and I'll just switch my flight home to the same as theirs.

One more thing: Thank you. Thank you ALL for your prayers and thoughts and those little things and big things you've done for me. Even the things you haven't done yet.

Y'all rock.

My dad had a dream a couple of weeks ago. It was a man in white coming toward him. The man put his arm up and smoke came up like out of a stovepipe. The smoke spelled out words:

"Thy will be done."

Just a thought

2009-10-20T14:41:00.000-05:00

I've just won a battle against the laundry, but it occurred to me, I will never win that war, because chances are I'll die wearing clothes which will of course be dirty.

Unless I die naked. That would be fab.

AM Flashback

2009-09-16T16:00:00.000-05:00

Did the guy who sang "Sad Eyes" have his testicles removed? Geez, I can't even sing some of those notes and I'm a soprano (dammit; I was an alto for a while but then I quit smoking).

"Sad Eyes" was on the radio this morning as we were heading to the carpool line. I started telling the kids about how I used to hear this song on the way to school all the time, while riding the bus, but it sounded much worse because it was AM radio.

Then I had to explain AM radio. Luckily it was easy because I just pushed a button on the console.

"THIS is AM radio. It just doesn't sound as good but there weren't many FM stations then."

"MacArthur Park" was playing. The original, not the disco hit.

Simian Boy asked how long radios had been in cars. I told him that the oldest vehicle I had been in which had an [original] radio was my Dad's 1946 GMC pickup. Right now, the radio still works in it if the battery is charged, but nothing else does.

After the drop-off, I kept the AM station on and listened to the end of MacArthur Park. I even had to sit in the driveway for a while. It's an extremely long song.

"Someone left the cake out in the rain

Oh the sweet green icing flowing doooooown!" Marcus Aurelius warbled at me.

Then a key change. Then another. Then that jamming' part. Then yet ANOTHER key change.

When I was in 8th grade, my sister was in the Senior Band and they got to perform MacArthur Park for the Spring Thing. (Actually it was called the Spring Sing, but that doesn't make sense because half the time it's instrumental music). The song plays much better as an instrumental.

I don't think it's going to be an option on Rock Band any time soon.

As Starfyfreak would say: TOTALLY RANDOM.

2009-09-11T16:00:00.004-05:00

First: today my iPhone crashed. I figured out why. Be sure to update your iTunes to the new software before using it to update your iPhone to ITS new software.

I ended up having to go to the backup from before I got the new 3G phone (it was dated 8/14), then updating the software, then re-doing the sync. Which still messed with my data. Nothing's lost, but there's a lot of extra crap to get rid of in my contacts and stuff.

Next: to the gray Lexus who has done morning carpool directly in front of me two days in a row: 1) It is not necessary to be the first person in line, to let your kids out of the car. You can be the second, third, whatever, as long as you're somewhere in front of the school. 2) It is not necessary to stay parked at the front of the line until you see your child actually enter the school. She knows the way--it's kind of a point A to point B thing. She won't get lost. Promise. 3) This trying to turn left, but then giving up and turning right? Getting old. Just turn right, every time. Then I won't have to kill you. 4) Once you pass the beginning of the school zone--you saw it a couple of minutes ago, with the yellow blinking light?--yeah, there. Anyway, on your way back, there's a "resume 30mph" sign. IT MEANS YOU CAN DRIVE 30 AGAIN. Really, I'm sure of it. I've even seen the police do it. 5) When you drive, and I mean WHENEVER you drive, stay in the driving lane. If you have to swerve around parked cars, YOU'RE DOING IT WRONG.

Thanks.

Last: Considering today's date, what I just wrote is pretty insignificant. However, my favorite blogger, Sarah Bunting at Tomatonation.com has something worth hearing about. Here's her story. http://www.thetakeaway.org/stories/2009/sep/11/kindness-strangers-stories-911/ (Once there, click on the "Listen" link.)

Bad News, Folks.

2009-08-24T15:30:00.000-05:00

Mr. Robert O'Connor, the crossing guard at Curtsinger Elementary whom I wrote about earlier today, has passed away. He was the father of our vice principal, Ms. Salzman.

I'm so sorry for her loss. My thoughts and prayers are with Mr. O'Connor's family.

Curtsinger 911

2009-08-24T08:33:00.004-05:00

First day of school and I already have a carpool story to share.

I was dropping the kids off and noticed that the lady who has been the crossing guard for the last three years isn't there any more. She was only going to keep the job until her granddaughter started middle school. The new guy, an older gentleman, was--it seemed--not quite used to the rhythm of the job. There were a lot of people waiting to walk across as I drove through.

I dropped the kids at the door, giving them my usual pep talk, which my daughter (who now will be known as StarfyFreak since she's announce she hates being called Stick Girl) calls "Being weird."

"Hit your [seat belt] buttons, put on your backpacks, secure your lederhosen, and get your hugging arms ready because you're about to see your friends!"

There was a bit of a delay getting back onto the road. Everyone seemed to be turning right and a bus coming from the other direction was slowly turning left. The driver looked nervous, and motioned for me to not move forward as she turned.

Actually, she looked totally freaked out. I figured out why as soon as she finished turning.

The new crossing guard had collapsed in the middle of the street. The police had a patrol car with its lights flashing in the other driving lane. One of the dads had taken over the crossing guard's stop sign and was handling foot traffic and making everyone in my line of cars turn right. You know, so as not to hit the guy on the ground. He was being attended to by the cop. No one had started CPR yet, and I hope it was because the guy didn't need it.

It was traumatic. It was the sort of trauma that seems like fiction.

I've got to say that it was monumentally amazing that there was even a patrol car in the school zone in the first place. The city doesn't have the resources and so we don't have daily police patrols for school zones. Once a week, tops.

This incident is so upsetting, I don't have a conclusion to my story. Maybe there will be more to the story later. I'll keep you posted.

Daily Messages

2009-08-18T12:39:00.002-05:00

To CVS and Walgreens: Please, PLEASE stock Goody's Cool Orange Headache Powders. Yes, I know you sell the original, but honestly, let's talk about the packaging. It's white powder folded up in a piece of waxed paper. If you ever take the stuff in public or even in the break room at work, people think it's cocaine. The packaging of the Cool Orange flavor (sealed plastic pouch, clearly marked) is more socially acceptable and doesn't bring the police to your desk if you just happen to have a headache or back pain. I already called the manufacturer about it, but you still should take the initiative and put the stuff on the shelves. Thanks. Oh, and also, could you start selling your product in Minnesota? And also, thanks for sponsoring Tony Stewart. I love that guy. In my mind, he loves me, too. Thanks for bringing us together.

To my dog: Shut up. You ate already. You WOKE ME UP so I would feed you.

To Taco Bell on Preston: Thanks for finally hiring some people who are friendly and competent! It's about effing time!

To the Frisco Post Office employees: Y'all rock. Lots of people hate the post office, but I kinda like it, and I like that you're friendly and competent and fast and wear beads on Mardi Gras and give out cookies on April 15th and stuff. Also. I hope you will enjoy your Saturdays off, if you get them, you know, if that legislation happens.

To my lawn service: I missed you last week. Walking in my yard right now makes my ankles itch. See you tomorrow!

To Texas Motor Speedway: I hope to come and see you in November! I'm working on it!

To the ladder in my garage: Stop falling over and scratching my UrbanTruckster. You're starting to piss me off.

To the weather: Please stay cloudy and threatening to rain so I don't have to go to the pool today. That way, I can get a head start on my daily beer consumption.

To Tom DeLay and Brett Farve: You're looking really pathetic. I'd tell you to get out while you have some dignity, but it's too late for that.

To the Looserans--I mean the ELCA: Good luck on that gay ministers vote. While you consider it, remember that the Bible has more admonitions against shellfish than it does against homosexuality. So remember, a vote for gays is a vote for Red Lobster! Er.

Summer cave retreat

2009-08-17T12:56:00.001-05:00

We finally closed on our refinancing, end of July. You know what sucks about the whole thing? It wasn't really necessary. We're not in financial trouble, we don't have problems paying the mortgage, and we've never ever paid late. Ever. Once the bank messed up so it appeared as if we paid late, and I made them make a notation that it was their fault and not ours. Prior to closing, we were getting zero information from the bank--they couldn't even tell us if we'd owe closing costs or if we had enough equity for cash out. THEY WOULDN'T TELL US! And I think, by law, they're supposed to tell us 48 hours in advance of the closing. At least.

Then they did owe us money for cash-out, but didn't tell us it would take another week to actually give us the money.

All through this, the Dave was maybe, maybe not going back to work for MKay. Once again there was zero information going on (and I know that was mostly Dave's fault). Finally I asked my friend Bloomie--you know my homeschooler friend in Plaintown--if Dave was getting the job or not. You see, her husband will be The Dave's boss. The Dave and this guy have worked together at three different companies, just because they work really well together.

Of course Bloomie knew (yes, The Dave would be offered the job) and I was mad at myself that I didn't ask her sooner. But then again, their whole family had the flu for most of July so she wouldn't have been able to talk much anyway.

Then it took a couple more weeks to find out if they met his salary request, and other requests, like having 4 weeks vacation like he used to the last time he worked for MKay, and vested 401(k) and stuff. No-go on the vacation but that wasn't a deal-breaker.

Then I was waiting for a rather large amount of money from a CD to arrive, which took about 7 days longer than I thought it would. And once again, we don't need the money. But we knew it was coming.

And once Dave finally had a start date at MKay (same as the first day of school) we, in my mind, had limited time during which to apply for passports. No, we're not going anywhere soon, but Dave might have to go to Russia or China or Mexico because MKay does well in there. Travel to those countries was specified on his job description.

So finally on Wednesday, we applied for passports. Mine's been expired for 9 years (I have an 80s Freshly Fucked hairstyle in the picture). And for children, both parents must be present to apply for the child's passport. We wanted them for the kids just in case we take that shortcut through Canada again in the future. And I'm not kidding, there's a shortcut through Canada, for us, where we usually travel...through national forests and such. It's not going to be acceptable to just have birth certificates for that, very soon, if it isn't already disallowed.

The cost? $497.50. For four passports (we requested both book and ID card formats). $497.50 to prove we're American.

So I turned around this week and realized we have one week. ONE FRICKING WEEK to not having anything in the pipe, so to speak. I think we'll be at the pool for most of it.

So back to the summer cave retreat idea: I can micro-multi-task, but I can't macro-multi-task. I can deal with my family and my life, day-to-day, but if something big is coming up? I can't move on to the next big thing.

Basically, I was in my house. All summer. Being my slightly agoraphobic self. My cave. You know I don't even like it if the kids open the shades that face the patio? I finally got the shades put up in my kitchen, and I immediately felt calmer. It was freaky.

I know what you're thinking. I need new meds. And I agree. But my old meds were costing nearly $200 a month because our health insurance was so crappy, so I've been waiting to see if The Dave was going back to MKay, which has wonderful health insurance.

A week from Monday, I can go back to the doc for different meds.

My whole family is looking forward to that day.

Dreams, Insomnia, Resolution

2009-08-09T07:26:00.001-05:00

I've been wide awake since 4:30. I can't decide if that's good or bad.

Before that I was having odd dreams. The things that normally happen in dreams, didn't. I was in college, and I went from one class to another. The second class, I wasn't prepared for the test that was being given. Normally at this point in the dream there would be panic on my part, and I'd try and explain my way out of it by saying I already have two college degrees and so why do I need another? And who registered me for this class anyway? Then I flunk the class, the whole year, and my life is in ruins.

Except this time, I looked at the test, which had two sets of questions: one normal one, and another set you could take if you chose to consult your class notes (for an automatic grade deduction). I realized I couldn't pass either since I didn't know anything about music theory, and I didn't have class notes, having never attended the class. Where the dream usually goes South, instead I walked up to the teacher and said, "There's no way I can pass this course. I need to withdraw. Will you sign my withdrawal form?"

And she DOES! Then I'm going somewhere with my friend and she's in a hurry to get somewhere and when we get to the spot where we have to choose where she wants to go, or where the administration building is, I say, "I have to go take care of this. It's the last day to withdraw without penalty and maybe I can get some tuition back."

She doesn't try and convince me to go with her!

So I go to where you wait in line, and there's no one else in line! And all the windows are open! And one guy says, "Can I help you?" When he realizes what I need, he says, "This is the wrong line. I only handle people with names up to 'C'. You have to go two windows over."

And that window is open too! I withdraw and get 20% of my tuition back from the course, which is better than nothing.

And then I go with my friend to learn how to best photograph dogs. Turns out, it's important to have their shadow in the photo--according to my dream, anyway.

Then I hugged puppies, and then I woke up and couldn't sleep.

Which is why I couldn't decide if being awake since 4:30 was good or bad.

Hotdish

2009-08-08T13:31:00.002-05:00

Let me tell you about "hotdish." A lot of you might wonder why I think you need to be told about it, because you have Tator Tots AND cream of mushroom soup in your cupboard. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Put simply, "hotdish" is what everyone else in the world, outside of the upper-midwest, calls a casserole.

(I know that "casserole" can also refer to the dish or pan the food is cooked and served in, but we're not going there today.)

"Hotdish" usually contains Cream of Mushroom Soup. Some ladies have been known to use Cream of [something else, probably cellery] Soup, but they probably won't tell you that when they give you the recipe. "Hotdish" also usually contains some type of potato, even if the potato is only stale chips crumbled on the top. Other possible ingredients are ground beef, cooked chicken or turkey, a frozen or canned vegetable. Some ladies get fancy and use cheese, too, plus some other stuff I'm pretty sure they only sell in towns with a population of larger than 10,000.

I've been in Texas too long. A year or so ago, I was planning supper and realized I had NO POTATOES IN THE HOUSE! Not in the freezer, or fridge, or cupboard, or even forgotten in the trunk of my car (hey, it's happened!). The absence of potatoes in and of itself wasn't the bad part. The bad part was that I realized I had been out of potatoes for a couple of weeks!

Really, I'm not quite sure how we survived.

So in a panic, I called my friend Elly. Elly is from Nebraska so she mostly understands the crisis.

"Elly! I'm out of potatoes! No russet, no reds, no whites, not even any french fries or Tator Tots in the freezer! Not even any leftovers! I'm gonna get kicked out of the Honorary Minnesota Women's Association!"

"Calm down. Take a breath," Elly said in her calming librarian voice that we both learned in Library School. "Now think: do you have instant?"

"Wait...wait...um..." I was searching the cupboard. "I do! Oh, what a relief!"

I'm probably not explaining it well. So just take my word for it: if you're from Up North, you were raised on Hotdish, and you always, ALWAYS had the ingredients in the house to make one. Even when you were in college.

It's time to be honest about my OCD.

2009-07-31T13:54:00.000-05:00

Looking at my house, you would NOT think the people who live here could be obsessed with anything except movies, video games, and sleeping because every pillow we've ever owned seems to have come back from the landfill and camped in our house.

And the blankets. All of my blankets are here, except for the ones my mom made when I was young because she thought polyester double-knit rummage sale clothes were a wonderful material to make into quilts.

Yep, for a while I slept under my dead grandmother's--and heck, maybe even your dead grandmother's--polyester pants suits.

I know. Ew.

So, all these blankets except ONE. I "inherited" one blanket from my grandfather. Not a quilt or anything. Just a store-bought blanket that smelled like little old man when my mom gave it to me. I don't have it any more.

I don't care if it was Grandpa Shorty's. It was butt-ugly. It was pink and green and I think it was supposed to be watermelons. Not that I have a certain decorating style or anything. I have more like a decorating intention; eventually, maybe, some day, my house will look like it does in my head. Meanwhile my walls are still white with primer spots where I've tried to cover the cheap crayon drawings Stick Girl did 7 years ago.

Anyway, it's not like this thing just wasn't my style. It wasn't ANYONE'S style except Grandma Shorty's and honestly--that woman owned some of the butt-ugliest crap I've ever seen. Her earrings were famously ugly, and I'm still kind of ticked off that she was buried in earrings that were actually tasteful.

Oh, crap. I just remembered that I still have the blanket. I saved it at the last minute because it was butt-ugly and reminded me of Grandma Shorty.

All the blankets, all the afgans, all the pillows. I'm drowning in tasteless bedding.

Where was I? Oh, yeah. How I'm OCD. A little.

Here's where the OCD comes in. I can no longer remember if I have the Butt-Ugly Watermelon Blanket or if it went to a charity. I'm going to have to go through my linen closet and look for it. Then go through my clothes closet and look for it. Then my kids' closets.

Then, and only then, will I be able to get back to my task at hand (which is irrelevant except for the fact that it has nothing to do with going in any closets at all).

Because if I don't figure out if I still have the blanket, it will sit in my subconscious forever and eat away at my karma. There is nothing to be gained by finding the answer but I still have to....

What was I talking about again? OCD. Um, yeah.

Reminds me of a bumper sticker I just saw: "Genius has its limitations. Insanity? Not so much."

Power Of God

2009-07-26T21:35:00.002-05:00

Michelle, er--SaxyGal requested a story like this, so I gave it a shot.

1981 was a horrible year for me.

Somewhere around the end of May, all my friends decided they hated me and would no longer speak to me. They maintained their silence until December or longer. It was probably December, because that's when I decided I was sick of people fucking with me. Their silence no longer had power over me, so they ended it.

So there I was, 13 years old, had braces, had to cut off all my hair because I was given a bad perm and literally couldn't comb through my hair. Well, it was maybe 2 inches long, but it was a "cute" haircut. I hate cute hair. Don't ever tell me my hair is cute; I will take it as an insult and tell you so.

Then my grandma died suddenly. I didn't have any friends to call and talk about it.

So from May until December of 1981, my life was once continual craptacular, except for ONE thing: I got my braces off and my teeth looked great. But, once again, I had no one to tell.

That December was really cold and really empty; facing your first Christmas without Grandma when you're 13 is depressing, and not in any way that anyone can help you. It sucks, it's going to continue sucking, until one day it doesn't, which as I recall was somewhere around 1983.

You'd think our family would have--being God-fearin' Minnesotans--taken comfort in our church and the fellowship it offered. You could think that, and you'd be wrong.

That December, on an average week I spent two hours every Sunday morning, two hours every Wednesday afternoon and one every Wednesday evening, and three hours on Saturday for the Sunday School Christmas Program rehearsal. Plus there was the Program itself, and the Christmas Eve and Christmas Day church services. That's a grand total of...43 hours, give or take, during December 1981, when I was in church. And I felt the presence of God...um, maybe for an hour on Christmas Eve. The rest, I just felt the presence of a bunch of busybodies and an arrogant pastor.

I did, however, feel the power of God for a short while. This is the moment when I decided I was sick of people fucking with me.

We were at rehearsal for the Sunday School Christmas Program. It was maybe the second week of December. It was probably our second rehearsal.

These programs were always a case of too many cooks in the kitchen. The pastor wrote it. This woman named Betty tried to direct it, though I don't know if that was even her job. Carol was the organist, and she was the only one who had any competence and the wisdom to shut up.

Another thing about these programs is that there's only one story to tell, right? It's always the same story, however it gets told. But the pastor would always write a new script. It usually rhymed. I don't know why; maybe it was cute. And we all know how I feel about "cute." For some reason, no less that FOUR times, four separate years, guess who got to be the FIRST PERSON TO SPEAK? Um, yeah, me. You'd think, being there were at times as many as 30 kids in this Sunday School (and it was a tiny little church) that perhaps ONCE I would get stuck with that job? But four? FOUR???? It was a conspiracy. I truly believe that.

So, since I was first, they would spend a stupidly long time evaluating my performance.

"Okay, read your line."

They would realize no one had turned on the mike. So they'd turn it on, too loud.

"Okay, read your line."

AHHHH FEEDBACK!

Plus, being short, the damn microphone was always to high for me, and they would alternate between telling me to adjust it for myself, and telling me to NOT TOUCH THE MIC!

And then, the thing I heard the most:

"Speak up. SPEAK UP! WE CAN'T HEAR YOU!"

I will now point out--I was shy. I had a quiet voice. And I didn't WANT to be speaking AT ALL. All of which, added together, means yelling "Speak up!" at me from 10 feet away (it was a TINY church) did not have the desired effect. Then they'd complain that they couldn't understand me through the speakers in the back because my words were mumbled.

I asked my mother, and later my Sunday school teacher, and even the Pastor, why I had to be first? Their answer????

"Because you have such a good speaking voice!"

WHAT.THE.FUCK.

Anyway, After spending 10 or 15 minutes on just me, they'd remember they had 29 other kids with parts to read, whom they would spend a much more reasonable amount of time, each, rehearsing their lines. Which rhymed.

So, as happened on that fateful Saturday, that Second Rehearsal Of Four Of The Year, we struggled through all the speakers. We struggled through the logistics of how to handle the microphone. We struggled through the props, and we even suffered through the Pastor's daughter's singing solo.

The child had a horrible voice. She didn't even ATTEND our Sunday School--she went to the pastor's other church in town. And yet she had a fucking SOLO in OUR program? Yeah, even the worst of the church ladies thought THAT was fucked up.

We'd been through the whole thing, we rehearsed the recessional. We'd been there since 9am, missing the Laff-A-Lympics and American Bandstand, waiting for noon so we could go home and get on with our lives.

It was 11:55.

Then Betty, the "director" said, "Okay, that was great. Let's go through it again!"

I thought, what? What about lunch? The whole program that just took us three hours, she wants to do in 5 minutes? And here's the deal: no one objected. No one said anything to contradict her!

She turned to me. "Janice, you're first! Come up and read your line!"

Dumbstruck, I lined up, my classmates behind me. I stepped up to the mic, looked out at the pews, opened my mouth, and began, "W..."

I choked. I was about to cry. I was going to cry in front of the whole Sunday School because of that bitch! And I realized it was wrong. Just.Wrong.

I also realized that God probably agreed with me. He would NOT strike me down for doing what had to be done. If I acted, everyone else would have to follow.

So I dropped my script, and I walked out of the church. I went into the basement. All churches in Minnesota have basements. By this time I was freaking out, because though I knew God wouldn't punish me, Mom still had that option. So I sat down and started to cry. I didn't get far though, because just as I sat down, my Mom walked into the basement, carrying my jacket along with her own, and her purse. And here's the cool part: she was followed by the parents--that is, all the parents who were not currently teaching Sunday School.

They all thought Director Betty was as fucked up as I did.

"I have a hotdish in the oven that's going to be done in ten minutes," my mom said loud enough for the other moms to hear. A lot of them said they did too.

("Hotdish" is Minnesotan for "casserole.")

A couple of minutes later the rest of the Sunday School was released from servitude by Dictator Betty. Mom let me go out to the car ahead of them, so I could finish crying.

Oppression upsets me, okay?

But that one time, I got to smite oppression, with the Power of God behind me. And the Power of Mom, too.

Tax

2009-07-17T17:49:00.002-05:00

You know, I have no reason to complain. But yet I do.

This morning I was busy 7:30 until 11:30 trying to get my homestead tax exemption filed in such a manner that I could prove it's been filed. Tried the OurTown office. "Nope, we only mail them." Tried the CountySeatTown office. "Nope, we only mail them." Wha???? Turns out the tax administration building is separate from the tax payment offices, and in fact is nowhere near the tax assessor himself. The lady who finally did help me was wonderful. The other people? No so much. Oh, and I had to stop home in between the first and second stops to have a fight with The Dave. Then I left the kids by themselves while I tried the second time, but since I couldn't call or anything to let them know I'd be very late (Stick Girl's phone didn't work) I had to go home to tell them I would be gone another hour.

So I've totally blown my diet--which I just got back onto Tuesday--by eating half a tube of fat-free Pringles and since I went that far, I'm now having beer. I will not, however, go out and buy cigarettes because if I want to throw away money like that, I may as well buy a lottery ticket.

We bowled ONCE.

2009-07-11T08:29:00.009-05:00

When I tell my Texas friends that I used to hang out at the bowling alley all the time, but only bowled once, most of them are confused. A lot of them think that's weird, but a few "get it."

With explanation, they all get it. "Oh, it had an arcade. NOW I understand."

It makes me want to say, "No, I don't think you do. We never called it the arcade. We never referred to the games as arcade games. It was "The Alley." And they were just VIDEO games. No need to fancy it up with such a title as "arcade." That word was for other places--bigger places where we obviously weren't.

It was a rare occasion for me to even play one of the games. Mostly I watched others play.

In particular, my brother The Boy's best friend, Spec. Forces Ed, was a phenom on Pac-Man. He could play forever, until he got distracted or tired or just bored with playing. He usually had a crowd around him. Then the Powers that Be replaced the Pac-Man machine with Ms. Pac-Man, damn them!

I never thought about that before--obviously, very little money was being made off Pac-Man if Ed was playing it for an hour at a time on $.25, when usually a game like that should bring in several dollars an hour.

Mostly we all stood around, playing games or watching others, leaving to drive around town for a while and then coming back. You know--hanging out. Well, I was mostly tagging along. But as long as I wasn't a pain in the ass and didn't embarrass them, The Boy and Spec. Forces Ed would allow me in their presence.

The Alley was also, of course, a bowling alley and pool hall. We got to go there every fall for gym class, and I would compete with the older girls to get the "best" pair of size 5.5 bowling shoes. (I usually got them, BTW.) Then there were the requisite birthday parties that were held there, and we went a few times when we needed to find someone's mom during Afternoon Leagues.

But only ONCE did we ever go there and just bowl. It was probably a Saturday or Sunday after New Years', so there were no Leagues going on, and the place was dead because the rest of the world was hungover or out drinking somewhere. The Boy, BeerHound, and I along with each of our best friends decided to bowl on a lark. Now granted, all of our friends were excellent bowlers, and it was us that were the charity cases, but it was fun. A lot of fun.

But then, that was The Alley.

*This was written because yesterday, The Alley, whose real name was Cactus Lanes, suffered a serious fire. All of us who spent a large chunk of our youth, and particularly those like Spec. Forces Ed who still spend a large chunk of their adulthood at the place, are concerned and heartbroken over this. We hope it can survive this. The place epitomizes what's missing today in a lot of people's lives: real face-to-face human interaction, physical activity, mindless entertainment, or to quote from the movie Dazed And Confused, "...good ol' worthwhile visceral experience."

So, to Steve, the current owner of the place: I hope you choose to keep on with the provision of visceral experiences. Because a bowling alley ain't just a bowling alley. Thanks.

Oh, about the quitting smoking

2009-06-16T14:04:00.002-05:00

Just so's y'all know, I have been absolutely, totally, 100% successful in my quitting smoking. I quit at about 10 in the morning on June 2, 2008 and have not had another cigarette since.

I will attribute my success to three things: Wellbutrin, Nicoderm, and gas prices. I'll also give a nod to Jelly Belly lemon drops.

Here's how I did it:

1) Since I'm crazy, I was put on Wellbutrin a couple of months before quitting smoking. It made the cigarettes taste like dirt. I kept doing it, however.

2) Then gas prices got stupidly expensive, and I realized just how much a waste of money smoking is.

3) So I bit the bullet and bought a box of Nicoderm. Luckily the lady at the pharmacy warned me that people get hooked on the patches instead of the smokes, which had never even occurred to me, but it makes sense. What a cool way to get a nic-fix in private! No social repercussions when no one knows you're wearing your addiction on your ass! I originally bought the strongest strength, but it was so strong it freaked me out. I quickly switched to the next level down, and when I started forgetting to use it until halfway through the day, I didn't even bother to go to the third level down.

4) Whenever an urge to smoke hit me, I would first breathe REALLY deeply and thank God that I could. Then I'd go through all those things that the Nicoderm program tells you to. And if none of that worked, I would eat a lemon drop.

Ya see, lemon drops immediately make me salivate. And I like them. Pickles worked, too, if I wasn't in a mood for something sweet.

5) And then there's my family and friends who willingly talked to me on the phone when I needed encouragement, or just something to do.

But you know what? Talking about all this--it makes me want a cigarette.

And then he punched me

2009-06-14T10:01:00.001-05:00

Some time in junior high, my brother The Boy came home with a story.

We were all required to tell a story when we came home from school. "How was school today?" was never answered with, "Fine."

"It was so funny! Cass was telling a story about this guy, he was just talking, this guy, and the said something about punching someone and when he did it, he threw a punch in the air to demonstrate. But just at that moment, someone walked around the corner and the guy accidentally punched him!!

"But here's the funny part! When CASS was telling the story, he did the same thing, see? He threw the punch. But just at that moment, Hammer walked around the corner and Cass punched him!"

By now, The Boy was pretty animated, waving his arms, imitating Hammer's shocked look.

"Isn't that funny? I mean he's ALREADY telling a story about someone accidentally punching someone, and it happens again! Just like--" he threw a punch.

Just as I walked around the corner.

Pocono recap

2009-06-09T08:53:00.002-05:00

Sorry for the writer's block lately. If I knew how to unblock it, I would.

However, I do have a few things to say about Tony Stewart's win on Sunday.

1) WA-FUCKIN-HOO!!!!!

2) Really, spectacular. Fun to watch/listen to. Hey, I had to hear the last 34 laps on the radio, and do NOT get me started talking about why, because I guess I'm a little angry about that.

3) Carl Edwards is a whining dickwad. I understand being disappointed at loosing, but one's standing in the eyes of the fans is NOT improved by saying, "Well, I had the better car," and "I thought for sure he'd run out of gas." Mostly because this means, if Cousin Carl DID have the better car, then he lost due to bad driving or bad strategy. And saying he thought Tony would run out of gas (based on a race a couple of years ago when Tony DID run out of gas...in the old car and not the COT, with a different team and crew chief, on a different track) is just BAD STRATEGY. In other word, Cousin Carl: if you had the better car, WHY THE FUCK DIDN'T YOU WIN? Oh, wait, it's because Tony's a better driver, and also, you're a dickwad.

4) WA-FUCKIN-HOO!!!!!

RIP Koko Taylor

2009-06-04T09:46:00.001-05:00

Koko Taylor has died. I really like her music, and I enjoyed meeting her briefly five years ago. I was on my way to Duluth for the Bayfront Blues Festival, and of course, so was she. Here's the re-post of the story of meeting her:

Originally posted 17 August 2004: All the sordid details, Vol. 1

Saxygal gave me a ride to the airport. My flight was at 6AM so we both had to get up at 0-dark:30. I changed planes in Chicago. I had to book it from one extreme end of one terminal to another terminal. Times like that, I'm really glad I used to hike and bike a lot; strap a backpack on me and it sends a signal to my feet to move fast and ignore hills.

Not that there are any hills in O'Hare, but still.

I only rushed because I thought my next flight would be boarding by the time I got there. Since I rushed, of course, it didn't board for a good 20 minutes.

So I sat down, only slightly out of breath, between two ladies who were chatting with each other: one, a total grandmotherly type, complete with ass spread, over-curled perm and orthopedic shoes. The other was probably of a similar age, but she was a really classy looking black lady.

So I started chatting with them. They wondered if my backpack was heavy, and I diplomatically told them that some would think so, but I was used to hefting toddlers so it didn't bother me.

We chatted about children in baby seats on planes. We chatted about the Concorde. We chatted about all manner of innocuous things, they way you do when you don't have a good book while waiting for a flight.

When I got off the plane, they were cleaning the women's bathroom. No pee break for me! My ride Skydog was about to walk in to the airport as I was coming out. He commented that Koko Taylor 's limo was out front and I might have ridden the plane with her.

I said, "Yeah, I did. In fact, I talked to her."

"What about?"

"Baby seats."

The BeerHound and her friend Paddy-Cakes were still an hour away due to unforseen drunkenness, so SkyDog and I went to his house for a kick-ass cup of coffee.

It felt good to breathe fresh air.

These are the same people who asked me, all year, in 1981, how it felt to "Be a teenager."

2009-04-06T20:43:00.003-05:00

"What are you doing with your summer?"

I used to hate this question, when I was in junior high. I was asked it by every relative, and every friend of my parents. What it really meant was, "Since you're not old enough to drive and not old enough to have a job, what are you doing this summer besides sitting on your butt watching tv, messing up the house, and generally being a burden to your parents?"

I understand. If you're an adult with a job, it's hard to figure out what a kids with no "job" and supposedly no responsibility actually do all day.

What I was actually doing was working for my parents. It was a farm, so that was just the way it was, and what we did. I cooked lunch every day. I cleaned the house and did the laundry. I mowed the lawn. I drove a truck around when dad told me to. You know--farm stuff. Household stuff.

I did a lot of the stuff my mom would have done, had she been home and not working at the library. There's a saying: "Behind every successful farmer is a wife who has a job in town."

I also read a lot of books, rode my bike a lot, and hung out with my friends when I could get a ride. I tagged along to a lot of drive-in movies because my sister could drive. She let me, because I generally kept my mouth shut about what I may or may not have seen her do.

I hated that question--particularly how it was phrased. They could have said, "What have you done so far this summer?" which is an entirely different question. They could have said, "What are you looking forward to doing this summer?" But no, it was "What are you doing with your summer?" They wanted to know my PLAN. As if I had one. So I'd tell them:

"I've decided to take up the hobby of wearing exotic animals as hats."

"Oh." They'd look at me strangely. Then they'd leave me alone. So I had that going for me, which was nice.

Charmin: Soft, Strong, or Basic?

2009-03-18T15:19:00.001-05:00

Earlier today The Dave was commenting on toilet paper advertising. He was noting that "absorbency" is NOT something he's overly concerned about in a toilet paper. "It's not like most people have leaky diarrhea on a regular basis," was his position.

"When's the last time you bought toilet paper?"

"No, it's not that, it's...that's not the most important thing..."

"When's the last time you BOUGHT toilet paper? I mean, picked it off the shelf and plopped down your money and got a reciept?"

"You're intentionally misunderstanding what I'm saying."

"No, I absolutely understand that men don't consider absorbency the most important feature when selecting toilet paper--that would be cleaning power or something."

"I usually want to know how well it will protect my hand."

"I know. However, it's an advertisement. They're selling something. They're selling it to someone who is going to actually buy it, which is me. And I really DO want absorbent toilet paper. Probably about 80% of toilet paper is sold to women. And for the other 20%, well, they can sell you the "strong" stuff."

The Dave looked at me with the expression I've heard described as the Cat Butt Face. We dropped the topic.

Welcome to Spring Break!

2009-03-16T08:36:00.001-05:00

This week is my children's spring break. Growing up, children did NOT get spring break; that only happened to college students on movies we weren't old enough to watch but did, anyway. Because if we had spring break, then we'd have a whole week of school to make up!

I really had teachers who believed that--that taking days off meant working twice as hard to "make up" the work. They didn't obviously didn't understand the words "schedule," "lesson plan," and "curriculum." I'm fairly sure that these were the same teachers who thought you had to go to church every week because God was taking attendance. God has a little chart where he tallies up the good things you've done, and then if you come out ahead of others who have been granted salvation--like murderers and such who only get salvation a week before they died so they've never actually done anything "good" or "right"--he gives you a nicer place in Heaven which has, I dunno, maybe more square footage of marble and gold floors in your apartment, or better food, or something?

You know what? My parents really believe that tally thing. They somehow tie it in with the parable of the Prodigal Son. You've heard it: two sons, and the father splits the estate. Then one son goes off and parties down in another country and squanders stuff, ends up working with pigs whom are fed better than him, and comes crawling back to his father. The father throws a party. The other son whines to the dad, I kissed your butt all along an you never threw a party for me! Wahhhh! To which the dad says, you've been with me all along but your brother was dead and now he's alive and that's why we celebrate.

The way I've always heard it told (in my super-strict, more Catholic than the Catholics Lutheran Church), there's a few more verses (from further on in the book of Matthew) where the loyal son is told he will get additional gifts for his loyalty, in Heaven.

BUT! I just read the parable in Matthew, and I can't find those follow-up verses. It's not like they're part of the same story. It's like--well, the creative editing you see on the news today.

Ya see, my parents always made us do things and told us we were getting brownie points in Heaven for it. Things like going along when they went to visit our great-aunts, where there were no toys, nothing to do, and a bunch of stuff that couldn't be touched. So they put us in a situation we resented, and put the aunts through additional stress (children in their home and no way to entertain them), and said it was GOOD? That God Would Want It That Way?

Um. No. Just no.

Which is why I try very hard to NOT bring my children to, nor put them in situations where they will be bored and resentful--not just at the time, but looking back from age 41 like I am--and say, "Why the FUCK did Mom make me do that and tell me it was somehow virtuous?"

Don't get me wrong--I'll still bring my kids to see their great aunts--not this week but some time in the future. I won't tell the kids it's because it will get them double-glazing in heaven, and I will let them bring their own toys to entertain themselves, just in case they need additional activities while we're there, and afterwards, we'll probably go to a hotel where there's a swimming pool, and we'll eat McDonald's and ice cream and candy.

Because there really was a reason that one son went prodigal in the first place.

He was on Spring Break.

Carpool

2009-03-11T09:26:00.001-05:00

The post I am about to write is different in tone but not intent than it would have been had I written it 45 minutes ago.

Mostly because I was really hungry 45 minutes ago.

This has been a long time coming: a new carpool rant!

Every morning I try to walk out the door with the kids at 7:37 AM. Years of experience has taught me that much time deviation either way, and I'm asking for trouble. If we're late, the usual snafu is that I nearly get into an accident with my neighbor Ricky. He's usually backing out of his garage as I'm returning home, and then we try and out-polite each other for a few seconds, then we laugh and wave. We haven't yet actually had a collision but we've come close.

I should have known better than to be late on a rainy day, even though we only left 4 minutes later than usual. Every spring on the first rainy day, the carpool line is hell. Mostly it's because the school patrol doesn't show up on rainy days. I'm not sure why that is, but I don't blame them. I sure wouldn't want to do their job on a rainy day.

But today that wasn't the problem. The problem was ASSHATS TURNING LEFT WHEN THEY SHOULDN'T. Let me try and describe how this works. Cars are supposed to approach from the West and turn left into the carpool drop-off area, which is sorta half-circular, cars moving counter-clockwise, with entrance and exit on the same street. Once we drop off, we are to exit to the right. We have been ordered by the school NOT to approach from the East (it's considered cutting the line, well, because it is) and NOT to turn left out of the carpool area because if you have the right mental picture of what I just described, if you turn left you're attempting to re-join the line of cars waiting to drop off their kids.

This morning there was a ridiculous number of people breaking both rules. I can handle the line-cutters, but the left turners? Should die soon. I can only hope. They sit there and block 8 or 10 cars behind them (who could easily turn right and get out of the way) while waiting for someone to let them turn left. Except the people on the street can't let them in, because no cars in the carpool drive are moving because some asshole IS TRYING TO TURN LEFT WHEN THEY SHOULDN'T. Kind of like a kid holding up a game of musical chairs because they were "out," but they're still waiting for someone to let them into a chair.

The really stupid part is that if someone intends to turn left out of the carpool line, if they pull all the way to the left side of the exit there's plenty of room for the cars behind to pass by on the right. The powers that be even removed part of a curb so that this would be possible. And yet, and yet--people are asshats. They just are.

Stick Girl and Simian Boy were worried about being tardy. Simian Boy has never been tardy, ever, and Stick Girl was tardy once, and that was The Dave's fault (having to do with his genetic "clock reading combined with estimating the duration of a task" disorder.) Plus, that was during Zoe's first year and we were all pretty clueless back then.

I assured the kids that a) getting a tardy isn't the end of the world, b) by the looks of things, everyone in school was going to be tardy, and c) the schools clocks are slow by 4 minutes, 35 seconds so they'd probably be fine.

They gladly hopped out of the car as early as they could in the carpool line because they could move a lot faster than the line of cars. Amazing what fear of punishment will do for a kid's attitude.

As I drove home, the carpool line was still backed up three blocks.

You can bet that there will be a "On rainy days please plan ahead we had way too many tardies please review the carpool line guidelines" note coming home on Thursday (all notes come home on Thursday). Problem is, the asshats who were turning left? Never read the notes OR the carpool guidelines and if they did, they would think it didn't apply to them.

BECAUSE THEY'RE ASSHATS.

Alberta Clipper

2009-03-10T08:37:00.000-05:00

So. Big storm in the Northland today. They even have The Weather Channel guys in Duluth. The first report I saw them do, they were standing in front of their hotel--not that you could tell from the shot. I'll be watching them as the day goes on, just for entertainment value.

Where I grew up on the other side of the state from Duluth, the storm has already hit. My old school had announced cancellation before the 10 o'clock news. That's not how it used to be.

The old administrator used to be rather hesitant to call off school. In fact, I don't think he ever called off school until he tried to get there himself. If he couldn't, then he'd call off school. It was as if the man didn't watch, or didn't believe the weather reports. It was also as if he thought the storms were a conspiracy of the students, done so they wouldn't have to go to school that day. Lazy kids, conjuring up blizzards like that.

Even when the weather was bad enough to not send out the busses, he would only delay school--first by one hour, then two, while the rest of the kids in the county had gotten to sleep in. In as remote a region as I'm from, some kids had to get up as early as two hours before school to get ready and then ride the bus. They'd be sitting there in their school clothes, bags ready, breakfast long eaten and Captain Kangaroo on television, with one ear to the radio just waiting to for the announcer to get back around to our school.

I'm pretty sure it never occurred to the administrator that he was putting the town through hell by delaying his decision. The guy wasn't big on observing anything but his own profound thoughts.

Oh, and the announcements themselves! We usually listened to them on the radio, because on the radio they would read the whole list start to finish, and then start over again. On local television, they would run the cancellations as a scroll across the bottom of the screen, but only during programming. They'd stop during commercials; I don't think they had the technical ability to keep it running all the time. However, when they'd come back from commercial break, they'd start the list from the beginning. So while Alvarado and Argyle and even sometimes Oslo and Stephen were told over and over again that they had been cancelled, we would sometimes have to wait an hour, just to find out we were still only delayed.

My town started with a W. We had one consolation in regard to that, though--at least we knew the kids in Warroad were going through the same hell as us.

Misery loves company, after all.

So, my dear residents of Warren: I hope you got lots of rest last night. You deserve it.

Happy Belated Birthday Elly! Here's a song for ya ;-)

2009-03-09T10:16:00.000-05:00

I think I dreamt this once.

2009-03-09T10:05:00.000-05:00

Vacuum

2009-03-06T12:11:00.000-06:00

Some time today, I get to clean my vacuum.

It's one of those Dyson rollerball things. And YES, they are really good vacuums. The only drawback they have, is if the "belt" breaks, you can't just replace it; you've got to buy it a whole new transmission. The cost I was last quoted on that was $75, about 4 years ago.

Why do I have to clean it? And by clean, I mean wash every interior surface I possibly can. Well, you see, there was this incident with my daughter, our new puppy, and a bowl of Kraft© Macaroni and Cheese.

I'll just let you imagine what happened. The result was pretty standard: daughter crying with mac-n-cheese in her hair and oddly, a bruise appearing on her forehead, dog trying to eat all the mac-n-cheese off the floor, husband yelling and trying to figure out what happened (fuel to the fire...*sigh*), me holding the dog back.

I handed my dog restraint task over to my husband, and asked my son to start picking up the noodles so I could attend to my hysterical, bruised, and gooey daughter. Son started to cry, saying he didn't want to do his task alone. I assured him I would come back and help as I was following Daughter into the bathroom.

Daughter climbed into the shower still crying, but crying in the shower usually isn't a bad thing. I promised to come back and check on her.

I came back to the dining room to find the dog barking from the other bathroom; she must have been too excited to eat the toilet paper. My son was just standing there, not picking up the mac-n-cheese, because my husband was vacuuming it up with my Dyson. My NEARLY NEW $400 VACUUM.

Now, you guys are probably thinking, "What? He saw a problem, and he solved it. Why are you women never happy?"

But all you women are thinking, we are "never" happy because you men continually fail to realize that lack of forethought in solving one problem, often creates many more. Like in this case, the problems created were:

1) Gooey vacuum, which was used to do a job it was never meant to do; that being: vacuuming a moist food product.

2) Vacuum was expensive.

3) Son witnessed the vacuum misuse and now thinks it's okay to vacuum up food. This will take years to unlearn.

4) Husband has no intention of cleaning the vacuum himself; it never occurred to him he would have to do so.

5) New puppy wants to chew up the gooey, but expensive, vacuum.

6) I'm mad because I have to clean it, and husband will get mad because I'm mad, because after all, HE SOLVED THE PROBLEM.

7) None if this is even really relevant because now my daughter has a big bruise on her forehead that she's embarrassed about.

I'll point out that it was only one cereal bowl's worth of mac-n-cheese. It would have taken less than two minutes on one's knees, picking it up by hand, to clean up.

But I will get over it. I could point out to Husband that he once again made a mess he has no intention of cleaning up, and ask him to please clean it since he made the mess; at which time he will be mad at me for telling him to do a chore because it will cut into his weekend nap time. Even if he agrees to do it, he won't. He simply won't. If he was going to, he would have done it right away. Him being this way is hard-wired into his system, and I have to keep reminding myself of that.

I won't even ask him to clean it. Because, you know what? I'm a control freak. Any cleaning job on my vacuum, done by anyone but me or other select individuals (who are not currently available) wouldn't be good enough. This control freakishness is my problem.

Time to go clean a vacuum. But before I do, let me just say: This is a prime example of the happy marriage tactic known as "Pick your battles." Because compared to all the electronic junk my husband has temporarily stored in my closet, blocking access to 90% of my clothes, the vacuum thing is NOTHING.

A thank you, and a reminder

2009-03-04T20:18:00.004-06:00

This is a letter I wrote that I don't dare send. I wrote it to all the 3rd grade teachers at my kids' school. My daughter is in 3rd grade and I know all the other teachers because I'm their copy mom.

This week was TAKS testing (look it up; I'm to lazy to link for you right now) and this is about that. And stuff. I don't dare send it because it's a little--wordy.

So instead of sending it, I'll just post it here:

--

The reminder is: Tomorrow's Thursday! Get your copies ready!

And since I am genetically unable to be brief, here's a story.

Tuesday night I was at the grocery store--it was an emergency run for Wednesday's snacks--and as I was returning my cart to the cart return, there was a woman in front of me, doing the same. She struggled a little bit, then stopped, looked at her feet, and I swear she fell asleep standing there. Then she saw me and apologized and said, "Such a day. I can't get my feet to move any more," even as she was walking to her car which was right next to mine.

"What school do you teach at?" I asked. It shouldn't be that on a random day in March I can guess someone's profession, but knowing what I know, it was kind of obvious.

We talked for about two minutes. She works at Christie Elementary. I said my kids were at Curtsinger, and she said her kids had gone there, too, so we lived in the same neighborhood.

"I'll follow you home, then!" I said. She must have been really tired because she thought that was really funny.

Meeting that teacher reminded me to say, "Thank YOU!" to all of you ladies.

You worked hard doing all that extra tutoring the last couple of weeks, probably spent your own money on supplies, gave up family and personal time, AND you made it a lot of fun for the kids.

You're amazing. You are all great teachers, and you make a great team.

I could never do your job. Inside of a week, I would be using off-color language in front of the students and letting them have doughnuts and Coke every day for snack. It wouldn't be pretty.

Y'all kick bootie. Next time you doubt yourself, or someone else doubts you and it's got you down, please remember that Zoe's Mom thinks you're great.

The most "Brasgalla*" thing the BeerHound has ever uttered

2009-01-30T16:16:00.001-06:00

It seems both BeerHound and I had intestinal upset last night.

"I woke up just from the pain, not from the...impending download. That took a while," I told her. "I think it was the French onion soup."

"That always happens. The better the broth is? The worse the upset," the 'Hound said. "I woke up in such pain, it hurt so bad." She paused to reflect and collect her thoughts.

"It felt like I was having a heart attack!" she continued. "Then I had the loudest, runniest, stinkiest bowel movement of my life. And then when it was finally over, I thought, 'I'm never, ever eating that much sauerkraut at one time ever again!'"

*Brasgalla is my mom's maiden name. Her father was really....German.

What I'd really like to say

2009-01-29T12:26:00.003-06:00

I'm reviewing my resume again. I haven't decided if I'm actually look for a job yet. A couple of things about the job search bug the crap out of me. One is the "Objective" or "Profile" section of a resume, and the other is the cover letter. I suck at writing both. So I wrote myself a letter of recommendation. Here it is:

Dear Sir, Madame, or Other:

BeerPup is a brilliant. You need her to work for you. But not for too many hours, because her job is always going to be less important than 1) Her family, 2) Her sitting-around time, and 3) Beer. But what she can get done for you while she's on the clock is nothing less than spectacular.

Here's a couple of cool facts. She learned to drive when she was 8. Yes eight years old, and no, that's not figuring in that she was almost born on February 29th. It was even a manual transmission. She's been working in various capacities since before she was a teenager. She shelved books at the local library, babysat, and worked at a restaurant, all before she could even legally vote.

Then she went to college, finishing in only ;-) four years. She must have liked college because four years later she went back and got a Master's degree (she's an MLS-accredited librarian).

You might have heard of some of the places she's worked. United HealthCare. Nortel, Ericsson, Siemens, Southern Methodist University, and PricewaterhouseCoopers. Plus a couple of other places you've probably heard of but she prefers not to mention.

She's managed libraries. She's filed thousands of files. She's handled cranky customers. She once called the Library of Congress to ask a question in front of a senior partner at a law firm, just to render him speechless.

She absolutely astounded a certain notorious former White House staffer by locating 14 out of 15 government documents he requested, in less than three hours. (The 15th document, he went through his own source at the White House and it took 2 weeks to get it.)

Okay, so yeah, she hasn't worked in an office for 9 years. This does NOT mean she isn't up on "the latest," mostly due to a pathological need to find the answer to every question she's ever asked. This takes a lot of her time and energy and bandwidth, but it has a calming effect on her, so we let her do it.

Has she used the exact version of the exact software that your company uses? No. But she can type 65 WPM, can do 10-key entry at over 120 keystrokes per minute, and is not afraid to beat any new piece of software she meets into submission. In an ethical, non-violent way, of course.

She hasn't been paid to work for 9 years, but she has extraordinary research instincts, which, when combined with the mechanical process of research (electronic and otherwise) will blow you away.

So to conclude: Janice is a great employee, but only during the hours which you are actually paying her.

So, do you want real skills? Hire BeerPup. Or, you can hire that other person who says they've used your software, but really has no idea what it, or your company, does. Up to you.

Sincerely,

Arnie Schnurdbottom

Earnhardt

2009-01-27T17:23:00.001-06:00

It just occurred to me that all four Earnhardt offspring have unisex names. Kerry, Dale, Kellly, Taylor. Hmm. Weirdness.

Subject, Object

2009-01-07T21:18:00.000-06:00

There's this thing that bugs me. I don't read the paper versions of newspapers (The Dave won't let me buy them) but I read them online, several times a day.

I'm tired sound-byte headlines with a stupid picture next to them. For instance, "Doctors say standing is not better for varicose vein sufferers than sitting," and there will be a picture of a chair next to it--as if we didn't know they were talking about "chair" sitting as opposed to "couch" sitting, or even "criss-cross-applesause" sitting.

I've noticed that it only goes so far. "Teen pregnancy rate up!" will have a picture of a pregnant belly next to it. Oh, and anything at all to do with self-breast exams? Boy to news sites love that! A legitimate excuse to have a picture of a naked woman feeling herself up! Perverts.

But do they ever show a discreet, naked ass when the headline references colon cancer? Or even a rubber glove when talking about having one's prostate checked? Hell, no!

That would be WAY too close to real life for these people.

Black-Eyed Peas and a wink to the North

2008-12-31T19:04:00.001-06:00

I'm officially a Southerner. Not just a Texan, but a Southerner because I'm making black-eyed peas for tomorrow.

This is something I really didn't understand when I first met The Dave. Even before we were married, he insisted we go to his parents' on January first and eat black-eyed peas. I was clueless. And hungover. And confused. Mostly hungover.

To sum up, everyone "down here" eats black-eyed peas on New Years' Day. It's a superstitious thing, but no one will say so. They just say it's "tradition" and "it's just what we do" but it's a good old pagan thing, as far as I'm concerned.

I love all things pagan. I also love my in-laws, who reject all outward signs of religion--their Christianity, specifically. There are no crosses displayed in their home. The only angels displayed are usually playing violins and usually a gift from my mom. For the record, there's also no crosses in their church. It's part of their dogma. Which they insist isn't dogma. But I won't get dogmatic at you right now.

This black-eyed pea thing--it represents abundance, or wealth, or fruitfulness or whatever in the coming year. I guess we're supposed to also eat collard greens, which represents folding money, but I don't quite picture myself making collard greens so I'll just eat some romaine lettuce instead. Oh, there's supposed to be pork, too, so the peas will be made in stock from the ham bone from Christmas. If the peas are the coins and the greens are the dollars, I don't know what the pork is supposed to be, but I know the peas would taste really bland without it.

It's really funny how my in-laws, with a very deliberate avoidance of any outward representation of their religion, always faithfully participate in this annual pagan ritual that's all about money.

So I'm making black-eyed peas. Because it's just what we do down here.

My Christmas present

2008-12-19T18:03:00.001-06:00

Lovin' the alma mater today.

2008-12-13T14:23:00.002-06:00

We tell him he's "special."

2008-12-13T11:16:00.001-06:00

Sorry, re-post for Brent

2008-12-04T22:26:00.005-06:00

I've recently heard from my hometown friend Brent, and I wanted him to read the following post, but for some reason the 2006 posts have dissappeared. Fuck them, but whatever.

This is from July 2006.

Bit of a travelogue this evening. You get bored, move on. But there
really is a point to this one.

This past weekend, I took a quick trip to the Homeland. You know, that
place near the Canadian border where I was cloned.

Here's the backstory:

The BeerHound has a not so secret desire to be "surprised" by a family
reunion. In the past, she's hoped that my brother would just randomly
fly to Texas when my parents were also visiting, and other suchlike
situations. She's a dreamer, that BeerHound.

So...she had planned a weekend with the Cloning Donors. They were to
come down to lovely southeastern Minnesota (along I90) to go to a car
show. Usually, the Donors come for medical appointments, or to stop by
while on their way elsewhere to points further South, but this was
just for a real visit, for once.

Offhandedly, my brother--The Boy--and his wife Little Deb-y said they
might also be able to make it down for the car show and family herding
opportunity.

So I started thinking. Always dangerous, that.

I conspired with The Boy and Little Deb-y to make the BeerHound's
dream a reality.

So I had to use subterfuge. To mislead. Bamboozle, if you will. (I
talk to the BeerHound daily.) She was frustrated (spittin' nails,
actually) at the changes the Clones and The Boy and put upon her, and
I can't lie worth shit, so I just didn't talk to her much.

Skipping the details, I booked the only flight I could to
Minnehopeless. It meant spending hours on my own at the Mall of
America, but it's not a bad place to spend time. Contacting several
college acquaintances (Doorkee had a golf tournament, Sandruska had
plans to be a lake bum), I made plans for supper with Shelley. Shelley
was my first college roommate. Shelley met me--as is required by law
at the Mall of America--in front of The Gap.

Shelley's exactly as she always was, but better. And I thank her
husband for letting her out for the evening. Thanks D!

Eventually, The Boy and Little Deb-y fetched me. We were rather
excited about our success at actually surprising the BeerHound. We
could barely sleep.

The next morning, they dropped me around the corner from her house and
entered and greeted in the normal manner. I snuck up to the house and
knocked. Duff Man (the boyfriend) answered. I motioned to him for
silence. I crept into the house, saw my mom's shocked face, and
motioned to her for silence. (Repeat with each family member,
until...)

I surprised my sister. She was overjoyed. Hugs, screaming, blah, blah,
blah, emotional outflowingcakes. Then she served breakfast. She can't
be less than she is, and one of those things is the perfect hostess.

Then, my dad finally noticed I was there. Hey, he turns 81 next week.
He's allowed not to notice.

We went to a car show. I shopped at WalMart and Kohl's with Duff Man.
The cheap bastard bought a cool shirt 'cause I said he should. Dogs
slept with cats. We went to Dave's Famous Barbeque.

Then we went to the Twins game. Since I showed up unannounced, we had
to scalp an extra ticket. The way that went down--and this is the
short version, I assure you--nine tickets were purchased for the lower
deck, outfield. We arrived and got the only thing available at the box
office, which was upper deck. Then we found a scalper who sold us a
lower deck ticket. He was a very nice scalper. I nearly kissed him,
and so did the BeerHound. Hell, if I weren't married, I would have
invited the guy to a private alley somewhere nearby. But he had
business to conduct, and I am indeed very married, so no go with the
private alcove.

The BeerHound made it to nearly the third inning before our
neighboring seatholders arrived, forcing her to her much better
scalped seat.

And the Twins were loosing, anyway, by three runs. BeerHound and I
shopped. Little Deb-y shopped on her own. Beers were consumed, peanut
shells strewn, and I couldn't find an Original Leinenkugel's to save
my life, though they supposedly sell them somewhere at the HHH
Metrodome.

At the top of the 8th inning, I bought my mom a beer. The turn of the tide.

It's all baseball talk, but here's the story of the 8th inning [link
didn't carry over. Go find it yourself if you can--keywords July 2006, Minnesota Twins, Santana].
Read at your leisure, baseball fans.

Best inning I've ever seen, live. Not that I've seen many, but I swear
I came, several times--all the while explaining what was going on to
Duff Man--the guy's not had much time for baseball in his life. (Try
explaining an Error to someone who's never had a reason to care what
it is. Can't do it.)

So, to recap. Big surprise for the BeerHound. Car show. Twins game.
What's the point of telling y'all this?

My dad's 81 on August 10th.

A few months ago I found a letter I'd written to myself at a New
Year's party, in 1989. Yep, 89. I thought my dad would be dead by
2000. Or in a nursing home. Or, something. Something that seemed
horrible in 1989.

But here we are in 2006, and we still have Dad. And he's still on the
farm, still mowing the lawn, still driving my Mom around, and taking
my nephew to play in Little League games and seeing that little squirt
hit a grand slam.

We're still here, still loving each other even when we don't like each
other. Still going to Twins games together. Having moments we won't be
able to have, come some time soon.

Scalping an extra ticket for a Twins game?

Priceless.

A Memory: Lola

2008-11-28T21:14:00.000-06:00

We'd had a great date. I don't remember if we went anywhere to eat but I don't think so. We'd gone to see a local comedy troupe. It was their Christmas show, but this was an encore performance in early January.

I think we went to a bar; I was underage but for some reason they didn't card me. They should have; I was only 18 and out of my element that night.

We were on the way to his cabin in Northern Wisconsin. It was a two-lane road, lots of hills, and the snow was coming at the windshield like the stars as the Millennium Falcon goes into hyperdrive (which took its F/X from the view of snow coming at a windshield, so this is a paradox comparison).

The song came on the radio. My date sang along, putting my name in where the namesake of the song was, which was mildly disturbing as the namesake in the song is a tranny or she-male or something. That was also the night I first noticed that some versions say "Coca-Cola" and some "cherry cola."

Luckily, "Radar Love" also came on the radio that night. So in terms of "our song," since this relationship really deserved a fucked up "our song," I much prefer "Radar Love" to that other one.

Though I do think of him every time I hear "Lola."

Chuck Altman, you are an idiot

2008-11-23T07:50:00.002-06:00

There's this guy in our town that's creating a program called "Keep Kids Alive Drive 25."

He's stupid. I also think he lives in my neighborhood.

A couple of months ago I complained about someone in my neighborhood who drove 10 MPH during school zone hour, even though they were nowhere near a school zone. I'm pretty sure that a couple of weeks later I ended up behind this person again. This time it was a guy in a Chrysler 300. I was stuck behind him when he was going 30 in a 40 MPH zone, and then he drove 20 in the 30 MPH zone. I did something I've NEVER done before, which was lay on my horn behind him for more than a block.

Geez.

I'm not ever going to advocate speeding, particularly in my own residential neighborhood. However, just about any cop or traffic engineer will tell you that it's just as dangerous to drive substantially slower than the speed limit (25% and 33%, respecively, in regard to the Chrysler, and SIXTY-SIX FUCKING PERCENT during the non-school zone incident). When there is a posted speed limit, people expect others to be driving somewhere near that speed, when conditions allow. In Texas, that's about 98% of the time. People who are turtling set up a situation in which cars get rear-ended, and often it isn't the person driving slow who gets into the accident; it's the guy behind him who has to break suddenly that gets hit by the guy behind HIM because the third guy couldn't see the road turtle.

At which time the road turtle will think his turtling is justified because, "See, those guys behind me were driving too fast and got into an accident." (When they were actually driving the speed limit and breaking no laws. Jerkoff.)

So now this asshole wants to encourage people in our town to drive 25 so that the town will change the residential speed limit to 25. The effect this will have, is that a bunch of self-important older men who need Viagra and have nothing better to do and nowhere to get to with any kind of expediency, will all agree to drive too slow. And the rest of the people will not have heard about this stupid idea, and will be driving 30, because THAT'S WHAT THE SIGNS SAY THEY CAN DO.

Say they did drop the speed limit to 25. How are they going to enforce that? Because if these guys want patrol cars to ticket people, I'm going to have to take issue with that. I'd much rather have the cops out actually preventing--oh, let's say--driving behavior that is actually dangerous.

Besides, it's not as if they'll actually catch any speeders with half a brain. Their usual M.O. is they will place one of those speed monitoring machines at one of the major streets that enter a neighborhood. Then the following day they'll set up a speed trap in that exact spot. So if you see a speed monitor one morning, the following morning you make a point to not speed.

Duh.

Some people will always speed. Since I try to "Drive friendly, the Texas way," when these people get behind me in my neighborhood and start tailgating, I pull over and let them pass me. I do this because there is a chance this person has an actual emergency, and also when they see me do so maybe they'll appreciate it and it adds to my good karma, or maybe they'll realize what a jerk they're being.

Whatever.

I Like Dreamin'

2008-11-07T22:01:00.001-06:00

I dream a lot. When I was on Ambien, I didn't dream at all. I did all kinds of stuff I didn't remember on Ambien besides dreaming. Like eating and sex and taking care of my kids and stuff. Yeah, freaky. No, not up for discussion.

These dreams. It'll be your normal, toward morning REM sleep kind of dream, and there will be something that totally stresses me out, and then I'll say, "Oh, fuckitall, I'm going to smoke and I don't give a shit that I quit and this will fuck it up. I'm smoking anyway." Then, in my dream, I smoke a cigarette, and it's WONDERFUL.

I wake up feeling really, really, extremely guilty, because for a few minutes I think I've started smoking again. Then I realize I HAVEN'T started smoking again. I didn't fuck up; I just dreamt it.

The cigarettes I smoke in my dreams are wonderful. If that's all I have for the rest of my life, I'll take it.

In honor of today's election, my family will have Senate Soup for supper.

After viewing the behavior of folks out and about today, I have concluded that people act even weirder on election day, than they do when there's a hurricane on the way. Then again, we're a lot more used to the impending hurricanes than the elections, and even then everyone turns into a bunch of Chicken Littles.

"We need bottled water and toilet paper!" "Why aren't there any tomatoes?" "Why are all these OTHER people here?" "We need to move to Australia if this goes bad!"

Elections and hurricanes: "This, too, shall pass. Let us pray."

Eve of Destruction Election

2008-11-03T22:03:00.002-06:00

I used to really hate election day. Used to be, back up North when I live in a township and not a town, Mother was an elected official. Town clerk, or something. I don't know what that entailed besides keeping an antique file cabinet in our basement, having access to #1 lead pencils (ever seen one? I have!), going to a meeting once a month, giving people money for killing pocket gophers, and sitting at the polls on election day.

This is now illegal. For some reason at the time they thought it was acceptable for the local elected officials to also be the election officials.

I hated election day because Mother was always gone from 6 AM on election day until sometimes 4 AM the next day. We brought supper over for her, and Father would usually vote at that time. She did sack breakfast and sack lunch, and the coffee flowed constantly; since it was Minnesota, they had the 40-cup pot going nonstop.

At the time no one thought to ask for volunteers, much less pay anyone to do the drudgery. Mother and the three others (Treasurer, Chariman, and The Other Guy) had to sit there all day, hand out ballots and #1 lead pencils, register voters, assist voters, talk to voters, make coffee for voters....

Then they counted the ballots. By hand. They had to do it at least twice. If they came up with different numbers, they'd count again. And again, and again until they were each sure that the tallies they came up with were correct.

Considering that Mother was ALWAYS home, election day was an anomaly. Until my Grandma Eleanora died, she would would cook supper for us on election day. Earlier that day, Father would have gotten us off to school, which I suspect wasn't that hard since Mother would have chosen our clothes and made sure our homework was in order, our jackets and shoes located, and the cereal and stuff would be sitting out. All Father had to do was tell us to get up, then pour us some milk and juice, and tell us when the bus was coming. He was a bit uncertain about it, and his uncertainty unnerved us. My grandparents would take over for the evening shift.

Going to the poll was fun but scary. I would get to sit by my mom--quietly, of course--while my grandparents voted, and then chatted. We would be teased by whomever was there. We didn't protest because we only saw most of those people once every four years. Then we'd go home and not get to watch our sitcoms, and have to go to bed early but not be able to sleep because Mother wasn't there.

Then my mom quit or resigned or whatever from her local political post and it didn't matter any more.

But I went back one more time, in 1988, to vote in my own first presidential election. I drove home from college specifically to vote. I drove 600 miles round-trip to vote for Dukakis. It wasn't a wasted vote because Minnesota went to Dukakis that year; the words "George Bush" were still a joke in my family.

Voting was always a very tangible thing to me. Everyone made an effort. They made arrangements. They might disagree--as I voted the first time, I was standing next to Father whom I knew was voting for Bush--but they didn't disrespect.

I just realized something, right this minute. No Presidential candidate I have ever voted for has won. Ever.

This might be the first year ever.

Cool.

Earthquake!

2008-10-31T07:19:00.001-05:00

Yeah, we had an earthquake at midnight last night. Yes, earthquake. In North Texas. It was only a 3. Therefore, the picture above is NOT what happened last night; rather it is an illustration as to what an earthquake CAN do. Say, if you were in Alaska in 1964, which I wasn't since I wasn't born for another three and a half years.

(Those of you who are non-Texans--it happened near the DFW airport, for your geographical reference. It was not all that close to Texas Motor Speedway so I'm sure the Dickies 500 on Sunday will be totally unaffected.)

So, here we go with those "portents and signs" that wacky St. John the Divine wrote about while he was enjoying those lovely mushrooms on Patmos.

I wonder, if Obama doesn't get elected this time around, will armageddon be delayed? And having this knowledge, would you vote differently?

Me, neither.

Another one.

2008-10-29T22:58:00.002-05:00

All y'all EXCEPT Rank n File should watch this ('cause RnF will just get all pissy at me again. So don't watch this, RnF. It'll just piss you off.)

So if your online handle is NOT RankNFile, click. Teehee!

Not for educatamative factors, but because it's entertaining. I heart Harrison Ford AND Shia LeBouf. (In my dreams, at the same time....um, where were we?....)

Oh. This:

PS I already voted a week ago, Monday.

Not soon mended

2008-10-28T21:39:00.001-05:00

Bank policies suck.

I'm the Brownie troop treasurer. So I was stupid enough to e-mail our banker, telling her of OFL's passing, and asking her what the protocol is. Asked what paperwork was necessary, and I was also stupid enough to ask--God, I hate saying this--if she needed a death certificate or something.

When I was a teller at a credit union, we generally needed that. For PERSONAL accounts. Which this is definitely not.

Flash back to yesterday, when I was dropping the kids off at school. For weeks I had been watching for OFL's daughter, accompanied (usually) by her grandmother or occasionally her father. The day after OFL died, I knew it before K-Bear told me because I hadn't seen any of the family that morning.

Yesterday, I saw OFL's huband, X walking away from the school, and stop. He turned around to watch his daughter walk into the school. He stood there for a very long time; long enough that I nearly pulled over so I could ask him to get in and, I don't know, let me cry at him? Let me say stupid things meant to make him laugh? Distract him? Something.

I didn't do it. He was doing what he needed to. It'll be hard for him to know exactly what that is for a while.

But one thing's for damn sure. I am NOT asking him for any paperwork for any stupid bank account. Nor will I ask anyone else to.

The bank can go fuck themselves.

Hey! I still know how to tie dye!

2008-10-28T18:10:00.001-05:00

A Minnesota Recipe

2008-10-27T08:44:00.002-05:00

Cheezy Chicken Wild Rice Soup

1 32-oz carton chicken broth
1/2 Cup uncooked wild rice (the real stuff you buy from the Native Americans, if you can get it)
1 Cup cubed or shredded cooked chicken
1 small chopped onion
2 cloves minced garlic
1 can cream of mushroom soup
1 cup shredded American cheese (or cubed, whatever works--it's just going to be melted anyway)
1/4 cup bacon bits
salt
fresh cracked pepper

In a large saucepan, cook wild rice in chicken broth (30-45 minutes, according to directions on container). Add chicken, onion, and garlic. Simmer until onions are cooked; about 15 minutes. Add cream of mushroom soup and blend; a large wire whisk works well. Slowly add American cheese and blend as it melts. Stir in the bacon bits. Salt and pepper to taste.

Interesting things I learned today:

2008-10-24T20:51:00.001-05:00

1) When in Frisco, NEVER DRIVE ON ELDORADO PARKWAY! Ever. Or for at least two years. What a nightmare.

2) The librarians at the Frisco Public Library kick ass. And the techs and assistants and shelvers, too. And the temps. But mostly the librarians.

3) The library cards now come as a regular card AND one of those key fob things. You know, just like at the grocery or office supply store. Coolio! If I hadn't stupidly thrown away my old library card (what the fuck was I thinking?) it still would have been worth the $1 to get one.

4) I really should have explained, recorded, certified, harangued, and addressed ad nauseam (to the school) that my son, Simian Boy, is RED/GREEN COLORBLIND. Really. He is. Yeah, I know it's genetic. I know that because MY DAD IS RED/GREEN COLORBLIND. Oh and also MY DAD'S MOTHER WAS RED/GREEN COLORBLIND. So. Yeah. He is. He had a 50% of inheriting it from me, and damn, he did. Don't believe me? Prove me wrong.

5) Big Red gum is now available in this area. Not the extra hot whatever crap they had been selling; plain old Big Red. Thank you, Wrigley!

Um, I wonder if my son sees this at "Big Tan" gum. Oh, never mind.

6) With my jaw issues I really shouldn't chew any of that Big Red. But of course I bought some anyway.

7) There are liquor stores just right over there in Little Elm.

8) I can relax because I finally bought some more Glenfiddich. Hey, toothaches! Just try and foil me!

9) Leeks are out of season. Don't even try to buy them.

10) I know I said it before, but I'll say it again: early voting kicks ass. And so do Brownie Moms.

Now this is a new one.

2008-10-24T08:16:00.002-05:00

The most recent Google search hit to my page came from the phrase "how to steal a Ford Contour." Bwaahaaahaahaaaaa!

If any of you recall, in the post that refers to the event: the perpetrator had access to the keys, and I specifically asked, "Why the fuck would anyone want to steal a 1996 Ford Contour?"

And really, why would anyone? Maybe because they're easy to steal, but I have no idea if that's true. Probably easier than, say, a BMW. Or even a Volkswagen--a relatively new one anyway.

Perhaps if you already owned one, and wanted another one for spare parts, and had the garage space to Frankenstein the two together without any authorities actually catching you.

Or just a plain old chop shop. However, one would assume those people already know how to steal one, and therefore don't need to Google it.

I guess I don't understand why anyone would want to bother even fixing such an old piece of crap. But that's just my opinion.

Sad news about OFL

2008-10-23T18:22:00.003-05:00

Today K-Bear picked me up in her mom vehicle.

"Has anyone ever told you that you clean up real well?"

Actually, they have. I launched into the story of Elly's wedding and how her brother Dr. Mike told me so, repeatedly. With my husband on one side of me and my six month old daughter on the other and my boobs leaking milk. "No, really. You look REALLY good." Um, thanks, Dr. Mike.

"We're doing pretty good, ignoring that big elephant in the room," K-Bear said.

Oh, yeah. THAT elephant.

We were going to the school to pick up our daughters, plus some extras, to do one of the saddest things I've had to do so far in my middle-aged life.

This sounds like fiction, but we were taking the Brownie troop to to funeral of their troop leader.

Our Fearless Leader died late Tuesday of a very rare, aggressive cancer. She was diagnosed two years ago.

That picture up there? Our Fearless Leader is the one in the middle--the one without hair. Mergs, in black on the far right, is making her laugh. It's just as well OFL's eyes are shut; she had a horrible eye infection at the time. Left to right, the lovely ladies are Former Cookie Mom, K-Bear, OFL, New Cookie Mom, and Mergs. Missing from the picture are me and KM who was in the rest room. I don't remember where the rest were, but suffice to say they were nearby.

These women kick ass. All the Brownie moms do, of course (particularly 'Licia). These women--um, let's put it this way: I can pray with them, and I don't feel that way about many people.

So there we were at the church--the Brownie contingent. Strangely enough, most of us were dressed in brown. The girls had their uniform vests on, which was sweet because we told them it was entirely up to them. All of those that remembered to bring them, wore them.

In the next section over were the red-shirt contingent. Our Fearless Leader worked at the Red Dot Retailer, so her peeps from the several stores where she worked all sat together. Then there were the Suits from the Potato and Corn Chip Company; OFL's husband worked there for years (until he was laid off last week) and so the guys were there for him.

I'm not going to talk about the funeral itself.

As it ended, one of the girls in the troop said, "I'm going to go see Izzy," and the rest agreed; they hustled to the front of the church.

Izzy is OFL's daughter, who of course is also in the troop. Who has just lost her mom.

You know the Girl Scout motto?

"Make new friends,
but keep the old.
One is silver,
the other is gold."

Our Fearless Leader taught 'em good.

Things I've learned this week

2008-10-21T17:42:00.003-05:00

1) All is well with cousin Larry.

2) My talent of being able to sew clothes without a pattern really is a little extraordinary.

3) The most common search new readers use to view my page is STILL "TMJ and blowjobs." And no, I still have no advice on the topic.

4) Lately I need an hour less sleep than I used to. Dunno why.

5) My BeerPup coozie (scroll) fits a little snugly on Shiner and Leinenkugel, but it's just perfect on Miller High Life.

6) I married the most patient, tolerant guy on earth.

7) Voting really really really makes me happy and proud. Oh, and early voting kicks ass. This is one cool thing that Minnesota doesn't have that Texas does. Have. However, in Minnesota you can register and vote at the same time; in Texas you've got to register way ahead of time. Like, weeks.

8) Google Maps has a "street view" of our house that also shows the UrbanTruckster. I don't know how to feel about that.

9) I still hate the Kroger store that's over across the highway. It's got a bad vibe. Must be built on an ancient burial ground or something. (It's actually possible; some time I'll 'splain the history of my town and how it used to be somewhere else.)

10) My mom's favorite television program is "Dog the Bounty Hunter." Who'd o' thunk?

PS That picture below is my friend G holding my coozie with an inflatable microphone stuck in it. I could tell you the story that goes with that, but I won't.

2008-10-19T09:50:00.001-05:00

Breaking and entering

2008-10-15T14:42:00.000-05:00

Today was an adventure. Here's the backstory:

My daughter's Brownie troop leader has cancer. In fact, she's been fighting it for most of the time our daughters have been in Brownies together. This is not news. However, she's not doing well lately. At all. My friend K-Bear and I went to see her in the hospital last week, and damn. Damn.

Here's an aside: All of you hospital workers and hospice workers and home health care workers who deal with this every day with several patients, YOU ARE HEROES. You do something I couldn't ever do.

So damn, Our Fearless Leader (OFL from now on) did not look...well, "well" is the wrong word. Tired is the wrong word too. More like, she was running a quart low on that cosmic life energy thing we all have, that gets us up in the morning.

Times like this, people like me want to "do" something for the family. But it's not easy to ask the family what needs to be done, and damn near impossible for the family to try and think up something on the spot.

Today K-Bear and I "did" something. We weeded OFL's front yard, and swept the back porch. Then we sprayed Round-Up on the beginnings of some poison ivy we spotted. Then K-Bear went and bought groceries, then we went back and put them in OFL's kitchen for her husband and daughter, because that man could be an extra in a holocaust movie and they'd tell him to gain weight.

Then we secretly copied their house key, so we can sneak back in and do it again next week, if necessary.

'Cause after all, the leaders are Brownies, too.

Coozie

2008-10-11T12:46:00.002-05:00

Look what my friend KM made for me! She makes them and sells them. She can make one for you, too.

Mine's the prototype for the bottle-shaped ones. I am to experiment and report back on its effectiveness and ease of usability.

I decided the first beer I drink while using it should be a Leinenkugel.

(Note to Northerners and other non-privledged people: A coozie is also called a "cozy" or "hugger" and probably lots of other things.)

So thanks, KM for the coozie (her web site's on my list of links) and thanks Jake for the beer.

Cheers!

Sonic

2008-10-07T20:45:00.003-05:00

It's official. Our Sonic kicks ass. I already knew that.

For those up North and in other non-privileged places--and yes, I know there's now a Sonic in Savage, MN--Sonic is a classic drive-in restaurant. Drive up, park angled, peruse the menu, push the button, and order. Then they bring you your food.

AND!

The food's great. You can use your credit card right at the menu/order button console. They have a huge menu, and a drink happy hour (half price, 2 to 4 PM or somethingish). Cherry limeade at half price! You can't beat that!

And yes, sometimes the carhop is actually on roller skates. They even have a condiment carhop, who almost seems like a Cigarette Girl. (Look it up.)

When I go there in the PTLoser, I always take the top down. Because it's a drive-in, and it's a convertible, I have to. It's a law. I think it's a Federal law, actually.

It does confuse the children, though. But then I just tell them to hush up and sing along with "Take It Easy"* and we all leave happy. Because we leave with french fries AND tator tots AND onion rings.

Fast food nirvana. Kid you not.

*Yes, we went to Sonic in Winslow, Arizona. But it wasn't as good as the one at home.

Talladega commentary

2008-10-05T18:54:00.002-05:00

You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never get involved in a land war in Asia, but only slightly less well-known is this: Never gain a position below the yellow line while racing at Talledega!

Wracked my brain

2008-10-05T15:27:00.002-05:00

I've been trying to figure out who Stick Girl's teacher for this year--Miss Cecilia--reminds me of, and I just figured it out.

She looks like the waitress in the Amp Energy commercial--the one with Dale Jr. and the gorilla, that has Zippy in a cameo.

Yeah, you probably have to be a NASCAR fan to even have seen the commercial. Sorry.

You've got a message.

2008-10-03T08:14:00.000-05:00

Could be important.

Four months

2008-10-02T16:43:00.002-05:00

Today is the 4 month anniversary of my quitting smoking.

To answer the questions some of you ask and some of you don't dare ask: NO. I haven't had a cigarette. Not a one. I've wanted one badly, many times, but I get over the craving rather quickly. Then I breathe deeply because I can.

Don't worry, smokers. I still love you! And I won't tell you to quit. I know you're not stupid and you have all the same info I had, so I will not bring it up unless you bring it up. Plus I'm jealous of you because you still have cigarettes and I don't.

For the record, it's still a mystery to me as to why I woke up one morning and thought, "Today I'm gonna quit smoking." It really was as out of the blue as that. I wish I could explain it. Hell, I wish I could bottle that and sell it; I'd be rich.

But once again, for people who find this post by searching "quitting smoking" or something similar, Here's how I did it:

1) Wellbutrin. It's an antidepressant, but it was first developed because it suppresses nicotine craving. In my case, though, I was already on it because I'm nutso. I can't prove this clinically, but I'm pretty sure being on Wellbutrin for a long time before I attempted to quit smoking was the reason it was relatively easy for my to quit. Just sayin'.

2) Nicoderm. I didn't use the gum because I'm not supposed to chew gum.

3) Totally removing my smoking spot in the garage. I didn't throw out the folding chair but I put it in a closet, and threw everything else away.

4) Lemon drops for the oral fixation. Strangely, I had trouble finding lemon drops, but they had them at the Target in the next town over, with the Jelly Belly buy-in-bulk bins.

5) Support from family and friends. I couldn't have done it without you. Thanks, everyone!

Didn't ya see the blinkin' light??

2008-09-22T08:05:00.001-05:00

Once my friend Juanita was stopped speeding in a school zone.

"Didn't ya see the blinkin' light?"

Actually, she didn't. It's happened to all of us--you're in just a position next to a truck, where it blocks all the road signs. She really didn't see the blinkin' light.

I share this story today because, the point is that the blinkin' light is where the school zone STARTS.

I'm talking to YOU, WHITE SUBURBAN!!! The school zone does NOT start when you have a child in your car and are on your way to school. It also does NOT start when you see your first crossing guard. IT STARTS WHERE YOU SEE THE BLINKIN' LIGHT! And also, for your convenience, the speed limit is marked right below the light, which is 20. TWENTY MILES PER HOUR.

NOT.15. Just NOT.

(So, yeah, the White Suburban drove fifteen miles an hour in front of me for two miles. I'm not kidding. Times like that, I drive slightly to the right, almost in the parking lane, so my fellow carpoolers behind me can see that I AM NOT THE ASSHOLE.)

To review:

1) Observe normal driving laws until you see the blinkin' light.
2) Drive the speed marked below the blinkin' light, but no slower.
3) Resume normal speed when there's another sign that says you can. For your convenience, the sign even uses the word "Resume."

Thank you.

Check isn't in the mail

2008-09-18T08:00:00.003-05:00

Last night at supper time I got one of those recorded calls on my cell phone. It was from Dish Network and said that they hadn't received their most recent payment, and I could either hit star to be transferred to customer service, or call an 888 number.

Just one problem. We don't use Dish Network; we're DirecTV customers.

I'm wondering if it was the customer or the company who fucked up and put my number in their system. Next time they call, I might hit star and tell the real peoples that they've got the wrong gal.

Then again, I might not.

It's Really Not My Fault

2008-09-16T14:12:00.003-05:00

Every year I watch the Academy Awards. I always have. One of my earliest memories is the time the streaker ran through when David Niven was presenting something.

There haven't been any streakers lately, though there are quite a few boobs (literal and figurative) that pop out on the red carpet. It's all part of the hype, I guess. The red carpet, the overdone opening, the inexplicable musical numbers, the death montage, and then some young actress will win Best Actress the first time she bothers to prove she can convey emotion in spite of not being able to change her facial expression because of the botox. Then some old guy will win for a phoning-it-in performance in a moderately good movie because they didn't give him the award years ago when he actually deserved it because they were busy giving some other guy his make-up Oscar.

I've found it's best to watch it drunk. Last spring, the death montage came on two thirds of the way through the program, and it was surprisingly short and the only death that really stood out was Heath Ledger. So I spouted off to The Jesus of Cheese that either they forgot a bunch of people, or this coming year is going to have a lot of old actors dying because they'll be working again after relaxing during the writer's strike/stress=death type rant.

It made perfect sense when I was drunk. Perhaps it was one of those random psychic moments I have. I don't even really remember exactly what I said, except that I predicted a LOT of famous deaths this year.

Now every time someone famous dies, The Jesus of Cheese tells me it's my fault because I predicted it.

I only wish my power of suggestion extended to politics.

Cows

2008-09-13T14:26:00.001-05:00

Lo, these last 36 years I have long ruminated on the events of that morning, such a typical one in my idyllic childhood, which could only set the stage for the surreality that was to follow in ebbs and flows throughout my life.

(That my way of saying, "And one time, on the farm when I was little...")

BeerHound, The Boy, and I were ordered out of the house by my mother. Now, mom's always been crazy, but I like to believe that in the summer when she could order us out of the house in such a manner and get away with it, she was less crazy.

We decided to pass the time by pretending that our car was the beach. and off the car was the ocean.

We lay there on the windshield for quite a while, getting a tan. We lay there FOREVER, in kid terms--almost ten whole minutes. Part of this ritual was to be quiet while we lay there. I don't know why--maybe that's how we saw it in some tv show we'd seen recently. Let's just blame Hawaii 5-O.

"It's amazing what you imagine," said The Boy.

"Yeah," said the BeerHound. I didn't contribute to the conversation. Being the youngest, I learned long before that adding to a conversation in anything more than a "yes man" capacity often led to them questioning my intelligence, even when I was agreeing with them.

Meaning they'd say, "What do you know, you're just a little kid!"

Anyway, back to the beach. Um, car. Anyway.

"For instance, I just imagined that a cow just walked in front of the car."

It is important to note here that though it was a farm, it wasn't that kind of farm. We raised wheat, barley, and sometimes a third crop, but we hadn't had cows since 1969.

"Me too!" said BeerHound. "I imagined a cow walked right in front of the car!

I kept my mouth shut. Because though I, too, had imagined this specter, I wasn't going to 'fess up, in case later under interrogation by our parents, I would have been considered 'in on it.'

How we could get in trouble for imagining a cow, I don't know, but I wasn't taking chances.

We stood up. Our tans were good enough, anyway. Plus, we had this cow conspiracy to contend with.

So we climbed on the roof of the car. This was back in the day, when three kids could stand on the roof of a Chrysler Fury III 2-door and NOT cave the roof in. Hell, we didn't even scratch it.

We looked around the yard. To our astonishment, there wasn't just one cow, but several. Some were sampling the honeysuckle in my grandmother's garden, while others were heading into the long grass where the grove* started.

*Where I grew up, there were trees, but they weren't spread out. There would be a grove of 5 or 10 acres of trees at low-lying spots along intermittent stream beds. As land was settled, the homesteaders would build their homes near the trees. Therefore, EVERYONE had a "grove." They just did.

Meanwhile, still back at the beach, we were faced with a problem. We knew we should tell our mother, but we knew that 1) she wouldn't believe us; 2) we still didn't quite believe us; 3) if we did believe us, we were faced with the issue of jumping off the car and running to the house while there were killer cows on the loose. Don't think they were killers? Ask my grandma's honeysuckle. Oh, wait, you can't, because it was HEARTLESSLEY MUNCHED BY A RENEGADE BOVINE!

We finally faced our fear. My siblings and I managed this by them telling me to go and tell mom, which I refused to do in fear, upon which time they called me a baby and a scaredy-cat, at which time I said they were the scaredy-cats since they didn't dare do it either, at which time they proved me wrong by jumping off the car and running to the house, and I followed, because I was a scaredy-cat.

Hey, I never said I wasn't.

In the house, we accosted my mom.

"Mom, there's cows in the yard!"

"What cows? No. What kind of game are you playing?

"Well, we were pretending the car was a beach and..." I started.

"No really, there's cows in the yard!" BeerHound and The Boy glare"d at me. Didn't I understand the gravity of the situation?

"There aren't really cows in the yard," my mom said with some question in her voice.

"THERE'S COWS IN THE YARD!!!" Finally, the three of us were in unison.

Mom finally walked to the window and looked out.

"THERE'S COWS IN THE YARD!"

"We told you!"

She called the neighbor whose cows she was quite sure they were and yelled at him. Told him he'd better come and get them or we were having steak and roasts for supper for the next year. He came over and rounded them up.

But the problem was, we didn't dare go outside until they were gone, which BeerHound, The Boy, and I survived just fine, but I swear sometimes, my mom has flashbacks.

Checkin' me out. My brain, I mean.

2008-09-08T17:55:00.002-05:00

I was sitting in my cube pretending to work when Angel poked her head in. Angel was on her shift on the info hotline, and was a little unsure of herself being she was an MBA candidate rather than an MLS. Plus, it was the first week of rolling out our new info hotline.

"Where's Madison?"

"In his grave, I hope," I said, putting down my outdated copy of Statistical Abstracts of the United States (yes I really DO read it for the hell of it, but anyway.)

"No, Madison, Wisconsin. This guy called the hotline and asked so I put him on hold. I think he's testing us or something."

I picked up the call while she listened in; I pretended I was her.

"Sorry about that interruption. Madison is in Wisconsin on I90, I'd say midway between LaCrosse and Milwaukee."

"But where IS it?" they guy asked.

"Southern Wisconsin in the middle of the state, but then again YOU KNOW THAT since that's where you are right now."

There was stunned silence.

"How did you know that?"

"I can see your area code, you know. We don't mind these tests like your office has been lobbing at us, but could you throw something our way that might actually make the company some money? I mean--we answer real questions, too."

"How do you know this stuff, anyway?"

"I just do. By the way, you have something stuck in your teeth."

"Wha?"

"Just kidding. Dilbert joke. Call us when you actually need to know something."

"Um. Okay."

You know what? He did.

August 8th: Bird's Nest

2008-08-16T09:28:00.002-05:00

I intended, the night before, to pack for the trip. That way in theory we could just wake up, change clothes, and drive. No need to shower; we were just going to be in the car together all day. Besides, on vacation you can look like shit and it doesn't matter because we'll never see any of these people again in our lives. Most of them look like shit as well.

Then China happened. The opening of the olympics--I wanted to ignore it. I TRIED to ignore it. Yet, it was such a spectacle, I couldn't turn away. It was like a car wreck, a zamboni, a marching band, and Tammy Faye all wrapped into one.

The packing didn't get done. I got as far as doing the laundry, but no further.

August 9th: Change of conveyance

Clark and I discussed it, and we decided that we'd be driving the PTLoser. The Loser gets much better gas mileage, plus the convertible top is great for sightseeing at moderate speeds. I'll also say that I feel more comfortable driving it than I do the UrbanTruckster.

It only took me about an hour to pack on Saturday morning. I'm actually pretty good at packing. Once I packed for spring break with about 10 minutes notice, and it was the best packing job I ever did.

We were starting to fill the "trunk" of the Loser, which is tiny and so I'd packed accordingly. One soft bag each, plus the electronic doodads Clark always brings. All together, it would have filled the back about 2/3 full, even including the kids' pillows and blankets.

Clark was standing in the driveway, looking at the Loser, then at the Truckster. Loser, squint, Truckster. Loser, squint, Truckster.

"What?"

"I'm having a change of heart about the cars. There's so much more room in the Truckster, and the seats are much more comfortable," Clark said.

I sighed inwardly. Sure. Fine. That week I had taken the Loser to have the oil changed and have it washed--the bugs from the Minnesota trip were still stuck to the grill--and then I'd vacuumed it and even wiped the inside down with those neato Armor All wipes. The appropriate chargers and inverters and maps were already neatly stowed; in the Loser, you've got to do it neatly because anything slightly out of place quickly becomes largely in the way. Hell, I even remembered to have the safety inspection done and had the rock chips in the windshield fixed.

We always seem to come back from Minnesota with rock chips in the windshield. Hmmm.

The oil change in the Truckster was months overdue, but about 1,000 miles under the 3,000 mile recommendation. We don't drive it much, particularly in the summer. When we sell it, it will be the ultimate "low miles/oil changes done religiously" used car. It also needed to be washed and vacuumed and Armor Alled, but at least the inspection was up to date.

"If you want to take the Truckster instead of the Loser, I'm fine with that."

So we switched. We vacuumed, but didn't dust, wash, or get an oil change. It only took us about half an hour and most of that was Clark vacuuming.

Finally at 9:30, we were on the road.

Cue song.

Griswolds

2008-08-15T20:10:00.004-05:00

We're back. I bet y'all didn't even know we were gone.

Here's the good and the bad, right up front: it was another Griswold re-enactment. So for the purposes of this travelogue, here is your cast of characters:

Clark, as played by The Dave, The Jesus Of Cheese, Chili Webber

Ellen, as played by BeerPup

Rusty, as played by Simian Boy

Dana, as played by Stick Girl

It's probably a VERY good thing we had no Aunt Edna along. After all, we forgot to bring rope. Nor did we visit Cousin Eddie, though if we'd wanted to detour further South I'm sure Drumhedz would have happily filled that role. Also, there was no supermodel in a Ferrari. Just so you know, there will be no sexual tension in this story. Well other than the obvious: staying in the same hotel room with two inquisitive children who never sleep=no sex on vacation.

We planned this vacation in stages. Here's the timeline:

April:
Me: Hey, The Dave, I'm going to Minnesota in June no matter what, but I'd rather you use your vacation on just me and the kids, rather than my family.
The Dave: Okay.

June:
Me: So are you taking any vacation this summer?
The Dave: Um, I guess so.
Me: Okay.

July:
The Dave: So when does school start?
Me: Not soon enough. Oh, you mean what date. [We figure out the date.]
The Dave: So I'll just take the 11th thru 15th off.
Me: Okay.

Early August:
Me: Maybe we should go to Big Bend National Park. I've never been there.
The Dave: Maybe.

Two days later:
Me: Maybe we should just go to Roswell. Stick Girl's really into aliens lately. Plus we can just go to Carlsbad Caverns, too.
The Dave: Maybe.

August 7th:
The Dave: How about we go to the Grand Canyon? I've never been there.
[BeerPup has a panic attack over hotel reservations; The Dave saves her sanity by pointing out the obvious: Priceline.com]
Me: Okay.

August 10th, somewhere in Arizona on I40:
The Dave: [Pointing] Let's go there.
[Sign says Petrified Forest.]
Me: Okay.

August 11th, mid-afternoon, the Grand Canyon:
The Dave: We could probably do everything we want here in one day.
Me: Yep.
The Dave: How about we head back, see Meteor Crater, and then go home via Roswell and Carlsbad?
Me: Okay.

And that's how it went.

WTF with the Ibanez? Plus, the BluesFest

2008-08-07T21:13:00.003-05:00

Okay, I know it's a lovely guitar, but why are all y'all finding my page because of the damn guitar I bought for my husband? It's beautiful. It's lovely. You want to know what it's like to play it, e-mail me and I might give you my husband's e-mail. Geez.

And then there's the Bluesfest. The Bayfront Blues Festival in Duluth, Minnesota.

I used to go every year. I went to the first one. I even (and yeah, this is self-promotion) told one of this year's performers about the Bluesfest before it ever happened.

Have I ever told this story? Probably not. Actually, I probably wrote it, but never posted it.

So I was living in this house on Woodland Avenue (Party Row) in Duluth, right below the UMD campus. We were four women, and the Guy Under The Stairs.

(Ancient Letterman fans will get that one.)

Anyway, we had this great guy living in our basement named Mel Sando. He used to be a drummer, but decided, with a dedicated passion, to learn blues guitar.

So he did. He practice and practiced and.... well, here's the point. For over two years, I didn't watch ANY television without hearing Mel practicing about four feet below me.

At first he sucked. And then he got to be okay.

And then he moved. Then I moved. Then shit happened.

Fast forward A LOT: Mel Sando plays the BluesFest frequently. I'm proud, but kinda like a little sister proud. It's not like I had anything to do with it. I just had to listen to its painful beginnings.

And now Mel is good. Better than good. But like the painful beginning of blues, is the ending any different?

Oh, fuckit. That was my attempt at a profound ending to a post.

Anyway, for the multituedes going to the BluesFest (which has already begun) here's my FAQ from 4 years ago:

Blues Festival FAQ according to BeerPup, who was at the first one so
she ought to know:

What should I bring to the festival?

Money. Picture ID. Credit card/ATM card. Collapsible folding chair.
Insulated plastic mug. Sunscreen. Hat. Sunglasses. Individually
wrapped moist towellettes. Camera. Chair marker and pole. An extra
long-sleeved shirt to throw on over your regular shirt, if the
weather is dicey. Money. Did I say money twice? Here's the third:
money.

If you forget something, you can probably buy it there. Or heck,
borrow it off a stranger. Up to you.

What should I not bring to the festival?

There's the obvious: firearms, incendiaries, other weapons, etc.
Also, no booze, beer, drink of any kind, or food from outside the
festival, unless you are brining small children.
No blankets! (Unless you are bringing small children).

What kind of whacko would bring little kids to the Bluesfest?

BeerPup. She brought her daughter as a baby, and then later when the
daughter was a toddler and her son was a baby. The kids had a great
time. We did, however, bring earplugs for them and/or sit far back
from the music when we brought the kids. Other attendees didn't seem
to mind them, and sometimes were very entertained by them.

However, once kids are old enough to run faster than their parents
and/or be a nusance and liability to other attendees, don't bring
them. Wait until they can actually name some of the entertainers that
are playing.

What can I expect?

You will need to buy tokens if you wish to buy any food or drink at
the festival. Do this first. Then scope out a spot to sit. Many
people sit in the same general area from year to year, and day to
day, during the festival. This makes finding people a lot easier,
even if you don't have your own chair marker.

If you forget a mug, or are using your mug exclusively for pop or
beer, you should probably purchase one bottle of water from a vendor
and re-fill from the water fountains near the portable toilets. Drink
lots of water. You don't want to get dehydrated and too sick to
attend the following day of the festival!

Will I be able to park my car close?

Probably not. However, parking is still rather cheap at the festival.
Tailgating is fun, and allowed AFAIK. Park once during the day, and
if you leave the festival and take a break-- to see the aquarium,
walk on the boardwalk, or get some food in an actual
restaurant-- leave your car where it is and walk. Canal park has
everything you need. If you need to get downtown, take the free
shuttle.

What about necessities close to the festival?

There's a gas station across from the Park Inn on Lake Avenue.
There's a liquor store next to that. There's a drug store if you go
West on Superior street a about three blocks from
Lake Avenue. Walgreens, which is open 24 hours and fairly
inexpensive, is East on Superior Street from Lake Avenue, at 1301
East Superior ST., so you would have to drive
there. There used to be a grocery store in the same area but I'm
still trying to verify it exists. I'm waiting for local Duluthians to
call me back.

What about the locals?

Honestly, people who live in Duluth live there because they love the
city. They wish they didn't have to share it with tourists (and yes,
your are always a tourist when you attend the Blues Festival). But
they also know that since you had the good taste to spend your
weekend in Duluth, you can't be all bad. However, this is a weekend
when they will be very busy, so have a heart. Smile at the cashiers
and other service people, tell them Duluth is a great city (they
already know, but they love to hear it from others), and thank
them for making your stay nicer.

What about medical emergencies?

If you have a medical situation, go immediately to the First Aid area
at the festival grounds; if you need emergency transportation they
can get it to the Bayfront park faster than anyone; I believe they
have an ambulance on-site. If you can't move the person needing
medical attention, inform a security person ASAP. There are a lot more
security in on the grounds than you realize. Just yell "Security!" If
the person might need CPR, yell, "Does anyone know CPR?" People who
are trained in it will respond immediately, and there WILL be someone
nearby who knows CPR.

During non-festival hours for non-urgent medical situations, St.
Luke's is on 915 E 1st St (drive east on Superior or 2nd Street and
follow the "H" signs) and St. Mary's is at 407 E 3rd St (drive North
on Lake Avenue and then East on 2nd or 4th.)

What's with those big ships?

They're usually called boats. They usually contain iron ore, or
chalk, or coal, or some type of grain. Duluth/Superior is the world's
largest inland port (which seems like it's an oxymoron, but isn't)
and there is a lot of shipping traffic. If you're really
interested in the shipping, visit the museum at the canal (right next
to the lift bridge) to get your fill of info, as well as a great view
of the boats as they enter and exit the harbor.

Any other tips for attending the festival?

Well, there are just those those personal quirks--things I do at a
large event, as a female. Here's the list, but it's just my habit and
not a necessity: Always carry some toilet paper in your pocket, in
case you choose a portable toilet which has none. Always have
an individual moist towelette in your pocket. Never have your money
or ID anywhere but on your person. Don't eat the turkey legs at the
blues festival because they're not that good. Don't attempt to carry
more than two drinks at a time, unless you're a mutant and have
three hands. If you're really tired, leave the festival and take a
break. The performers are all great but you can't see every minute of
every performer. Carry a tampon in your purse; even if you don't need
it, a friend of yours will. Carry a condom too (I've never had a use
for one at the festival, but someone else might). Bring Advil. Bring
extra sunscreen. Bring Immodium, because it's one of those things
that when you need it you need it NOW. Bring your cell phone and call
your friends who aren't there and make them jealous. Wear
comfortable shoes. Be tolerant of others. If you can't remember
someone's name, just blurt it out and apologize. They'll forgive you.

Above all, don't drink and drive. There's a good reason for the free
shuttle. Please use it! Or call a cab! Don't spoil a good time by
letting someone drive who really shouldn't. And have fun, have fun,
HAVE FUN!

Addendum, 2008: Really, don't fucking drink and drive. My former roommate (NOT Mel) lost his wive a year ago because of a drunk driver. No excuse your drunk mind can come up with will explain a senseless death. None.

Mama Mia!

2008-07-30T23:40:00.002-05:00

Yes, I went to see it. No, I won't tell you to. Unless you want to, that is.

I've said it too many times lately, but if you have to explain the movie "Mama Mia!" to anyone...they're not going to get it. Just.No.

However, a review requires certain basics, so here goes.

There's this girl who was raised by her single mom, who is getting married. Together they run a hotel?inn?hostel? on a Greek island. The girl has read her mom's diary and learned there are three guys who could possibly be her father. So she invites them to the wedding.

Um, yeah--we stepped outside of reality the second we stepped into the theater. It's a FRICKIN' MUSICAL, PEOPLE!

And here's the deal: you already know all the songs. I don't care if you hate ABBA, you really do already know the songs.

But it's fun anyway.

I won't tell you who is actually her father, who falls in love with who, what plot twists occur SIMPLY TO FIT THE LYRICS OF SONGS WRITTEN IN THE 1970s!

Because that's the fun part. But if you needed that information, you still won't get it.

To quote the BeerHound, "If you don't already know, I'm not going to tell you!"

See it if you want. Voulez vous?

'Nuther Clip

2008-07-30T15:53:00.002-05:00

Here's another one. And to actually explain this time--these clips are of famous actors not known for singing, um, singing. It's only coincidence that the first two are Aussies.

DDD: A Review

2008-07-30T12:19:00.002-05:00

Here is my review of Debbie Does Dallas from four years ago, though I saw it years before then:

Debbie Does Dallas is your usual porn romp. The story line--yes it has one--is that a high school cheerleader has a chance to try out for the Dallas Cheerleaders, but needs the money to get to Dallas. She and her friends decide to get jobs in order to earn money for Debbie's ticket to the big D. Then the cheerleaders decide to celebrate their stupid decision by going into the boys' locker room after the football game and giving a bunch of blow jobs, and fucking in positions that, while they would never be practical in real life, enable great camera shots.

So the stupid bitches get jobs (I wouldn't call them that, but they really are stupid, and their characters are really bitchy), and then they consent to sexual acts while on the job in order to justify their hourly wages. Blah, blah, blah, sex-with-the-owner-of-the-candle-store-where-you-work-while-his wife-watches-because-they-caught-you-masturbating-with-a-candle-cakes. You know, the usual.

I have no idea how the movie ends. Does anyone? If so, let me know. But the most significant issue is that 1) Debbie doesn't, in fact, do Dallas, nor does the movie take place there and 2) Debbie, in fact, doesn't do anyone in the movie. Well, at least in the first half. Her friends do everyone. But Debbie just kind of disappears.

Why is this movie famous? Was it the first porn released on VHS or something? For the story line that reflected current 70s culture and their obsession with the Dallas Cowboy Cheerleaders (TM)? I have no idea. It's just a porn. See it to say you did.

Toni

2008-07-27T23:25:00.001-05:00

Scarlet fever

2008-07-26T09:02:00.002-05:00

I once had a disease called scarletina. It's the same thing as scarlet fever, though you will never get my mother to admit as such (just as you will never get her to admit a tornado took down those three giant elm trees at the old homestead, but didn't touch the house 30 feet to the South). Once mom learns her facts, she doesn't like changing them.

The "fact" in this case, is that scarletina is "milder" than scarlet fever. Do any of y'all remember stories from the 19th century where scarlet fever was a horrible disease that people died of, or spent months in recovery for it, and ended up blind or something? Yeah, that disease.

Well, it's actually pretty basic. It's an untreated case of strep throat. With no treatment it becomes toxic, and after that if it isn't treated, it becomes potentially lethal.

I don't know why it went from being "scarlet fever" to "scarletina" but I suspect it was a lot of people saying, "Well it didn't kill 'em, so it couldn't have been scarlet fever, but I for damn sure thought that's what it was. Let's call it...um...scarletina. Little scarlet fever. Yeah, that'll work."

So it's the same disease, except people don't die of it any more because there are now treatments for it. Antibiotics and aspirin and such.

I knew I was sick, the day I had it. My mom had gone to her friend Ruthie's, to help her re-cover her sofa or make curtains or something. My sister and brother got to go along, and if I'd been feeling normal I would have been upset I was being left behind. I loved hanging out with Ruthie's three sons! But I didn't care, which really should have tipped everyone off. My grandmother took care of me instead, and for once she came to our house, instead of me going to hers. (Her house was across our yard.) I remember when she took a nap--she always took a nap, purportedly to get us children to sleep, but 90% of the time she would sleep and we'd just play or something. Once we took the unsupervised opportunity to butter our grandfather's head as HE slept, but I digress.

Grandma was taking care of me, and while she slept, as I lay there I scraped my ring on the texture of the wall, because it made this really cool echoing sound! I can't describe it very well, but it was like the SFX when the Million Dollar Man used to jump or run? Yeah, like that. For those of you who weren't blessed enough to grow up in the 70s, here's William Shatner to explain it to you:

So I was laying there, thinking that maybe now I could run 65 MPH. Except my skin felt really weird, like sandpaper. Meh, whatever, I didn't particularly care because that sound was so cool! I tried to wake up Grandma and have her listen, but that was a mistake. Eleanora never had the patience to listen to REAL sounds, let alone pay attention to a little girl who was acting unusually docile and whose skin could be used at 220 grit. So she didn't notice anything wrong.

Which made her feel really guilty when Mom got home and freaked out because I was obviously, seriously ill.

Well, no problem because then Grandma got to babysit BeerHound and The Boy while she ran me to the Emergency Room.

They downplayed it.

"No it's not Scarlet Fever, it's just Scarletina!" Mom kept saying. Because, ya know, people die of one but not the other.

Hey, that re-naming thing worked! However, I doubt Mom will EVER believe that they're the same thing. Because Dr. Holmstrom said so! He'd never lie!

(For the record, he lied to her all the time to get her to calm down.)

Maybe that's where I learned how to do it!

Random Question

2008-07-17T14:49:00.001-05:00

Why do certain Christians attempt to dictate (and in some cases, litigate) the behavior and beliefs of others, purportedly so that these others will recognize Jesus as their Saaaaaviour, so that they may see the Glooooory of Heaven, when it's really obvious that the Christians in question obviously don't even LIKE the heathens they're trying to convert? Why do these people want to spend eternity with people they don't like? I mean, I know that since we'll supposedly all be perfect and sin-free in heaven, we will therefore like one another, but that doesn't really wash for me.

I'm thinking, even in Heaven, there will be people I will prefer to NOT spend time with. In Heaven, would you rather watch Beethoven actually hear his last few symphonies for the first time ever and watch him say, "Man, that was a little overstated. Why didn't y'all tell me?" As opposed to watching Bach and hear him say, "You want to hear 'Air' AGAIN? Fuck that; let's do some Zepplin." And then Hendrix would yell "Free Bird!" from the audience and Meat Loaf would sit on him.

I, personally would rather join Douglas Adams in his quest to find a decent drink, than listen to Martha Stewart tell me why this Chilean cabernet is perfect for the meal she's serving.

As the wise philosopher Joel once said, "The sinners are much more fun."

Which is probably why those self-appointed saints I was first referring to, take issue.

They're jealous. Even in Heaven, they won't be invited to the fun parties and the cool places. I bet most of them don't even know what a pan-galactic gargle blaster is.

I hate to shop

2008-07-16T22:48:00.001-05:00

Pretend you work in retail. Say, at the store my kids call the Giant Controller Store.

If I asked you if you had "A power converter that plugs into a standard 110 A/C socket and the other end is the female end of a D/C cigarette lighter" would you know what I wanted?

Would you send me to the CAR ACCESSORIES section? Where such an accessory would NEVER be used (that being, in a car)?

No, I didn't think so, because YOU aren't stupid. Like the people at the Giant Controller Store.

It's a $2 item. Which they don't have. At the Giant Controller Store. Apparently.

The dumb thing is, I drove by Radio Shack about EIGHT times today and didn't think to stop.

Because, I guess, I'm stupid.

And, Too, Two...

2008-07-05T16:45:00.001-05:00

Um, howdy. Did you miss me?

I'll try and make the recap short.

Went to Minnesota. Saw BeerHound's house on the way and it's lovely! And the garage is fantabulous! Then hightailed it to the Farm because The Boy needed a body with a hammer attached to help with his new roof.

Surprised my parents with the arrival of BeerHound, DuffMan, and The Dave.

And lastly: North Dakota is the Rubbernecker Capital of the World. They ALL stared at us roofing when they drove by, and NONE waved back when I waved at them. Geez. Even in my neighborhood, where it took me eight (yes EIGHT) years to learn the name of the lady who lives right behind us, we at least WAVE at each other. Plus I always wave at the roofers and lawn people and such. Say hi to them on their lunch break if I walk by. 'Mkay, I say 'Hola' more often than 'Hi,' but still. And morning walk/run time is downright social.

Confidential to the person who stole my nephew Snickelfritz' go-kart: First, you're an ass. Second, good luck getting it to run! Bwahaaahaaahaaa!

And, Too

2008-06-16T23:05:00.002-05:00

I'll be heading up to the Northland tomorrow and I'll be posting from the road; please forgive any typos and shit. The iPhone over-corrects my pselling. I'm not bringing the laptop this time, as the battery has tanked.

Me, my PT Cruiser convertible, and the road.

Oh, and two little kids and suitcases and whines for slurpees bathroom breaks, and video game strategy. Yeah, that too.

A couple of stops, and then I'll be assisting in yet another re-roofing. This one's a bigger undertaking. Much bigger. Oh my.

The Jesus of Cheese will be joining us later, as will BeerHound, DuffMan, and Portia. These last attendees are a surprise to my parents, so DON'T TELL THEM!

Speak to the American Gods* for me, willya? I'll need it.

*It's a book. Read it.

14? Wow.

2008-06-16T22:23:00.002-05:00

It's day 14 and I haven't had a cigarette. Um. I didn't think I'd make it this far. Really. It's just...not too bad.

You know what I miss? The garage. Not smoking in the garage, necessarily, but going into the garage to read or surf my e-mail and crap on my iPhone, and it was MY spot. No where else in the house is just "mine."

So I'm fine. I'm good. But I need a new "Mine."

Day 5!

2008-06-05T11:12:00.003-05:00

Warning: This post is not funny. And for once, I didn't blatantly lie about anything. Just so's you know.

I'm just now starting day 5, cigarette free.

It's not nearly as difficult as I thought it would be. Perhaps it's just because I went about it differently this time. The other times I seem to remember barely making it past 24 hours before "quitting my quit." And I remember the horrible torture of the craving. I remember bumming smokes from strangers.

Let's just credit Nicoderm CQ© and Wellbutrin©.

This time? No craving. NONE.

The behavior, though, is a hard habit to break. I find myself confused in the morning because I've got my coffee in my hand and no chair in the garage to sit on. Someone calls and I immediately go to the garage to light up. I tried to do that four times in a 10-minute conversation with my Dad.

People have been asking me, "Why now?" Good question, but I can't really answer it. I literally woke up Monday morning and thought, "I think I'll quit smoking today." No long planning session, no discussions with anyone, no major life changes. Monday morning, I had the choice of spending my money on another carton of smokes (over $40) or on a package of nicotine patches (I admit I didn't even look at the price.) I did a little research on what type of nicotine replacement works best, but it was always fairly clear to me since I'm not supposed to chew gum, ever (see all my previous posts about jaw surgery). And they have those inhaler sticks, but quite honestly they look stupid. Even more stupid than smoking.

So cost was really a factor. When it comes to buying gas or cigs, quite honestly the gas is a leeetle bit more important. Also, my kids have asked me to quit, or more accurately they express total confusion as to why I smoke. I can't give them a good reason.

And of course, there's my Dad. He has COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease). An easier way to describe it is, you know when people say someone has a "heart condition?" Well, Dad has a "lung condition." He would get tired easily, he slept too much, but he didn't sleep well. It would take him nearly an hour every morning to cough enough in order to breathe okay.

Yeah, he's 82 and he's allowed to slow down. But if he hadn't quit smoking, he would be dead now. And he isn't.

So why? So I can live past 82, like my Dad. You know, barring any alien-landing induced armageddon type scenarios, worldwide plagues, nuclear winters, or greenhouse gas suffocation, I'll live past 82.

There's hope for me yet.

Short Attention Span Theater

2008-06-03T13:05:00.001-05:00

I am trying to quit smoking. I have now gone 27 hours without a cigarette.

Since having kids, I've had to learn to multi-task even better than before.

Before having kids, worked really hard and practiced typing and talking at the same time. Try it. It's not easy. Oh, and it freaks people out. They won't talk if you're typing. They will not believe you can actually hear what they're saying. Conversely, I've had people for whom I'm typing something--usually a student paper--insist on DICTATING the paper to me. Um, no. I can type faster than you can talk. Give me the damn rough draft!

This program I'm on to quit smoking, which is Nicoderm CQ plus the Wellbutrin I'm already on, has me a little on edge. Not on edge bad, on edge good. I'm not cranky or irrational yet. I've asked The Dave. Repeatedly. And he said "No" the first time and now he just glares at me.

So, on edge. The Dave thinks it might be because I'm following the program for someone who smokes more than 15 cigarettes a day. He didn't think I smoked that much. I do, but because of the kids, I rarely smoke a whole one at a time: sit down, light up, take two drags, and then one of the kids comes into the garage to ask me for something so I put it out (both because there's a kid in the room, and because they need something.) Then later I'll go out and smoke the other half. Sometimes I would light a cigarette four times before I finished it.

Yes, they taste like ass if you put them out and then light them again, but they're expensive.

Oh, hey! I'm not paying for them any more!

Anyway, the patch I'm on, The Dave thinks they're too strong for me. Maybe he's right. Maybe I should switch to the mid-level strength.

The most amazing thing is how much time I have now! It's really cool. Maybe soon, I'll actually clean my house.

Right now the only thing clean is the garage. I had to get rid of my own personal "smoking section" in the garage, so it's gone. I threw out the ash tray, the stool the ash tray was on, the cigarettes, and the lighters. I saved the chair, but it's a folding chair so I just put it away. I also saved the flask of Glenfiddich.

Which reminds me--I need more Glenfiddich.

So right now I'm a little distracted. I start doing things, and then I'll see something sparkly. I can do things for 15 minutes at a time, if I try hard and set a timer. For instance, I just shredded my billing statements from 2003 for 15 minutes.

And now I've been sitting here for 10 minutes trying to figure out what to do next.

Um, post this. Yeah. That's what I'll do.

Self-fulfilling prophecies

2008-05-30T23:11:00.002-05:00

An obnoxious habit I have retained from my days as a librarian is that I take notes while I talk to people on the phone. These days I don't write down names or numbers, time or date, because my phone has already done that for me. But I do write down any question that comes up, if it remains unanswered at the end of the conversation. It can be as basic as "Amtrack?" written on a random scrap of paper, or it can be an entire outline of questions, sub-questions, and other points to consider, neatly written in my current favorite spiral-bound notebook.

Strangely enough, I do get back to all of these questions. I never met a question I didn't want to answer. And as I mentioned earlier today, I'm a bit OCD about some things.

One of those things is paper. Any scrap of paper I see, I have to evaluate its value. I have to hold and examine it. My ultimate goal, though, is to be able to dispose of it because I'm done with it and I will never need it again.

Recently I've noticed that both my kids read these notes I write to myself. They also read my e-mail, but that's a topic for another post. When did I realize this?

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking Stick Girl to a birthday party that was--for once--close enough to walk to. Simian Boy was along on the stroll. We passed part of the golf course and a foursome was teeing off.

Stick Girl has spent some time watching the golfers, over at her friend Tori's, because their house is actually on the course and has a net over their yard. Apparently they enjoy purposely making the golfers laugh, by watching one of them tee off and then clapping for him. They think this is great fun, even if they don't know why it's funny.

And also apparently, they listen to what the golfers say.

So there we were, walking down the street, and a guy teed off.

"Big hit!" said Stick Girl.

"Yeah, big hitter, the Lama," said Simian Boy.

Time to start locking up my spiral-bound notebooks. Or is that the OCD talking?

Anyone?

2008-05-30T13:38:00.001-05:00

Being mildly OCD as I am--and I know most of y'all don't believe that because most of the time I look like a drunken slob--I have this method of organization that includes leaving any e-mails that require action in my in-box until they're over and done with. I can't move them to an "action item" folder because then I would never see them, and I'd miss all these deadlines and stuff.

Not that I have many deadlines.

Anyhoo, all of my action items right now have to do with end-of-school stuff. Apparently the school year can't just, I dunno, END--it must be celebrated. Repeatedly. Teachers and leaders thanked, snacks funded, good times reviewed.

While I certainly understand why my kids love this stuff, and wholeheartedly agree that thank-you gifts are in order...it still bugs the crap out of me. I really don't like going to my kids' in-school parties. When I grew up, parents didn't attend the school Christmas party (except it's now called the "December Break Party") or the Valentines party or field day. Parents weren't invited. End of story.

But I find that I'm socially obligated to attend these things. And you know what? I don't want to. I've been through Kindergarten through twelfth grade once, and I don't want to do any of it again. Even the pleasant parts, like the parties.

So could someone--anyone--please send me an e-mail that has nothing to do with school ending? Thanks so much.

Because I'm Bored and I Have An Active Imagination

2008-05-29T13:37:00.001-05:00

I swear I just saw Don Henley at the grocery store.

I mean, I know I didn't. But one of his homes is only a few miles South of here, and granted there are TONS of grocery stores between here and there, and Don has no reason to cross LBJ freeway, let alone SH121. Oh, except we have a pretty good mall. And maybe he was on his way to Willie Nelson's place.

It was probably just some guy I see at the grocery store a lot. Who looks a lot like Don Henley.

Bees, Tornadoes, and Jellyfish

2008-05-29T08:23:00.001-05:00

My daughter has a recurring nightmare involving tornadoes.

This may be my fault. Once I was watching the movie "Twister" when she was pretty young, and I think it made a permanent impression.

On top of that, we do have frequent tornadoes and--as opposed to where I grew up--I take the tornado siren seriously. We really do go and sit in the closet when it goes off.

Growing up, we didn't live anywhere near a tornado siren. We were also in an area totally ignored by the local weather broadcast. It was as if we didn't exist as far as KTHI, WDAZ, and KXJB were concerned. We were NEVER included in the evening stats and predictions, we weren't on their map, and hell, we had more than one tornado over the years that was NEVER MENTIONED on the news. This isn't because we were on the edge of their broadcast--most towns all around us got coverage. Smaller towns than us consistently were told what temps to expect in their town the next day, but Warren, Minnesota? Never. Or almost never.

Once. Exactly once in the 18 years I lived in that town, did they acknowledge that any weather even occurred in Warren. It happened to be the day that my sister's science class was studying weather prediction, and called it in to the TV station, strongly encouraging them to put it on their broadcast. So once, it appeared on TV, and let me point out--they didn't even have to do the predicting themselves. All they had to do was type it in.

It wasn't that we weren't ever included; that wasn't too bad. It was they way they INSINUATED that since they weren't predicting the weather in our town, there WAS no weather going on in our town.

"Blizzard hit Warren? It's not on our radar. Must not be too bad."

Years later, the TV stations went through some ownership changes, and a lot of on-air talent changes, and also I think my town (and a few others) led a revolt. It was probably associated with the Flood of '97, in that other towns with LESS to worry about were given more information about the pre-flood conditions. In other words, loss of property and possible loss of life had to occur before the local meteorologists discovered that weather in Warren, Minnesota does in fact exist.

(Oh, that and Doppler and NEXRAD.)

Lovin' that man o' mine

2008-05-27T14:15:00.001-05:00

I was just considering a trip to the store. I have to get the timing right on these trips, sometimes. Usually I try to go in the afternoon, but before the kids are out of school, because they really don't like going to the store with me. I get really bossy at the store: "No, we can't have 'Super Sugar Poof Cereal, now with meth!'" "No, you can't have another water cannon." "Let your sister out of the freezer--she's turning blue." "I'm pretty sure handicap cart racing isn't going to be a new NASCAR tier any time soon."

Basically, I only wanted to go to the store for beer, because I know for a fact I only have 5 Shiners left, which is the lowest I ever allow the inventory to get before 6pm.

Then I double-checked the fridge and remembered: The Jesus of Cheese bought me beer on Sunday! I have LOTS of beer!

O, how I love that man.

Hiya, Googler!

2008-05-25T00:07:00.003-05:00

Just want to make a post that hit all the topics that bring new folks here from Google searches. The following statement is a total lie:

The other day my husband The Jesus of Cheese was playing "Roxanne" on his Joe Satriani Ibanez and I was counting up just how many times they sing "Put on the red light" in that song. Then I asked him to play "Girl from Ipanema" because that song's from Brazil, right? Then, since my TMJ (temporomandibular joint) Disorder hasn't been acting up, I gave him a blow job. But I didn't finish because the NASCAR race came on. Too bad, so sad.

Once again, this didn't happen.

Oh, I forgot one: I know how to make a hobby horse out of cardboard but I'm not going to tell you how because I tried to write down the steps and it's a really LONG "how-to" post. But maybe I could give you a clue.

Um, okay, there's a picture of the hobby horse somewhere on the blog. That should give you a clue. Oh, and to hold it together, use Liquid Nails. Buy it at Home Depot.

You can TOO wear it again!

2008-05-22T19:01:00.000-05:00

Back in the early 90s, my brother got married in a place called Olga, North Dakota. It consisted of a couple of houses, a Catholic church, a town hall, and a bar. All the buildings in town were used in the festivities.

My sister and I were both bridesmaids. We were to make, or have someone els make our own dresses, the design of which positively screamed "early 90s bridesmaid dress."

The bodice was black velvet, and had a sweetheart neckline. The skirt was poofy and tea-length, the sleeves were puffy princess 3/4 length, both in iridescent emerald green.

Every bride thinks that the dresses she has chosen will be beautiful, practical, and can be worn again for some other function.

On this one, though, I was kind of unsure. It's not like I was likely to be invited to a Leprechaun Prom anytime soon.

(Incidentally, when got married myself and I chose a dress for my ONE bridesmaid, it was exactly the same as my wedding dress, in blue instead of white, and I told my sister The BeerHound who had to wear it that there was probably no way in hell she could ever find another use for it, but I was paying for it, so it's not like it was a financial loss on top of a fashion loss.)

So. The dress from The Boy's wedding. It was actually exactly in fashion, at the time. The biggest issue I had with it was that it was difficult to sew.

Yes, I sew. I sew better than most professional seamstresses. It would have been a waste of money (that I didn't have) to pay someone else to make it.

It is phenomenally difficult to sew velvet. You could pin that stuff together every 1/4 inch and it would still move around on you. I know. I tried.

So I made the dress. It was nearly done, except for the hem, and it was one day away from having to leave for the wedding. No one had told me the length the hem was supposed to be. I tried the bride, but she was out with her friends, my sister wasn't home, and finally I called my mom who also didn't know, but she told me to wing it.

First, I had the ONLY totally irrational temper tantrum my ex ever saw me have. I scared him.

Then I picked a hem length, and sewed it.

I have NO idea why it was so important to me at the time. Like I said--irrational.

The whole deal was, I didn't particularly want to be a bridesmaid. While some young women really enjoy that, I never did. I'd rather be the personal attendant, or the wedding party liaison, or whatever. I really like being the person who shows up at a wedding with a bag of tricks and fixes all the problems and makes the crises go away.

Either that, or I'd rather just be a guest. Give me some alcohol and I'm happy.

The wedding itself was lovely. Fun.

But then...I had this dress that I'd worked my ASS off making, and I couldn't just get rid of it. I was probably going to put it up for sale at the consignment shop, when Sweet Irish George called me about a week and a half after the wedding and asked if I had a sewing machine he could borrow. I told him sure, and he could borrow a seamstress as well. He needed a Halloween costume; he wanted to be Robin Hood.

I asked if he'd like a green iridescent cape. He said sure. I said how about a matching hat out of my scrap fabric. He said great.

So George came over and I gleefully sliced the skirt off the dress. He was a little nervous that I was ruining a dress I'd obviously put a lot of work into, but I told him it was my work and if I wanted to ruin it, I would.

George looked great in his costume. I guess he still has it.

Once I looked closely at the rest of the dress--that bodice that had taken so many hours and so many pins--I decided it could be made into some type of renaissance-era dress with just a few eyelets and a leather shoestring up the back. Oh, and another skirt.

It was the start of my "beer wench" traditional halloween costume. I think I wore it several times as that, with different skirts and stuff.

Then one year I got it into my head that I should be a Dryad for Halloween. (Look it up; I'll wait.) So I grabbed the bodice, finally cut off the iridescent green sleeves, and cut the underskirt into strips. Then I stapled craft leaves that I bought at Michael's onto the strips and around the sleeves.

The color from the leaves got all over my skin and I looked like I had a liver disease. And the following week, I finally threw the whole thing away.

See? You CAN wear a bridesmaid dress again!

Turtles

2008-05-19T09:23:00.004-05:00

This morning my kids reminded me of turtles, with their backpacks; Stick Girl had problems getting into the back of the convertible and was "stuck" because her backpack was bigger than her (the seat wasn't tipped forward.) When I was young, I don't remember carrying so much crap to school.

My Kindergarten education wasn't nearly so paper-based as my children's seems to be. I didn't have nearly as much to carry. Sometimes carried my lunch in my Peanuts lunch box (The Boy and The BeerHound has Partridge Family ones.) I think sometimes I brought home crap I had made, like the handprint in playdough and the "Brown Bear" book. But Kindergarten was different back then; it was more like pre-school is now. I learned the alphabet, but not how to read. I learned counting, but not math. I learned the months of the year and the days of the week.

But let's face it: I already knew all that crap before I went to Kindergarten. In fact, I had the misguided notion only a 5-year-old can have, that I was supposed to know all that before they let me IN. I thought there was a test.

And at my school, unfortunately, THERE WAS A TEST. It wasn't a test of knowledge, specifically; it was a psychological test to see if the kids were "ready" for Kindergarten.

The child psychologist was a hippie. Lennon glasses, long hair, beard and mustache, Jesus sandals. Whatever. Except I'm kind of amazed that they even let him in the building looking like that; it was 1973 and hippies were NOT welcome in my hometown.

He gave me a test, the parts of which I remember were tying a shoe which wasn't a real shoe; it was a cardboard drawing with holes punched in it and a lace through it; and drawing a person, next to which was an example of a stick person.

Now, I've always known pretty quickly who I did and didn't like, and I DID NOT LIKE this guy. He was condescending. His tests were condescending. I wouldn't talk to him and I wouldn't do anything he asked.

So when it was time to actually register me for Kindergarten, apparently there was a PUBLIC LIST of how each child ranked for intelligence and maturity--you saw where your kid fell on the scale, and also where EVERYONE ELSE'S KID ranked. I know this is illegal now, and I'm pretty sure it was illegal then.

However, this turned out to be a lucky thing, because my friend Otis's mom got there before my mom. She saw where Otis was ranked and thought it was accurate. Then she saw that I was ranked at the maturity and intelligence level of a 3 year old, and she had a fit. She pointed out to the principal, the teacher, the secretary, and the school counselor (who was NOT the hippie) that I knew my entire alphabet, could count to 49, draw detailed pictures of people all the way down to their eyelashes, and had in fact taught Otis how to tie his shoes. And also, that I was initially shy but would happily talk to anyone, once I got to know them.

By the time my mom got there, the secretary headed her off and said, "We understand there's been a mistake in regard to your daughter's testing."

To which my mom replied, "I'm not surprised. My daughter said that the guy who tested her couldn't even draw a real person; he just had some lines. And he couldn't tie his own shoes either, since he had to wear sandals with buckles."

I really did think that guy was stupid. In my thinking, there was no point in tying the laces on a fake shoe, because the only reason to tie your shoes is to keep them on your feet. The fake shoe served no practical purpose, so tying it was pointless.

Looking back, I'm pretty sure the guy was biased against girls, and I have the statistics to prove it. The class ahead of me, the class of '85, had (in 1984) 56 people, 25 of whom were girls--44%. My class, '86, had 47 people, 15 of whom were girls--31%. The class of '87 had 44 people, 21 of whom were girls=47%.

So the female percentage dropped from 44%, went down to 31%, then went up to 47%? I can think of at least five girls in the class of '87 who were supposed to be in my class, and only one of them, in retrospect, would I say was behind in maturity/social skills. A couple of them were being abused by their father (we found out much later). I can think of a couple of boys who were also held back, but that assessment was probably correct.

I'm pretty sure I'm the only person who even remembers any of this, and I'm tempted to call my grade school and ask to see my "Permanent Record." You know, just to see if I've been wrong all my life, and I'm actually really stupid and anti-social.

Then I'll find that psychologist and ask him to draw a picture of this:

Dante, AKA an addendum to the North Dakota trip from June 2007

2008-05-16T23:19:00.003-05:00

There was this time, I was at this McDonald's in--Kansas? Nebraska? South Dakota?--some flyover state. And the cashier took something like five orders ahead of me, gave each person a receipt, and told them to wait for their order.

When I got up front and gave my order, she asked me to step to the side. I refused. I stood there and waited for my food, and kept her from taking more orders.

I mean, it was fucking MCDONALD'S--where these managers are supposed to have gone to burger college, or something. Where you should KNOW that you don't take SIX orders (that's including mine) and then try and take a seventh, without even starting to pour the drinks for the first one. She had a lot of hostile people in line.

I was DEFINITELY one of them, but really, I was giving the woman a break; an excuse to actually, oh, I dunno, DO HER FUCKING JOB. (Granted, she was seriously impeded by a co-worker who was obviously hopped up on meth and Red Bull, but even so.)

It wasn't Burger King, or Whataburger, or any place where there's a protocol for giving people a receipt and making them wait a while for their order.

I was really mad. I was going to write a letter. But I didn't.

Because, you know, it was just in one of those flyover states.

And you know, Hell defines its own levels.