Come on, get happy!

First off, I can see. Leaves on trees. A BLOCK AWAY!

Second, The Dave had his Christmas present surprise ruined, sort of. He asked our son Simian Boy to give him a hint.

"It makes a sound," said Simian Boy.

Wow. Accurate, subtle, good hint! Except he went on.

"A sound, like a guitar."

Bwahaaahaaahaa!

The Dave already knew, basically. He just didn't know what KIND of guitar. And it's an Ibanez JS1000, not the JS1200 as I indicated earlier. The Dave thinks the only difference between the two, is that the 1200 has that exclusive lipstick-red color, whereas the 1000 is a lovely pearl black, which he much prefers.

Now that The Dave has the peripherals he wanted for the guitar, he's allowed Stick Girl to use the "real microphone." He has ideas about a family band. She would sing, and maybe do the keyboards, once she learns them. Simian Boy would be on percussion, of course. I don't know what I'd do, besides the backup singer (further back up, the better). Obviously, we need a bass player. Maybe we can get my Former Indentured Servant to do that; he used to play cello.

But first we have to transport the children into the future for 18 months while they learn how to play their instruments.

We'll let you know how that works out.

Ibanez JS1200 Joe Satriani Signature Guitar

I had fun buying Dave's present.

A few years ago, I promised him a white American-made stratocaster. It never happened; we got really poor right after that.

Hopefully, this will make up for that.

Plus, the sales guy was really thrilled to sell the thing to me. The store was full of people, but I got the feeling that my purchase was probably the single high-ticket item of the day.

The same year that I promised Dave the strat, we had Christmas Eve at... Well, it would take too long to 'splain who these people were. Suffice to say that the evening included a sing-along. We sang Christmas songs, plus traditional Irish songs, to the guitar accompaniment of the local district attorney.

The music was much better after the intermission. Rick, the D.A., put his guitar down during the intermission and Dave picked it up, just to mess around on it, but he had to tune it first.

He SERIOUSLY had to tune it first.

So, though I have very fond memories of Dave playing actual songs on his, or someone else's, guitar, most often I like watching him tune them.

The master at his craft. THAT kicks ass.

I can't wait until he opens his present!

From 28 May 2004: They're real and they're magnificent

I just got Lasik. Ouch. People who say it doesn't hurt? They lied. I'm okay now, plus I can see leaves on trees for the first time in...well, this is the first time I can see leaves on Texas trees. (I never wore my glasses outside.)

So Lasik is really cool and I'd recommend it.

Getting the procedure reminded me of this post from 2004:


It's Friday afternoon before a long weekend, almost 3pm, and I just cracked my first beer. I'm running a little behind.

Gosh, I just won a lifetime supply of saline solution and I don't wear contacts. I never have, and on principle, I never will.

It's an issue of vanity. It used to be people were considered vain for wearing contacts instead of glasses. That's changed now that it's pretty cheap to get and wear contacts, though not cheaper than glasses. I do wear glasses and have for almost 20 years, but I've only recently needed glasses on a daily basis. I should be wearing them now but that would entail finding them. Getting out of my comfy chair an all. I'll combine the effort with my next foray into the kitchen for beer.

When I first got glasses, the eye doctor actually measured my irises and concluded that they're two millimeters larger than average. Wahoo.

Anyway, contacts. Remember in the 80s when colored contacts came out? They were all the rage. Some people proudly proclaimed that they had gotten them, but a lot more people simply wore them in an attempt to make others think that it was their real eye color. Yeah, like my friend John really had teal irises the same color as his girlfriend's prom dress.

Therein lies the point of vanity. At the time people would constantly ask me, "Do you wear contacts?" meaning, do you wear colored contacts? And tons more wouldn't ask but would simply assume that I did. But I didn't. And I don't. My irises really are this color and size. I was born this way.

Most people didn't believe it at the time. I guess I would equate it to someone accusing a guy of stuffing his underwear. One can deny it, claim it's all natural, but in general you must know the accused a lot better before you find out the truth.

Or just go swimming with them. One of the two.

Flush

Some day, I'll write something.

Some day, it will matter.

Today is not that day.

Meanwhile, here's an oldie:

Words I like:

insidious: A lovely word which can refer to behavior, diseases, politics, food.

therefore:Most effective in making a point.

hence: Ditto.

malt: It's all about the beer.

utilitarian: An effective philosophical movement which espouses the value of making decisions based on the greatest good it would do for the greatest number of people. As opposed to, making decisions for the greatest number of people, and telling them that something would be "good for them" *cough neoconservatives cough*.

Words I hate:

Moist: Try wet, sweaty, lick, humid...but "moist" is just icky.

lave: I've been reading too much bad fiction lately. If you have to resort to "lave" you're not creative enough, even for bad fiction.

conservative: Fuck y'all, already.

re-prioritize/irregardless/grow/downsize: The first word can always be more accurately substituted with "prioritize." The second is a sports-commentator invented word which can always be better stated as "regardless." The third is a business buzzword which is silly and insecure and should be substituted with "build" because dammit, growth doesn't involve human meddling, but building is nothing but. Geez. And downsize: you ain't fooling nobody. You fired the fuckers, you pay the semantic price.

blossom: I just hate this word when it refers to anything but flowers. I particularly hate it when it refers to pubescent girls, or women doing anything new, ambitious, or just different.

Words I wish people would use more often:

cock/cunt: Everybody's got one or the other; deal with it.

no: I've got to learn this one.

fucked/screwed/bamboozled: Calls to mind The Blues Brothers. Ya know, when Elwood picks Jake up at the prison, and Jake calls Elwood on lying to him on keeping the band together when he hasn't.

pollution: Call it global warming if you want, or blame it on cow flatulence, but pollution is pollution, dammit.

antidisestablishmentarianism: Just because I think people should learn how to spell it. And do it.

Cold December

Bah! Humbug.

I really don't like this season. It's not just the materialistic bent. It's not just the chaos. It's not just that people try and shove all their celebration and good cheer into one month, whereas if they spread it evenly over the other eleven months, our country's karma balance might actually be in the positive.

Why do I hate December so fucking much?

It hasn't been a good month for me, historically speaking. My step-grandpa died in December when I was 11.

Several other extended relatives also died in December.

I lost my first baby in December.

My crazy uncle Jim died in December.

The epiphany came to me--where else?--in the carpool line. When December comes along, I'm waiting for someone to die.

Yeah, statistically, more people die in December than any other month. That leaves behind the rest of us.

Two years ago when my uncle died, it was the end of a difficult year for me. I was already a little unstable. Well, more than usual. I'd gotten to the "tie a knot and hang on" stage, and my hands were getting slippery.

We had arrived at the in-laws for Christmas. My daughter was sick. We needed cold medicine, and someone had to go to town and buy it before the stores closed. I volunteered.

I adore my in-laws, but I had to get the fuck out of there. Usually I anticipate their quirks--being late for everything, deciding to have huge snacks 30 minutes before a huge meal is served, going way overboard with presents--but this time, I wasn't in a mood to put up with it. Wasn't quite ready for it.

Heading to town, I was hurting at my very soul. Somewhere, I got it in my head that if I saw an open bar, I was going to stop and have a couple shots of whiskey. I don't even like whiskey.

But uncle Jim did.

I was going to do it in memory of him. And then I probably would have bawled my eyes out. I doubt I would have made it to the grocery store.

There were no open bars on the way.

At the store, I'd found what I needed and was standing in line with the medicine and a $20 bill. A man noticed that's all I had and let me go ahead of him. The checker rang me up and then disabled the security thing on it. "So the alarm won't go off and people think you're a thief."

"Hey, I've known a lot of thieves and felons. They're not all bad."

She smiled. "I used to date a felon. No, they're not all bad. Well, that guy was, but not because he was a felon."

"No, they're definitely not all bad."

I walked out the door. The alarm didn't go off. I'd taken a few steps away from the door when I realized I was still holding the change from the $20. I turned around and put it in the Salvation Army bucket. It was the only one I'd seen all season.

"Merry Christmas," the man said to me.

"Merry Christmas," I whispered.

I made it to the car before I started to cry. I cried all the way home.

From 12 December 2004: I lost my balls

(Originally Posted/Updated: Sunday, 12/12/2004 5:28:43 PM)

Not that a woman can't live without balls; quite the contrary.

So we're decorating our huge Christmas tree today, which of course involved rooting around the attic for a while, getting really sweaty and dirty, and trying to keep my 3 year old from following me up the ladder (which didn't work; he climbed up anyway). I separated all the boxes of Christmas decorations from the boxes of unused electronic components and connectors, and hauled the festivities down.

I also hauled down the 15' artificial tree. We only have 14' ceilings. Once the tree was assembled (minus the top section) and lighted, we let the kids go crazy putting decorations on up as far as they could reach--about 3.5 feet.

It was then that I noticed that my balls were missing. Two entire boxes of decoration, lost in the void of my suburban utopian storage spaces. Attic or closet--it doesn't matter; they're not there.

They weren't all that great to begin with, but still. Nobody likes to loose their balls.

But that's nothing compared to my sister. Turns out she lost her cones. And they were gold, too! A woman can live without balls, but it's much harder to live without cones.

Pray for her.

Um, no.

I had my laptop with me today in the carpool line, as I am one of the few people who DO read e-books, and I was almost going to post "Live, From The Carpool Line."

Lucky for y'all, nothing happened.

Except, on the way there, I saw a guy driving a golf cart down the street while wearing full snorkeling gear.

But that has its own logic, where I live.

So, then.

Nothing happened today.

For Ed and Zim

Thanks again to Crazy Lisa for the link. See Lisa at Travel Travel for all your travel needs; she wants another free trip to Jamaica.

At least now I know WHY

Now I know why some morning carpool line volunteers just stare at my car and don't help my kids out.

They can't see through the tinted windows.

However, it's still pretty stupid to just stand there. I mean, I wouldn't pull through the line unless I actually HAD children in the car, now, would I? And it's not like they can assume the kids got out further back in the line, because it's pretty hard to see through the window at all sometimes--I checked--so they have no idea whether there are children in there or not.

But being a carpool line and all, it would be safe to assume there ARE.

After all, if a crazy lady pulled through the carpool line every day and DIDN'T have children, she should be arrested.

But you know...I can't be the only one this happens to. After all, owning an UrbanTruckster (or TollwayJammer or in some cases, PenisenlargingCoupe) is required by law in my neighborhood. I can't be the only one with tinted windows. I KNOW I'm not. After all, we can't be allowed to actually SEE each other while driving our ostentatious, conspicuously consumptive conveyances.

One never knows when road rage will strike.

Maybe in the carpool line.

Eat More Chicken!

It is with great relief that I wish to announce that Zoe's birthday party has taken place, and it was a huge success. Also, I'd like to announce that I did NOT have a panic attack, nor did I feel the need for liquid courage or escape in the final hours of the execution of the event.

I'd like to thank the wonderful people at Pump It Up in Frisco for allowing me to be a lazy mother, and allowing me to pay them to run the party. I love being able to throw money at something and have it come off well.

And on that thought, I think I'll have some beer and Cheetoes.

Not Missing Anything

Today, I made the Jesus of Cheese hide my laptop from me, until, I told him, "I've picked up the kids and they're working on their homework."

Normally, I'm all over the interweb, checking my mail, a couple of bulletin boards, news pages, the checking account. All fucking day. Not that I don't do anything else, because I do.

Sometimes.

However, today I had the inspiration to get a few things done. Not MUCH. Just a few things.

And it was an experiment of sorts.

It's been about 20 months since the Jesus of Cheese quit the Pink Entity and went to work for The Bobs full time.

He could work from home. He could work in the middle of the night, theoretically. He could work in his underwear.

And he does.

The pay and benefits are the same, if not better. Plus he doesn't have to wear ties any more, he doesn't have to pay homage to the Tollway Goddess, nor pay for the gas for the commute.

Hell, our UrbanTruckster only has 50K miles on it, and it's 6 years old.

We are officially LOW MAINTENANCE.

And this gives new meaning to "nooners" for me.

So what's my problem?

Um, motivation...I think...maybe?

The truth is, I can't get a damn thing done when The Dave's here. On difficult days, I'll just be getting started unloading the dishwasher, cleaning the kitchen, whatever, and all of a sudden he wants to go out to lunch or something.

And who would look a gift lunch in the mouth? Me.

Scenario: BeerPup is on her computer, wasting time. For hours. The Dave ignores the BeerPup. He IS working, after all.

10 minutes later: BeerPup is wearing an apron and up to her elbows in suds and sludge, cleaning something. The Dave asks her to lunch.

The BeerPup's brain explodes.

Today was an experiment. Why waste hours on the computer? Because honestly, it's not like the world can't survive without me knowing the latest...whatever. So I got rid of the option, for the day.

I guess it worked. My house is pretty clean. Not REALLY clean. But not embarrassing. I had a list, and I did all the crap on it. Except for one thing, which I'll do right now. Hold on.

SaxyGal called. Check. List complete and shredded.

I'm thinking giving the Jesus of Cheese possession of the laptop is probably a good thing.

I think I can hack it. But only because I can still check my mail on my iPhone.

Hei til alle de norske leserne!

I'd just like to say hello to the Norwegians who have been reading here lately. I don't know how you found me; perhaps you're looking for my lefse recipe or want to know why Norwegian Americans are obsessed with the stuff?

Also, pardon my translation, if it's incorrect. I only speak Swedish, so I used an online translator for the title.

Krull

The movie Krull was on this evening.

Yeah, it's a stupid movie, except for two things: Liam Neeson and Robbie Coltrane are in it.

Why do I care?

Another lifetime ago, when I lived at the Webster House of the Mentally Deranged, Criminally Insane, Religiously Confused, Sexually Frustrated, Financially Destitute, and Morally Ambiguous, the owner had the arcade version of the Krull video game.

Once when I was waiting there for someone--this was before I lived there--I had some time to kill, so I played Krull. For hours.

Later on, when I lived there, I played for hours more. Hell, it was just standing there in the middle of the living room, and it was free.

We even rented the movie once, just so we could figure out what the point of the game was supposed to be. Turns out neither had one.

Once when we were having a party, some guy challenged me to a game and I said, "Okay, sure. I haven't played for a while."

He immediately expressed regret at his challenge, saying that the phrase "I haven't played for a while" means that you've played a lot, got good at it, and then got sick of it, so a novice has no chance of winning a challenge.

Yeah, I kicked his ass.

Later, for some reason (probably space) the owner gave/loaned/bartered the game to my friend Sweet Irish George, who had a house a few blocks up the hill.

Word has it that one of his roommates traded it to someone for a bag of pot.

It might not have been worth much, but it was worth more than a bag of pot.

Damn.

Another re-post from NRWP

This evening, for some reason, I thought I might need this. I wrote it in 2004:

Getting very drunk three days in a row is bad for the BeerPup. Therefore I thought it appropriate to present the various hangover cures I have tried over the years.

The best one I ever found is now illegal: Alka-Seltzer Plus Cold Medicine, original formula. Not "original flavor" as the product currently on the market claims. It used to contain phenylpropanolamine, which caused strokes in a small percentage of the population the first time they took it. However, if it didn't cause a stroke the first time, it probably wouldn't ever. So I don't know why they didn't just take it off the market for new users and let the rest of us keep using the stuff. It took care of pain, nausea, stuffy nose, and let you get a nice nap in, besides. Damn FDA, taking my favorite medicine away.

Sobazone: I've never tried this one since it's not available in the US, but my favorite actor is said to import it from his adopted home country of Australia for the parties he organizes for the crews of the movies he's in. If anyone would like to send me some so I can test it, that would be wonderful.

Sex: Weird but true. The more, the better.

Pot: Not only good for a hangover, it once helped me get over bronchitis. I know that makes no sense, but I was coughing so much I'd toss my cookies and then I didn't have the strength left to heal, so I just kept coughing and tossing my cookies. Then I got stoned and was able to eat and keep it down, and it made all the difference.

Chaser: Doesn't really work unless you don't drink a whole lot, and you have to keep taking it every few drinks. Don't bother.

Old standbys: Pedialyte, tons and tons of water, eat a huge meal before you go to bed, they all usually work if you remember to do them.

I don't recommend Excedrin because it can make your stomach bleed, which will make you nauseous and possibly vomit, which can tear the lining of your stomach and will send you to the emergency room at 7:00am in Coon Rapids, Minnesota.

Coca-Cola: It contains caramel, which settles the stomach. Whatever painkiller you take, take it with a Coke.

Then there's the recommendation that comes from The Pursuit of Happiness, the Canadian band with a sense of humor: "One more coffee, three more asprin, two more vitamin E. Much regret now, that the morning's crashing down on me."

But that was yesterday; I feel great today. Anyone want a homebrew?

30 years of cheese ball

I've been making a holiday cheese ball for years. Here's the recipe:

8 oz of smoked cheddar cheese, shredded

2 packages cream cheese

4 Tablespoons butter

2 tablespoons milk

1/4 cup Lea & Perrins steak sauce

dash garlic salt

dash onion salt

Sliced almonds

Let the cream cheese and butter come to room temperature. Slap it all (except the almonds) in a bowl. Mix it together with a hand mixer. Or just your hand. I don't care.

Form it into a ball. Put almonds on it. Stick it in the fridge for 6 hours.

Spread it on crackers to eat. I prefer Triscuits, Sociables, or Wheat Thins.

There ya go...one of my secret recipes.

Me and my big mouth

Yesterday I let slip to my in-laws that I have a blog. They wanted the address, to which I replied, "Oh, HECK no!"

They assumed it was because I've written about them. But that's not really why.

I told them it's because it's rather 'blue' in the manner that some comedians are blue. Not that I think I'm funny. I entertain myself, but I don't assume anyone else will be entertained.

However, I'm not always safe for work.

Also, what I post here makes it obvious that I am SO not "nice."

My in-laws keep insisting that I am. They're very wrong.

I've told them they're wrong, but if they read the crap I write here, they'd have proof.

I guess it's better to be thought of as an immoral drunken chain smoking internet hack who disrespects her family, than to have that family go online and find proof.

So here's a random question to anyone reading this: see if you can find a reference to this blog on a search engine, going on what you know of me in real life.

Okay. Go.

RECENTLY in my Gmail:

BeerPup: So, you taking any extra days off around Thanksgiving? For some reason asking you that reminded me I was going to make some lefse.

DoorKey: Nothing extra. [Personal info deleted] What are you up to?

BeerPup: Today, cleaning.  My best buddy SaxyGal will come over to assist.  We will make the house look fantabulous and then we will have many beers. Tomorrow I will buy many groceries.  I will then slice many vegetables.  I will glare at my turkey that I put in the fridge from the freezer a week ago, which is still frozen solid.  Then I'll put the really cheap bottle of chianti into the fridge. Then I will consume many beers while making dressing, setting the table, and attaching post-it notes to each serving bowl as to what they will contain the next day. This is when the lefse might be created. Thursday at 5am I'll glare at the turkey some more, then stick it in cold water in the sink.  Then I'll cook the turkey, mash 5 pounds of potatoes, make giblet gravy, and drink most of the wine in the fridge. (The only ones in the family who drink are me and my brother-in-law.) I will ask my brother-in-law if he's got any pot.  Just to make him uncomfortable. I will explain to my son that it's not proper to eat thanksgiving dinner in your underwear. My in-laws will do the dishes while I stand in the garage and smoke. Then we'll watch the Cowboys loose to the Jets.  I will laugh and the rest of the family will glare at me as if I were a still-frozen turkey. Then the kids will open their birthday presents. Friday, I'lll sleep. Saturday I'll finally unload the dishwasher from Thursday.  Then the kids' friends will come over for a playdate. Sunday I will be at a loss because there won't be a NASCAR race to watch.  So I'll probably just take a nap. Guess that covers it,

DoorKey: So nothing really planned then.

BeerPup: No, nothing special.

Somethin' Goin' Wrong Around Here

Weirdness is happening around me. I don't think I, personally, am the curse factor, but y'all must admit that it's usually ME having the crisis.

Or perhaps it's just that I now have the perspective--and the antidepressants--so that I realize these things are NOT my crises.

What are these crises, you ask?

Well, first of all my cousin died. Don't worry, he wasn't one of the important ones. This sent my mom into crisis mode. She couldn't (or chose not to) make it to the funeral, and none of us actually knew when it was, anyway. So I was all prepared to be long-distance support for her, but meanwhile she had decided to ask my sister to go the funeral to "represent the family."

Oh, fuck THAT. You should never go to a funeral when you have to explain to the mourners who the hell you are, which my sister would have had to do. (The mother of the deceased suffers from Alzheimer's, we've barely met the guy's wife, and the last time I saw his kids, they both deserved spankings.)

Mom's idea was twice as fucked as usual because my sister is about to be homeless, by no fault of her own. The house she's renting, the owners are being foreclosed on and so she and DuffMan and Portia have to vacate a couple of days before Christmas.

And then on the other side, my Former Indentured Servant's car broke down. This is the car we gave him, that was stolen a couple of months ago. Why is this OUR problem? I wish YOU would fucking tell ME.

[These disparaging remarks were deleted because...well, just because.]

You see, we put all his options in front of him: where he could have the car towed, where he could get it fixed, what might or might not be the actual problem with the car, what costs were involved, and if all else failed, there was always the option of his calling a junk yard and having them tow it away and giving him $25.

He rejected all these options because the only acceptable options to him were: 1) that he still have a car to drive and 2) that it not cost him anything because he's broke.

I won't tell you how this panned out. It's still pissing me off. The voice inside my head is going to have a LOT to say on Thanksgiving, but perhaps if I give it a lot of beer it will shut up.

So now I'm going on a cleaning frenzy (today), followed by a grocery shopping and food prep frenzy (tomorrow), followed by a cooking frenzy (Thursday). I won't even feel like eating all the crap I cooked.

I might, if the Jesus of Cheese's family didn't eat so damn fast.

But that's another bitch session.

Copy mom soggy

This is a really boring post. I mean REALLY. Don't bother to read it. It's so mundane, I was bored while writing it.

Still here? Okay, don't blame me when you get bored.


So I went to make the copies for the Kindergarten, like I do every Thursday.

The teachers have enough CRAP to do without having to stand in front of a cranky machine for...well, it would take each of them about 45 minutes to do it themselves.

That's 45 minutes they could use to do all the No Child Left Behind paperwork. Which is also CRAP but it's also the law, dammit.

I got there, got the folder of stuff to do, and started...say it together now:

"Makin' copies!"

'Cept I couldn't.

I usually use this big copier in the copy room that also houses the teachers' mailboxes. When I got there, there was a stack of about 3 reams of paper, sans wrappers, sitting on top of the machine with a note that a service call was in.

So back to Ms. Twain I went. Ms. Twain is my son's teacher. She very nicely called Mrs. Cloud for me. Mrs. Cloud is the person who's in charge of putting in service calls, unjamming the machine, and she takes all the flack for the crappy copier that usually is messed up by user error.

Mrs. Cloud gave her permission for me to use it anyway. Mrs. Cloud knows I can undo jams that others can't.

I had no problems with my copies.

Then the 1st grade copy volunteer came in and...she had problems. I took note that she was making 2-sided copies.

However, someone passing through claimed that it had jammed on 1-sided copies also.

I called bullshit. In my mind anyway.

So the 1st grade volunteer went away (good for me, because damn it, she was horning in my specified time!)

I kept copying. I had no problems.

And then...THE COPY TECHNICIAN SHOWED UP!

(Until today I had doubted his existence.)

I offered to go away. He said no, but he would do some eval while I coped.

He did this thing where he took the front door off the copier, and then stuck a plastic doohickey in the latch so the machine would think it was closed.

Then he sat there and watched the copies go through.

I made copies. I stapled stuff. I staple a LOT of stuff.

We chatted. The copy guy goes on vacation this week; he had to dismantle an entire copier and put it together earlier this morning; he plays classical guitar at Half Price Books down south of here, twice a month; people should never put lots of paper in the copier when it's about to rain; people should always make sure the paper supply is really straight when they put it in the copier.

He couldn't find anything wrong with the copier itself, until he did a duplex (2-sided) copy.

There was a little tiny torn piece of paper stuck in the duplexing rollers. I laughed and told him it was like the original computer bug.

He seemed to think the idea of keeping the "bug" (actually a moth) was kinda gross.

Which it is, come to think of it.

Anyway, the copies seemed to go off without a hitch after that. Which I figured would be the case.

(Hell, I coulda called bullshit out loud earlier!)

(Oh, wait. It's an elementary school, so, um...no.)

The 2nd grade copy moms finished their copies. I hope they made it to their lunch date! And then I finished mine. In fact, I did too many, damn it. (This has to do with which teacher tells me which and how many copies to make, and when.)

Two hours, 45 minutes. Say it together, now:

"Makin' copies!"

Days like this, I remind myself I have a Master's degree.

But at least I'm a copy goddess!

InfoDiva Reflections: When I Was Employed

I once did some research for this guy, at this company I can't name. He used to work at, well, this place, at our nation's capital, and the place was white, and someone also lived there so you could call it a house. And his boss, you see, who said more than once that he didn't read magazines or newspapers (but for his job, he really SHOULD have), needed some information that this guy was to supply. And so the guy gave his boss information, but he gave him the Cliff's Notes version.

Which was a legally shady thing to do. So the guy quit, to cover his own and his boss's ass. Which is why he came to work at the (unnamed) company where I worked.

He came to me with an unpublished government document. NOT top secret, just not yet published (I don't even remember what it was about), and he needed a copy of all the other government documents plus a couple of magazine articles referenced in the unpublished one. See, this guy was now keeping his nose clean and disclosing every stinkin' tiny bit of information to his new boss so he, himself, could not be held as legally culpable.

Plus, I'm pretty sure his new boss DID read magazines and newspapers.

Anyway, he needed the documents by the next day. Fourteen documents.

So I found them. Half of them could be found on the InterWeb for free, if one only knew where to look. The other half were available through an online subscription database.

Government documents are unbelievably easy to find--legally!--if you know where to look.

I found all but one. That last one, she was a bitch. I told the guy I hadn't found it yet, and I had to leave for the day. He said he knew someone who would have it, and we should call his old workplace. I had to tell my co-worker to call the place.

She freaked out a little. I mean, this was a place that anyone can find out the phone number, but it's not a good idea to call it. And if you do, you don't expect to actually get past the switchboard. But she did it, she named our company, she dropped the guy's name, and asked for the friend he had named. She eventually actually got through to someone who worked with the friend of the guy, and asked for the document. This part took her maybe an hour.

Eventually, maybe ten days later, we got the document. Nine days late.

The other 13 documents took me one afternoon, and zero phone calls.

I'm pretty sure the guy could have gotten all 14 documents himself--some online, but most of them by calling people he knew and then calling people they knew, and it all would have taken 10 days to receive everything, plus the hours of phone calls.

We did it in 5 hours with minimal cost.

I kick ass. They don't call me InfoDiva for nothin'.

Aren't these pictures pretty?

As the NASCAR season winds down

Here's my race fan soul-searching top ten list.

1. I hate that cheater Chad Knaus.

2. I no longer hate Gordon and Johnson. Don't love 'em but...don't hate 'em.

3. ESPN race coverage sucks. They seem to be entirely missing obvious marketing issues, such as: a lot of people DO hate Gordon and Johnson and don't care to see them every moment of the race, nor hear about them for most of the pre-race coverage. We KNOW one of them will win the cup, we don't care which one will, and it's BORING!

4. I still can't wrap my head around Gibbs cars racing Toyotas.

5. I'm looking forward to Junior having a car that won't blow up on him.

6. I have a theory that Harvick wouldn't need anger management if he wasn't driving such an ugly car.

7. I'm really going to miss the Budweiser "Crazy Mutant Desert Guys" commercial. It's just not the same on YouTube.

8. Edwards is still a bully, Kurt's still a weenie, and Kyle's still a perve.

9. Next year I'm going to buy my Texas Motor Speedway in the cheap seats again. I missed yelling at other people's kids.

10. I hate that cheater Chad Knaus.

'Nuther Quiz

1. How tall are you?

5 feet, 2 inches--tallest woman in my family!


2. Have you ever played a musical instrument and what was it?

French horn. And occasionally trumpet.


3. Describe your favorite pair of shoes.

My black, soft, low-heeled boots that I bought at Hobbes in London in 1990.


4. What color is your car?

Mine's the white one but I usually drive the red one.


5. Name your favorite song.

"In your eyes" by Peter Gabriel


6. Paper or plastic?

Plastic because I can bring it back to the store for recycling.


7. Mac or PC and is it a laptop?

MacBook. Sometimes an iMac.


8. Do you speak any foreign languages and what are they?

Swedish, but I do it badly. I can ask for the bathroom, train station, bus stop, and order a beer. You know, the IMPORTANT things.


9. What's your favorite comfort food?

Chex party mix, or Triscuits with melted cheddar on 'em.


10. Tell us one thing that most people don't know about you.

I really am incredibly shy even though no one believes me! Oh, and I mispronounce words on purpose.

Beware of BeerHounds Bearing Gifts

A couple of lifetimes ago, just after the BeerHound had moved away to work at...that really big important hospital, I went to visit her and she handed me this stuffed...thing.

"Here's your Mister Right!" she said.

"Ummmm," I said, hesitating to even put my hand out to take it.

It was...how do I describe it. In craft stores, you can buy fabric that's pre-printed with a pattern on it. This one was a stuffed toy; you were supposed to cut it out, sew it, and stuff it, and presto, instant toy.

This one was a cowboy. He actually looked like a Cabbage Patch cowboy. Doughy face. Benign smile. About 2 feet high.

"Why," I asked, "Is he called Mister Right?"

"'Cause he's a snappy dresser and he doesn't talk back!"

Mkay. Good enough.

Bad, bad 80s!

There was bad 80s hair, and good 80s hair. This is my "good."

Keep in mind my hair is very straight, thin, and limp. I vaguely remember at least two hours with a teeny tiny curling iron prior to this photo shoot.

It's actually a group shot of the fam. We have all agreed that it's a good picture, but it doesn't look anything like us.

Except for me ;-)

Grandma Shorty

I don't remember seeing this picture before today. It's my grandmother, Josephene Margaret Johnson Brasgalla, holding me when I'm a little over a year old.

Nice to know my mom was as conscientious as me in regard to clothing her children.



The BeerHound (left) was obviously too sexy for this picture in 1982. Unfortunately, I wasn't sexy enough for anything. Damn braces. Damn terry-cloth hat and homemade tank top. Damn puberty.

No Reason.

Put Your Shoes On! We're Goin' to NASCAR!

Sunday is the big NASCAR race at Texas Motor Speedway. Yes, of course I'm going. I've just learned that our beloved Nick--of Nick's Ridiculous Whore Page--will also be attending. Probably.

He's never been. This will be my 4th or 5th one, so I've opted to write "Dickies Fan FAQ" just for Nick.

Leave your house no later than three hours before the race. As many as 6 or 7 hours is acceptable. There will be plenty to do.

When I go, I usually wake up at an ungodly hour. Then I call my sister and my brother individually, and yell, "Put your shoes on! We're goin' to NASCAR!"

(Family joke.)

Then I get in the car and drive to the Meeting Point. The night before, I have assembled:

A cooler I can bring into the speedway. The size limit is 14"x14"x14"

Beer I can bring into the speedway. NO GLASS. And being it's Sunday in Texas, they don't sell beer before noon. So buy it Saturday night.

A couple of other coolers.

A purse. If you can get away with a man-purse, do it. A backpack or something.

In my purse is:

Cash
Credit card
Photo ID
Tickets!
Sunscreen, 3 kinds. One for lips, one for face, one for the rest of me.
Moist towelettes.
A neatly folded hunk of toilet paper (in case I pick a stall that's out.)
Immodium (2 or 3 doses) 'cause when you need it, you need it NOW
Excedrin
The BeerHound advises a pen and paper, to write down the name and phone number of whatever NASCAR boyfriend she makes at the race.
Cell phone.
Keys, only the essential. House, car I'm driving, key fob.

I usually wear very comfortable shoes, and as little clothing as I can, taking the weather into consideration. Last spring, this was a tank top and shorts. A year ago, it was a t-shirt, jeans, long underwear, a sweatshirt, a winter coat, and winter gloves. And a hat. A wool one.

This weekend looks to be back in the tank top and shorts category.

But I always bring long pants and a jacket in the car.

And towels. Bring a couple of towels.. I won't go into details about this, but combine a muddy parking lot and a couple of assholes with a 4-wheel drive, and you get a desperate need for towels.

After meeting my buddies, we'll stop at a convenience store and put the beer and water on ice. You can never have too much ice. Remember, buy the beer ahead of time!

Buying the water ahead of time might also be financially sound advice.

So at the convenience store, buy ice and salty snacks. Twice as many salty snack as you think you want.

Then drive to the race. I've taken 114, 1171, and 35, and they're all about the same. There used to be huge back-ups, but they aren't so bad any more, since they put in the new Dale Earnhardt Way exit.

The raceway fan guide specifically suggests NOT taking 114, warning that you might miss the start of the race if you do so.

When you get there, follow the signs to park, and then hang out. Take stock. Enjoy the music your fellow parking lot neighbors are enjoying. Have a beer.

Make sure you've got what you need for the next couple of hours.

Put a bunch of bottled water on ice and leave it in your car. You'll need it after you get back there after the race. This is when you will need the salty snacks, also.

Then make your way to...The VENDORS!

There will be a truck or kiosk for every damn logo you see on every damn car that drives on the track. Each driver has several truck/stores.

There'll be, for example, one for the Navy, one for the Army, one for every guy in the Chase, one for every racing team, one for Budweiser....it's overwhelming. Ridiculous. Entertaining.

You know those damn "It's the Mirrors" commercials? HUGE kiosk/tour/display. Artwork, pictures. Sundry, scanners. Hot chicks trying to get you to apply for credit cards. Tons of swag. You'll walk it a couple of times.

And then there's the free samples. Toilet paper, the latest Frito-Lay product, Goody's Asprin Powders (new orange flavor!)

A couple of shopping tips: this race is at the end of the season and some vendors have pretty good deals on stuff to get rid of inventory. A few things are about to become obsolete, like the Dale Earnhardt Jr. Budweiser 8 stuff. Anything that says "Nextel Cup." Etc. Some might be "collector's items" and some is just junk. Your call.

Just be sure to stop by the Navy kiosk and get their swag. They always give away a cheap set of ear plugs (they'll be in the little blue coin-purse type thing in the swag bag.)

Neither the Navy nor the Army is trying to recruit you, so be friendly and thank the representative service people for their service to our country.

Also, many of the workers at the rest of the vendors are also service people on leave. So be friendly and nice.

Then there's the SPEED network stage. I've never stood around and watched them, but it's probably entertaining. I'v only fought my way past the crowd. I like them on TV and all, but I don't think I'd want to fight the crowd just to get a "live view" of them.

When the gates open, you'll want to go through the gates and pee. After that, go back to your car and re-stock your cooler.

They scan your ticket on the way in and on the way out.

The BeerHound and I once bought tickets to the Bush race just to get in the gates to pee. It was worth $40 apiece. We watched half the race, were seriously freezing, and left to go watch the end of it at the Pub Down Under. But we were able to sell the tickets to the guys who pulled into the parking space next to us as we were leaving.

Sorry for the digression.

There will be food vendors both inside and outside the gates. The beer vendors are only inside the gates.

After peeing, check out your seats. Then stroll down and check out the finish line.

Buying a program is usually a good idea. You get a free t-shirt if you buy one.

Get a handle on the schedule, so you know when to wander back to your seat.

Things to see before the race:

There's always a band. The band will only do their best songs--4 at most. It will be a hugely popular successful performer or group, but there's a chance they'll be country and you like rock...

There'll be driver introductions. Every driver gets introduced. They get driven around the track and wave at the crowd also.

There will be a prayer.

Then there's the national anthem, the fly-over, and then someone says, "Gentlemen, start your engines!" (Danica hasn't made it to Cup racing yet, so they don't have to use the neutral "drivers, start your engines," which JUST DOESN'T sound right.)

Then the rumble.

Most of the women in the audience will shudder, sigh, and smile to themselves.

And then there's the race.

After, you can still visit the vendors. Pee one more time!

Make your way back to your car. Wait forever. Go home.

It WILL take you a bare minimum of an hour to get to the road that goes to the road that goes to I35 or 114. You may wish to tailgate for a while after the race, because getting in your car and waiting will not get you out faster, and it will just waste gas.

Oh, make sure you have a full tank of gas.


;-)



So. Here's the stuff to bring list:
Tickets
Photo ID
Cash
Credit card
Sunscreen
Sunglasses
Hat
Coolers (including one 14"x14"x14" per attendee)
Beer
Ice
Water
Money
Snacks
Towels
Change of clothes
Immodium
Wet-naps
Tampons
Money
Toilet paper
Condoms
Saline solution
Excedrin
Camera
Binoculars
Money
Body glitter
Cell phone
Pen & paper
Tiara
Money

See you there!

Spooky UFO?

My hometown's goddamn UFO car is in the news again.

Read about it in the Fargo Forum.

Thanks to Lisa at ttravel.com for the heads up. Consult Lisa for all your travel needs! Please! We don't want her to go broke, because then she'd move in with us!

Knob!

I'd like to announce that my stovetop is clean.

It doesn't happen very often so an announcement is warranted.

The knobs are clean, too. However, they're damaged. I once (okay, more than once) set a hot cookie pan on top of them and they melted in an unattractive way. They work fine. They just look like we live in a rental.

Now, those of you who've been to my house know that the appearance of my stove knobs is the LEAST of the aesthetic deficiencies in my home.

Doesn't mean it doesn't bug me.

It does kind of bug me that a stove part is so easily...meltable. Maybe I was expecting vulcanized plastic or something.

Anyway, looking for replacements, I'm running into the usual problem. No problem finding a web site that sells appliance parts, but they always want the fucking MODEL NUMBER. My house is fucking 16 years old! How the fuck do I know what the model number is?

You'd think that searching "GE electric cooktop black replacement knob" would turn something up, but NOOOOO!

And I know how it would go if I went to a store looking for them, too.

BP: Hi. I need replacement knobs for my GE electric cooktop. They're black.

Minion: You need what?

BP: Knobs for my cooktop.

M: Oh. A cooktop, you say? Gas or electric?

BP: Electric. Like I said earlier.

M: Do you have the model number?

BP: No.

M: Because you can find the number under...

BP: Um, I didn't bring the cooktop along. But I'm here now, and I'd like some new knobs.

M: What brand is is?

BP: GE. Like I said earlier.

M: Well, here's some GE knobs.

BP: But those are for a gas stove. Plus, they're white.

(Several minutes later.)

M: So you need replacement knobs for your black GE electric cooktop.

BP: Exactly.

M: Why didn't you just say so?

At which point I would stab him in the temple with a temperature probe from a nearby Amana Radar Range. It doesn't damage him because he's really an android and he's been hiding the stove knobs in his pseudo-cranial storage cavity the whole time.

Happy Halloween!

Brian Vickers, Riki Rachtman, Tony Stewart.

Wal-Mart AND Arkansas...

I got this from one of the admins at Club Smoke (a Tony Stewart fan board).

"From Little Rock...

We had a 'going away' party yesterday for a lady at our Little Rock claims office. One of the supervisors called a Wal-Mart and ordered the cake.

He told them to write:

'Best Wishes Suzanne' and underneath that write 'We will miss you'.

As the picture shows, it didn't quite turn out right. It was too funny not to keep it."



Thanks, Gretajean!

Party addendum: the aftermath

When we were speculating at the party how to get the wax stuff out of Dave's hair, someone said Noxema. That's when I realized I not only didn't have Noxema, I didn't have cold cream or even baby oil.

"CVS!" suggested Sharon Tate. "Open all night!"

So we stopped at the CVS at the corner of Coit & McDermott. Dave didn't want to go inside, dressed in costume, so I went.

There I am, the Bride, Madeline Kahn...shopping. I eventually found what I needed and went to the checkout. I had to wait a while for a checker to show up. Meanwhile there was a couple nearby sort of arguing.

The checker checked me out, then turned to the arguing couple as I left.

NO REACTION! From any of them. As if women with vertical black and white hair, dressed in a neglige and fur mules walk in and shop all the time.

I was dissappointed.

But if that's sort of normal around there, maybe I should break out the costmes more often.

Buffy didn't invent vampires. Well, maybe one.

We went to a Halloween party on Saturday as Madeline Kahn and Peter Boyle in Young Frankenstein. The party theme was "Dead Man's Party" and you were supposed to come as someone deceased.

So there we were, my honey with his head extra-bald and green, wearing a leopard-print pajama top, with reading glasses and a Wall Street Journal, and me with the classic Bride of Frankenstein hair, in a lovely white penoir set and fur mules.

We've been going to this party every year since 1995. Some of the guests, we only see on Halloween and New Year's and sometimes a couple of other key party dates, but it's always a crowd of old friends and usually a few new ones.

Such as it was on Saturday, with one exception.

In party circulation, there was a particularly drunk woman. I was chatting with my friend Nancy, and this Hellvira woman was showing signs of already being a little sloppy.

'K. Now I have NO problem with drunkenness, as y'all well know. Just making that clear.

She was supposed to be a vampire. I could kind of tell from her white shirt, red scarf, and...well, because someone pointed out that she was supposed to be a vampire. The woman loudly announced that she had already lost her teeth.

Granted, I had loudly announced just a bit earlier that this was the first Halloween party, to which I had ever worn a bra. Hey, in context, it was funny.

A bit later, someone asked Nancy if her husband Sid was wearing her jeans. He was.

"None of his own jeans were tight enough to look like a punk rocker! There's some lycra in there! So they're punk-tight."

"Tight enough to see his religion," I said. The other ladies twittered, and some laughed, particularly the Swedish Gwenivere. "Not that I looked. Well, maybe."

Hellvra made incoherent noises of confusion, disapproval, and outrage. Um, what? Okay, whatever. Maybe she was too young for the 80s when you really COULD see a guy's...religion clearly. Maybe she's never seen an uncircumcised penis. She definitely didn't quite know what I meant.

Later I was back in the room where Hellvira had Swedish Gwen trapped (hey, it's where the punch was!). Hellvira suddenly turned to me and said, "Who are you supposed to BE, anyway???"

"Have you ever seen the movie Young Frankenstein?" (Or any Frankenstein movie, for that matter, or seen a tv show about movie monsters, or classic horror flicks, or...well, you know.)

"NO." Pronounced with two sylables. As if it was a ridiculous question.

"Well then it would be IMPOSSIBLE to explain it to you then."

I left the room and decided to switch back to beer.

A bit later I questioned Nancy. "Is that woman..."

"Neighbor," she said, indicating the direction she lived.

"That neighbor. When she's sober, would she possibly get a basic pop culture reference....?"

Nancy was already shaking her head. "No. No brain. No life. Classic example of...vapid."

"Okay. I was willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. Drunk, fine. Great, acutally. Ignorant, fine. But drunk, ignorant, AND bitchy? No. Just, no."

Nancy laughed.

Farmer Foundation Fun

Yes, it is.

Almost funny

Not one, but two of my cousins sent me this cartoon. Oh, those crazy North Dakotans!



Back in the day, I used to encourage my shelvers to shelve books by size, and then color.

And they were allowed to throw out the Grisham books.

Why would anyone want to steal a 1996 Ford Contour?

My brother-in-law, my former Indentured Servant, lives in a not great/not bad neighborhood. To say he lacks direction and ambition is putting it mildly.

But he has a job. He pays his bills...we assume. His apartment smells like a dirty ashtray left in the restroom I was once in at a gas station in Hollywood, but he vacuums before we come over. He hides anything illegal. He has an unhealthy addiction to World of Warcraft, and his best friend is a guy he's never met in person who lives in England.

He doesn't have anything of value outside of his computer...and the car we gave him a year ago.

We were getting a new car. He needed a car. Our old car was worth $500 on a good day. Being we don't give him money--ever--giving him the car fit within our parameters of "helping him out."

But apparently, last week his car was stolen. By the girlfriend of a friend who crashed at his place for a couple of nights. She had access to his spare keys.

He didn't know who she was, really, but she had apparently used his computer and left all kinds of information about herself in his web browser history. The car was recovered, and of course, impounded.

The Jesus of Cheese drove him over to get it un-impounded. I don't know if it was any the worse for wear, but with that car it would be hard to tell.

Now let me say again: Why the fuck would anyone want to steal a 1996 Ford Contour?

I don't think I want to know the real answer.

Up and Die of Not Surprised

Y'all know I would have loved to see Tony Stewart win today but...

Wasn't that a smooth move by Jeff Gordon? Damn, that guy can drive.

(If Jeff weren't so boring, I'd probably be a fan.)

Good on ya, Jeff.

I Love my Friends

...because they send me e-mails like this:

"I had a nasty fall involving a doll stroller and a hamster cage. I broke my wrist and.."

Kansas, part II

Here's my rant.

1) There were two red-flag rain delays (where they stop the cars and park them on pit road until it blows over...or doesn't) The second delay, the rain was severe and there was lightning. It also washed all the rubber off the track.

2) It was at least a 3-hour delay.

3) They decided to resume the race even though a) none of the drivers had their cars set up to safely race on a track with no old rubber on it; b) the track was still wet; c) there was ZERO chance of finishing the race in daylight, and the Kansas track has NO lights.

4) They finished under caution in the dark, and then awarded the race to a driver who ran out of gas and couldn't maintain caution speed. NASCAR claims that he WAS driving an acceptable speed, but any of the thousands who watched the race could tell you that it wasn't true.

Now I'll speak as a Tony Stewart fan. He was fuckin' ROBBED! He would have been the winner, had they called the race after the huge thunderstorm, which for safety's sake, they should have. He had a great car. He was driving clean, and he hadn's pissed off anyone (well, except for ESPN the day before, but whatever). Then he got caught in a couple of accidents that weren't his fault, but as they say, That's Racin'. However, after one of those he got a cut tire and was waving his arm out the window to let the drivers behind him know he had to get off the track immediately, and Kurt Bush plowed into the back of him.

I think Kurt did it on purpose. Because he's a weenie.

Kansas

The most ridiculous NASCAR race I've ever seen.

ABORTION!!!!

Got your attention? Sorry, this isn't THAT controversial.

The Jesus of Cheese sent me this from Digg:

"This story deals with a woman whose health insurance provider denied her emergency room medical claim after she suffered a late night miscarriage. The basis of the denial, they say she had an elective abortion[Emphasis added]. Its this kind of stuff that makes Americans hate the health insurance industry. Digg this and let em' feel the burn."

The same thing happened to me in 1998. Not everyone knows this, but I don't hide it either. I miscarried a baby at 4 months, in December of that year...just in time for the holidays. Merry Fucking Christmas, BeerPup!
My circumstances were not the same as the woman the Digg is about. I had what's known as a "silent abortion." That is a medical term, which means a spontaneous miscarriage which gives no clear indications that the baby has died. No bleeding, cramping, etc. Nada. I was really tired, but most pregnant women are.

I went for my normal appointment, and what was supposed to be our first ultrasound. The JoC and I showed up with blank VHS in hand, excited to "see" the baby for the first time. And we did. The second I looked on the screen, I knew something was wrong. Then I looked at the ultrasound tech who was trying to keep her cool, and I knew it was over. No heartbeat, no movement, and I think I was just a couple of days away from a big, emotional, trip to the ER kind of miscarriage.

They scheduled a D&C for me for the next morning, which I had done. Then I got salmonella and a migrane the following week. I won't go into the emotions about it all right now. It was a REALLY bad week.

Aaaand then the insurance company rejected the D&C claim.

I called and asked why. "Oh, you didn't get the D&C pre-approved."

"Oh," I said. "Well, you see, I had a miscarriage. So you're telling me that my now-dead unborn baby was supposed to tell me that it was going to die? So the doctor could call YOU and see if that's okay? And if you had denied it, it wouldn't have happened? Yes, you're right. Guess I SHOULD have called."

"Oh, I see. I'm sorry..."

"I know why it looks weird on your claims. I did go to the doctor the day before, but only because I didn't know I'd miscarried. And I didn't have the D&C until 12 hours later because I wasn't in immediate danger of bleeding to death. But in a day or two, I would have been."

"Okay, well, then, we'll just re-process this then."

"Good. And if I it gets denied again, or if I have to call you about anything, you can BET I'll be suing you people for mental cruelty."

They paid.

What my chest is telling you

Right now my chest would tell you that I like really good beer.

And most often, if there aren't words across my chest, it would most often say in varying degrees, "What a huge rack!"

Sometimes it also screams, "I dare you to look!"

A few years ago, I gained a lot of weight. Something like 40 pounds in 3 months. There were several reasons, a couple of them medical, but mostly it was due to beer, cheese burgers, fries, and enchiladas. Not knowing how to dress my new body, I tended to just wear huge t-shirts.

All fine and well, until a couple years later (when I had lost some but not all of the weight). I looked, really looked, at a picture of myself and realized huge t-shirts were doing nothing for me or my spectacular tits. The shirts hung in such a way that masked the fact that I actually did have a waistline.

Solution: tighter t-shirts. Shirts with tailoring. Shrits that flare at the waist. Shirts that show the cleavage. Because I had forgotten my number one rule in dressing: It's All About The Cleavage. Or at least the Huge Rack.

Which leads me to tell you about the trip back from North Dakota on Sunday. I was dropped off a little early by The Boy and His Boys. I guess there's a hunting season just for youth in North Dakota, and so my nephews were anxious to ditch their embarrassing weird aunt and head to the backwoods.

This turned out to be good for me, because instead of playing CNN in the airport, they had the NASCAR race on. I couldn't have timed it better; the race ended just as they started pre-boarding. I had a nice conversation with a couple who were also watching the race.

Then in Minneapolis (because Grand Forks is the ultimate "You can't get there from here" town), since my flight wasn't late, I had a 2-hour layover. So I ate, I shopped, I eavesdropped on a cell phone conversation....which leads me to another aside:

Confidential to that woman talking on the phone by the Burger King in the MSP airport last Sunday: Maybe if you were home paying attention to your kids, they wouldn't run interference for each other when you call them, and they wouldn't be flunking classes and grade levels, and they would actually listen to you. You know, instead of pleading with the answering machine for someone to pick up the phone, and then telling them ten times in a row to listen to you. I know you're probably a single mom, and your job, which you worked hard to get so it finally earns them a decent lifestyle, requires you to travel....but, DAMN. If getting a non-traveling job will get you kids who will pay attention when you communicate with them, and will keep them from flunking 6th grade, DO IT, WOMAN! Screw the nice clothes. A good kid in a pair of Levi's is much preferable to a dropout in a pair of Lucky Brand.

Okay, I'm back to my own story now.

The Minneapolis to Dallas flight was overbooked by five people. They were offering a flight out in the morning, overnight accommodations, food, and a foot rub from the Northwest gate attendant of their choice. Oh, and also a free air ticket anywhere in the US or a $300 voucher for...something or other.

The second time the attendant made the announcement, a guy walking up said, "I'll do it! I'll take that deal!"

It was our pilot. Funny guy.

We left early. I've never seen that happen before. Flight was uneventful. I didn't talk to my seatmates. There was a family in front of us and the baby cried. I didn't mind so much, having been there myself, but I did wish for a pair of those noise-canceling earphones they sell in the catalog conveniently located in the seat-back in front of me.

I was in the back of the plane, of course, and one of the last to get off. The pilot was bidding everyone farewell in the standard airline way, until he saw me. Then, he pointed at me and said, "You're one of them 'redneck women.'"

Well that's what I get for putting the word "NASCAR" across my huge rack. I've gotta watch what my chest tells people; it might be right.

But everything about the pilot said, "Three days from retirement."

Why People Shouldn't Name Themselves

Stole this from Nick. Thanks, Nick. Loved you in The Road To Perdition!

1. YOUR ROCK STAR NAME: (first pet & current car)
Freja Cruiser

2.YOUR GANGSTA NAME: (fave ice cream flavor, favorite cookie)
Vanilla Thumbprint

3. YOUR “FLY Guy/Girl” NAME: (first initial of first name, first three letters of your last name)
JFin

4. YOUR DETECTIVE NAME: (favorite color, favorite animal)
Bronze Dolphin

5. YOUR SOAP OPERA NAME: (middle name, city where you were born)
Marie Warren

6. YOUR STAR WARS NAME: (the first 3 letters of your last name, first 2 letters of your first)
Finja

7. SUPERHERO NAME: (”The” + 2nd favorite color, favorite drink)
The Aqua Beer

8. NASCAR NAME: (the first names of your grandfathers)
Paul Albert "Shorty" Louis (That's including a step-grandpa and a legal alias)

9. STRIPPER NAME: ( the name of your favorite perfume/cologne/scent, favorite candy)
Oscar de la Renta Rum Truffle

10.WITNESS PROTECTION NAME: (mother’s & father’s middle names )
Janice Paul. Yes, I was named after my mother.

11. TV WEATHER ANCHOR NAME: (Your 5th grade teacher’s last name, a major city that starts with the same letter)
Sorenson Southampton

12. SPY NAME/BOND GIRL: (your favorite season/holiday, flower)
Samhain Forget-Me-Not

13. CARTOON NAME: (favorite fruit, article of clothing you’re wearing right now + "ie" or "y")
Strawberry Brassierey

14. HIPPY NAME: (What you ate for breakfast, your favorite tree)
Nada Magnolia

15. YOUR ROCKSTAR TOUR NAME: (”The” + Your fave hobby/craft, fave weather element + “Tour”)
The HomeBrew Thunderstorm

And Nick thought of another one,....
16. YOUR AMERICAN INDIAN NAME: (Your fave activity + "with" + a current physical ailment)
Drinks with a Headache

Things I learned from my brother:

1) In order to preserve one's own sanity, ignore Mother.

2) Never barter. Your work is worth what it's worth and it's not up for negotiation.

3) Being at ease in a variety of social situations is the mark of true class.

4) Mosquito lawn ornaments are funny.

5) When driving to the airport while transporting guns, never park; just drop off your passenger. Be sure to wave at the security guard.

Who Says You Can't Go Home?

Friday, I'm heading back to the Northland--this time for a wedding.

My brother's best friend from high school, Eddie, is getting married. I refer to Eddie as "my other brother." He was the guy who went on vacations with us, was at our house most weekends, and when he went through Basic Training, he would call our house before he called his own. After his parents died when he was legally an adult but still pretty young, my parents "adopted" him.

So I'm in that "home" frame of mind.

Which is why it was interesting that my friend NoPayneNoGain sent me this article from the new york times. It's about our high schools #1 and #2 rivals, who are [now] one school.

The article's about football. They were 9-man and we were 11-man, so we have always cheered on their football successes. Because while WE are allowed to insult them, no one else is.

Here's the article:

High School Football Teams Reflect Changes in Rural Life


By JOE SPRING
Published: September 12, 2007

ARGYLE, Minn. — The northwestern Minnesota towns of Stephen and Argyle, populations 708 and 656 respectively, are separated by nine flat miles of soybean and wheat. The highest point between them is the mounded dirt that elevates the railroad tracks connecting their grain elevators. Since consolidating their schools in 1996, they have dominated nine-man football, never missing a state semifinal.

With a state-record winning streak and four consecutive nine-man state championships, the Stephen/Argyle Central Storm has the characteristics of a high school football powerhouse. Carrying the weight of two small, declining farming towns on its shoulders, the team also manifests much larger challenges confronting towns like these throughout the Midwest.

The impact of changing demographics and farming technology in this region is apparent in the student body and, on Friday nights, on the football field.

Consolidation has brought Stephen and Argyle football glory, but the towns are shrinking and growing older. The average age in Marshall County, home to Stephen and Argyle, is 40, 10 years older than the state average. Almost a fifth of the population exceeds the age of 65, a 50 percent jump above the state average.

“It’s young people moving off the prairie and into the city,” said Tom Gillaspy, the state’s demographer.

The change is seen most starkly in the school populations. The Stephen/Argyle student body for 7th through 12th grade was 50 percent larger a decade ago, falling to about 180 from 270. It is no different in other rural towns in Minnesota.

“Boy, there’s just so many school districts with multiple names,” Gillaspy said. “You get to the point where you start adding three names, or four names, and then they become initials, or a region, like Norman County West, and eventually it will just be Norman County.”

One of Stephen/Argyle’s biggest rivals is Kittson County Central, composed of Lancaster and Kittson Central, which is a combination of the towns of Hallock, Kennedy, Humboldt and St. Vincent.

In 1893, the historian Frederick Jackson Turner said the American frontier was closed. But, as the Great Plains Restoration Council pointed out, west of the Mississippi River, the number of counties with six people or fewer per square mile has increased, from 388 in 1980, to 397 in 1990, to 402 in 2000.

“Many places are turning back to frontier,” Gillaspy said.

Just after dawn in Argyle one day in August, with the lights still on and the northern Minnesota fog hanging over the practice field and the wheat stubble that spreads beyond it for miles, offensive lineman Kolby Gruhot crouched his 6-foot-1, 230-pound frame into a three-point stance. The fingertips of his calloused right hand dug into wet grass. His right calf extended to a prepped foot ready to push off, and where his left calf would be, a metal rod picked up dew before disappearing into Gruhot’s black cleat. Having lost part of his left leg in a lawn mower accident when he was 3, Gruhot wears a prosthesis below his knee.

After the cadence, he sprung up, blocked a defensive end and barreled ahead. The rod revealed itself only after his sprint, on his way back to the huddle, in a slightly leaned gait that looked something like a strut.

When Gruhot opens holes on the line for the senior running back Kyle Gratzek, he leaves him with something like frontier to run through: up to 99 yards of short grass and only five men to the goal.

Nine-man football is the province of small towns in Minnesota, North Dakota and South Dakota. “It’s simple,” said Nic Thompson, the Storm’s defensive back coach. “Nine-man just doesn’t have tackles.”

In Minnesota, it began in the mid-1960s after teams evolved from six- and eight-man football. Now, with 81 teams, it represents the state’s largest class. To qualify, high schools need to have fewer than 165 students. Stephen/Argyle Central has 111, 68 of whom are boys.

“Good for football,” Coach Mark Kroulik said. “Tough for finding a prom date.”

Three quarters of those boys play football. “That is why they’re winning: They’re not missing an athlete,” the former coach Warren Keller said. “And even if you don’t play, you’re still a part of the team.”

Gruhot embodies the power football that defines the school’s success on the field and the hard work that defines its agricultural traditions off it. The Storm pounds the ball. In last year’s state championship victory over Wheaton, the team threw one pass and ran the ball 61 times for 380 yards.

And so during a recent morning practice, with temperatures in the mid-60s, the players finished sprints and sit-ups and started blocking drills.

“We’d start an after-school practice with 30 and end up with 13,” said Al Larson, who coached Argyle from 1965 to 1977, when many of the students had farming chores in the afternoons and evenings. “Their dads would drive up in a pickup and wave, and they’d be gone.

“I sat the kids down and said, ‘Figure out when we can practice,’ ” he said. “They said, ‘In the morning.’ ”

When school is in session, the players hit the field before 6 a.m., even though only a third of them still work on farms. The coaches like the morning practices, they say, because the players are not thinking about girls yet. The parents like them because their kids go to bed early.

“A couple of guys have hit deer,” Kroulik said. “But other than that they work out really well.”

On Aug. 21, Gruhot left the practice field at 11:30 a.m., then showered, grabbed a sandwich and drove a combine until 10 p.m. “I’m helping out my neighbor,” he said.

On the few thousand acres where his family farms wheat, sugar beets, soybeans and corn, he drives a combine, a tractor, a plow and a mower.

“You get pretty tired after practice,” Gruhot said. “And we don’t have autosteer in our combines, but one of our tractors has a G.P.S. with autosteer. That’s pretty nice after practice because you can just sit there, hit a button and listen to the radio.”

Technology has changed the family farm. Fertilizers provide nutrients to allow plants to grow bigger and more quickly. Genetically altered crops allow spraying that kills everything but the plants.

The families that run farms have become smaller because less manual labor is needed to bring in the crops. There are fewer families around since the farms have increased in size and decreased in number. In the last 30-plus years, the number of farms in Minnesota has decreased to 80,000 from almost 100,000.

“When this county was opened up in the late 1800s and early 1900s, they homesteaded 160 acres,” said Howard Person, the county extension educator. “Now if you are just going to raise crops, you better own at least 2,000 acres.”

Though consolidation is most visible in the schools, it has affected every aspect of rural life. “It’s the same thing that’s happening with everybody that supplies to farms, from machinery dealers to fertilizer dealers,” Person said. “They become regionally owned.”

The stresses of decline are alleviated by football championships. [Stephen/Argyle is 2-0 this season, extending its winning streak to 56 games on Sept. 7 with a 41-14 victory over Red Lake County Central.]

“Parents call and want to know when the state playoffs are, because they are planning their fall,” Kroulik said. “And I say, well, we got to win first.”

At the end of practice, Kroulik called the team together. He closed with a statement that suggested that the tradition of winning here has less to do with the fame of Friday night lights than the hard work of weekday morning lights.

“Good job today, but we still have a lot of stuff we need to clean up and do,” Kroulik said. “We’ll see you bright and early tomorrow morning.”

The Thing About A Uniform

Over the last couple of years I've done a lot of bitching about the carpool line. Maybe I haven't done it much out here on the interweb, but from the first day ever of my daily date with my car, that line has been a pain in the ass.

It could be worse, true. I've heard horror stories from my friends at the Hot Flashes board and I'm pretty happy that our school makes an effort.

But while they usually succeed spectacularly, they fail in the same way.

Today was free cookie day. The PTA's new fundraiser is cookie sales, and they were handing out free samples.

So I pull up (letting someone who came from the "wrong direction" go in front of me) and get the kids ready for their jump-out. Sometimes it's like I'm a pilot and they're paratroopers.

Anyway, I was happy to see there were FOUR people helping this morning: Two 5th graders and two moms, all in the requisite orange vests of the "Dads on Duty" brigade. Their job is to open the car door, help the smallest kids get out, and then make sure the door is shut. It's handy. It usually works well.

So this morning I pulled up, and I was third in line. See above, where I mentioned there were four people on duty?

The fifth graders took the first two cars, the mom at the end took the car behind me and the mom in the middle...did nothing. She was standing there holding a sign that advertised the cookies, wearing her orange vest, STARING AT THE BACK OF THE TAGBOARD SIGN.

Now if she hadn't had the vest on, I wouldn't be wondering, what the fuck?

But really, was she there to push cookies? There were at least two other people with identical signs on my right, and three moms handing out cookies on my left, so it's not like they needed an extra volunteer.

And she was wearing the vest. Which at the time and place she was, would indicate that she was supposed to do a certain thing, that being: helping my kids get out of the car so as to speed things up for the people behind me, while being overly cheery in that PTA kind of way.

Instead of holding a redundant sign and spacing out.

The fifth graders saw me trying to get her attention and once they were done with the cars ahead of me, they helped my kids get out--while giving PTA Space Case as much of a glare as they dared.

*sigh*

Oh well. Maybe she was just having a petit mal seizure or something. In which case, more power to ya, PTA mom.

On other topics, here's the new haircut. It's actually a mirror image. I forgot to flip it before I uploaded it.

Yeah, I know it looks pretty much the same.

Being Girly

I'm mourning the loss of my hair. It used to be long. Here's an example:


It actually was down to my waist at one point. I accidentally tucked it into my pants.

Deal was, though, it was pretty thin. I've always had thin, fine hair. However, at the time the photo was taken, it was as thick as it's ever been.

When it got really scraglly looking, I went to Vic at Tony Cao. He cut off about 8 inches and said that no one would notice.

Unfortunately, he was right.

Later, I cut off another 8 inches, and that time people actually noticed. And said it looked better.

Fuck.

So this last time, today...well, I got an actual " hairdo." To do it right, a blow-dryer and gel and hairspray must be used.

I'm hesitant. I mean, I OWN such things, but it's not like I used them on a regular basis. Once a month...maybe.

AND. This is the scary part.

I had my brows done. And believe me, it's been a long time coming. I'm sure the Curtsinger PTA will sigh in relief. Here's a snippet of my convo with the brow technician:

BeerPup: I've never had my brows done before.

BrowTech: Really? Do you ever just pluck them yourself?

BP: Well, if one seems to be halfway to my hairline, or infringing on my lid, yeah, but otherwise, the last time I "did" my brows was when I was 15.

BT: Um...Really?

BP: But I figured, I'm starting to look like Keith Olbermann, so I should really consult a professional.

BT: I'm sure it's not THAT bad....

(She takes a closer look...)

BT: Oh...OH MY!

So, yeah. Olbermann brows. Really.

Don't worry, no need to fear. They're gone. I'm told the pain will subside in a couple of days.

Pray for me.

Banned From Blowjobs

I'm about to tell a tale of woe. Some of y'all who know me may have heard it before. If so, you have my permission to tune out right now.

It's the TMJ story.

TMJ stands for temporomandibular joint. It refers to the jaw joint. Since it's the most complicated joint in the body, attached to the second-strongest muscle in the body (I don't know what the top one is...maybe the anal sphincter? I know a lot of people who must have really strong ones, in order to contain those large crustaceans they have shoved up there.)

Anyway, being complicated and necessary for Things That Are Important To Humans, like "eating," it's also easy for things to go wrong with the TMJ. This used to be called TMJ Syndrome, but now it's an actual Disease.

If you really want to know about it, read about it in Wikipedia.

What's this got to do with me? Here's the short version:

I was diagnosed as a teenager with TMJD. Part of my treatment was surgery to remove the little disc that is inside the TMJ, and replace it with an artificial disc that was made of proplast and coated with Teflon©.

Yep, Teflon©

You know what happens to your Teflon©-coated cookware when you scrape it with a metal spatula? How it flakes off? That happened inside my jaw joint.

This was a Bad Thing. So in 1991, the disc was recalled by the FDA and the company that manufactured it--Vitek--went bankrupt.

At the time I was uninsured, and the asshole doctor* who did the original surgery, told me I was "fine." Oh, and he also told me I wasn't hearing those grinding noises in my jaw. If he'd stayed in the examination room longer, I'm sure he also would have told I wasn't having headaches, ringing ears, dizziness, sore teeth, and a lot of pain--but that last part's speculation.

*Fuck you, Dr. Gary Lindemoen.

So when I had another surgeon take the disc out, they also found...let me quote this from the pathology report directly:

"4 irregular pieces of red-grey rubbery tissue measuring 2.7 x 2.5 x 1.0 cm in aggregate with the largest piece measuring 2.6 x 1.2 x 1.0 cm."

In other words, a big gob of tumor, along with the totally ruptured and ripped artificial disc. Under a microscope, they found:

"intense foreign body granuloma reaction [containing] refractile foreign material. Scattered chronic inflammatory cells" were also present.

In other words, little tiny bits of teflon that my body was building a tumor around so they wouldn't do more damage.

The first time I read that, I puked. They took that crap out of my jaw. Ew.

Anyhow, I got physical therapy, got my teeth equillibrated (several times), got a night guard, learned biofeedback, and got better.

Go, me!

The only thing I had really noticed the last ten years in regard to my jaw "handicap" was that I can't open my mouth very far. Hence, the title of this piece.

However, recently and suddenly...like, about 6 weeks ago my headaches came back and I can hear noise in that joint again. Even though there's not anything left in there to make noise.

So I've been to the doctor, I had another MRI, and now I'm waiting for results. Meanwhile they put me on a prednisone derivative and I'm bouncing off the walls. Argh.

I'm guessing I'll be going back to the oral surgeon, who will once again give me pain management advice.

There aren't many alternatives here.

Maybe now's a good time to get addicted to Vicodin.

BeerPup's reading recommendations

In response to Nick's latest post, here be a list of my favorite books.

Snow Crash by Neal Stephenson: I can't decide if this book is a computer programmer's encryption manual with a story woven in, or a story with programming elements, but I like it. It's slightly absurd, mostly realistic, and only slows down when it's all about the programming. Also recommended by this author: Zodiac and The Diamond Age. I haven't read his others because...well, I get really sick of him going into detail about the programming.

The essential story: the protagonist, named Hiro Protagonist (yes, really) must save the world's human population from having their brains de-programmed (snow crash) with the help of a teenage skateboard courier, his ex-girlfriend, and the Pizza Mafia.

Good Omens: The Nice And Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter, Witch by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett: The funniest book about Armageddon you will ever read.

The Deal by Peter Lefcourt: Hollywood insanity. This was written before the movie The Player and has a different plot, but similar, um, essence. Oh, and its a lot funnier.

American Gods by Neil Gaiman: The ultimate introspection book. A man named Shadow gets out of prison and is given a job by an American god (Mr. Wednesday), who intends to rally the old gods--Anansi, Kali, etc.--in a war against the new gods of Media, Town, and other such ilk. It slows down in the middle, so I'll warn you: it's intentional. Read through it anyway. It starts as a book you sort of like, then you'll get bored, then you'll love it.

Outlander by Diana Gabaldon: It's a time travel-historical fiction-fantasy-romance book. It's what Librarian Jane wishes to catalog as EVERYTHING-FICTION. Okay, it leaves out Western, but it has horses. And cows.

A former World War II nurse gets thrown back in time to 18th century Scotland. There's blood, guts, gore, intrigue, kilts, witchcraft, sex, primitive medicine, imprisonment, rape, and cows. Oh, and it's funny. And once you finish this 850 page book, there are five more books (so far) that continue the story.

The World According to Garp by John Irving: I don't remember why I love this book, but it was the first book I ever stayed up all night reading.

Preparations

I'll get up before the ass crack of dawn. I'll drive in the more mundane of my two vehicles, and park in short-term at the airport.

I'll go through security. Only in my dreams will there be a body cavity search.

I'll shop for the birthday present I should have found today. Then I'll get on the plane.

They'll serve me a flat muffin and weak coffee. Which will be better than the bag of peanuts and even weaker coffee they would have served me, had I been flying on American.

I'll knit stuff. My seatmates will watch me and pretend not to. If I finish what I'm knitting, I'll give it to one of them. My iPhone will supply the soundtrack.

Rental car secured, I'll go see Breastless Beth, and maybe a couple of other friends.

Then on to Duluth, where SkyDog has promised me my Kick Ass Cup of Coffee.

And then the birthday party...and stuff. There will be joy and sorrow, and it will be surreal. Because the guest of honor is always surreal. I think he bends electromagnetic waves in his vicinity. He's just like that.

Dunno what I'm doing on Sunday besides getting on a plane in the evening. That's the fun part!

It might involve Perkins and the Buttermilk Five(TM), though. I'll let you know. Stay tuned.

If Ever I Decide I Should Go Have a Kick-ass Cup of Coffee in Duluth and it Won't Be a Dream

'K. I'm gonna do it. Go to Duluth. This weekend. For NO REASON WHATSOEVER.

Well, that's definitely not true. I have reasons. None justifiable in and of themselves, but add them all together, multiply that by my various neruosis, and take the square root of that, and it will absolutely equal the monetary outflow divided by the pi of my family's forbearance in the matter.

Which means, fuckitall, I'm just going.

Thanks to my wonderful cousin Lisa at Carlson Wagonlit Travel Travel (no that's NOT a typo) in Fargo, my ever lovin' Jesus of Cheese, my welcoming Bosom Buddy Beth, and my gracious hosts SkyDog and Barbie, PerryDog and Sam.

Except, Barbie and PerryDog don't know yet they'll be hosting me. SHHHHHHH! IT'S A SECRET!

What's So Funny 'Bout Peace, Love, and Understanding

My friend Mary died last Friday. Her husband Mark, who was one of my college roommates, was seriously injured.



Here's the news report.

Two Harbors veterinarian and author dies
Patrick Garmoe
Duluth News Tribune
Published Monday, August 13, 2007

A Two Harbors author, artist and small-animal veterinarian died in a Pine County car crash Friday night. Her husband, the town’s fire chief, was seriously injured.

Mary K. Schlangen, 35, of Two Harbors, who worked at Grand Avenue Veterinary Clinic in West Duluth, died in the accident. Her husband, Mark P. Schlangen, 35, a science teacher at Two Harbors High School, was seriously injured. Their two children, Kaija M. Schlangen, 7, and Eli J. Schlangen, 4, were taken to Kanabec Hospital in Mora with minor injuries.

The family moved to Two Harbors five years ago from Alexandria, Minn.

“To me, it was amazing how a young couple could become so immersed in a community in five years,” Two Harbors High School Principal Robert Nyberg said.

Mark Schlangen teaches ninth-grade physical science and human and animals systems.

Mary Schlangen was a writer and artist who, in 2005, won a Northeastern Minnesota Book award for writing and illustrating “Zoe’s Good-bye,” a book to help children cope with the loss of a pet.

She told the Duluth News Tribune in 2005 that she wrote the book in hopes of helping people cope with the loss of a pet that needs to be euthanized because she saw it so often as a veterinarian.

“It’s one of those things, you think you’d get used to, but you don’t,” she said at the time. “Sometimes I cry with the owners.”

In addition to writing the story, she also painted the book’s 32 illustrations. The book’s Northland setting came from Schlangen’s love of the region and what she saw while volunteering as veterinarian at the John Beargrease Sled Dog Marathon.

At school, her husband Mark knew how to keep his class entertained while learning.

“Mark has just done an outstanding job in the classroom with his science classes,” Nyberg said.

A brief look at his Web site shows a schedule packed with all sorts of projects, from building rockets to explaining how light is refracted.

On his own time, he would take some of his students on outdoor adventures, like climbing frozen waterfalls at Gooseberry Falls State Park.

He was never one to brag, Nyberg said.

“He just has that connection with kids,” Nyberg said.

The accident occurred at 9:30 p.m. Friday, according to a Minnesota State Patrol accident report.

Mary Schlangen was riding west on Minnesota Highway 23 with her family in a 1997 Saturn station wagon when it collided with a 2002 Dodge Durango driven by Ann M. Brodman, 53, of Cambridge, Minn.

At this point officials aren’t clear which vehicle caused the wreck, but continue to investigate the accident.

Brodman was driving south on Pine County Road 13 when the cars collided at the intersection with Highway 23.

Though Brodman received no injuries, Mary Schlangen died at the scene despite wearing a seat belt at the time.

Her husband, Mark, who was driving the Saturn at the time of the accident and was wearing a seat belt, remained in serious condition Sunday at North Memorial Medical Center in suburban Robbinsdale.

Both cars were totaled in the accident.

He's also known as PerryDog.

Today's PeeWee's 40th birthday. That's him up there with his wife Sam. I believe it's their wedding picture. I chose it because it's the only photo I have of him in which he doesn't have a mullet.

However, I hope the gotee is long gone, since even that picture is from 1999.

Addendum: As of today, he does have the gotee. Bummer.

Sure Could Use a Kick-Ass Cup of Coffee

I'm really missing Minnesota.

My dream I just had, I was in Duluth and...oh, nevermind the details. It took place in Duluth and it was happy.

I'm sure I had the dream because this weekend is the Bayfront Blues Festival, something I used to fly to Duluth for...and I'm not there. Next weekend is a party my ex, PeeWee, is having to say goodbye to his house, and all the old gang will be there. Except for me.

I'll be in Minnesota in September, though. A family friend is getting married. The Jesus of Cheese and the kids won't be coming along for several reasons, so it's just gonna be me. Things to like about this trip:

1) I'll get to see BeerHound, DuffMan, The Boy, and Little Deb-y.

2) I'm very happy for the people getting married. I'm giving them a crock pot. That's what the groom gave me when I got married. Not the same crock pot, though. And sorry, Eddie, if I spoiled the surprise for you.

Um, that's it.

Things not to like about this trip:

1) I haven't seen most of the people who'll be attending the wedding in years...and I like it that way.

2) That issue about me being really pissed off at my father.

3) That issue about me being really pissed off at my mother.

4) The whole thing's taking place NOWHERE NEAR DULUTH.

A couple of months ago, I suggested to the Jesus of Cheese that we move to Minnesota. Being he works from home, he can do it anywhere, right? Well, he didn't take me seriously.

That doesn't mean I won't get what I want. Eventually.

BTW, Ewan and Charley have finished their journey, The Long Way Down.

Friends Ewan McGregor and Charley Boorman have finished their second epic motorcycle journey.



Way cool. That feels like a warm fuzzy to me.

And his wedding anniversary is 02/20, BTW

I was just messing around on the Birthday Calculator and committed a Freudian slip.

After reading my own info, I thought I'd check out the Jesus of Cheese's info. While perusing, I thought, "Hm. We have the same Life Path number. I don't remember that from when I was on this page before..."

So I went back and checked. I had entered 05/21/1971. The Jesus of Cheese was born on 05/05/1971.

However, DoorKey was born on 05/21/1965. And I haven't dated him since my hair was fluffy (and red), I wore makeup every day, I thought marijuana was an evil, bad, sinful thing, and MTV actually played videos.

Freudian slip.

Hey, at least I didn't enter 08/13/1967 (PeeWee), or 01/27/1966 (DrumHedz AND Tommy).

But I can't remember Rob's, Mike's, Tim's, Mark's, or John's birthday. Okay, maybe Mark doesn't count because he was still secretly engaged to his ex-girlfriend while he and I were, um, keeping company. And Rob was a guido. Mike was a pathological liar who later became a stalker.

Tim and John, though, I should feel guilty about. I really should remember their birthdays. But they'll never know, now, will they?

Anyway, now that I think about it, DoorKey's birthday might be the 22nd. Whatever.

If Ever You Decide You Should Go

I went to college in a beautiful town. Not just a gorgeous place, the people are really cool, too.

Today, reading the newspaper of my college town (though it is NOT a "college town" per se; its the World's Largest Inland Port, or used to be 50 years ago), there was a report on the conditions of the bridges in town.

I'll summarize for you. There are a LOT of bridges in the town. Two deficient bridges are no longer used, another deficient one was already undergoing repair.

And there are three that are "functionally obsolete." All three are on Seven Bridges Road.

Functionally obsolete just means that they're too narrow for two cars to pass on the bridge. And no one cares about that.

In college, the thing to do was get a car-full of people, each armed with 7 beers. Then you drove Seven Bridges Road, attempting to finish one beer for each bridge.

At the eighth bridge, which doesn't match the other seven--and yes, Seven Bridges Road actually has eight bridges, plus two more that are no longer allowed to be driven on, and no, I don't know why it's named that, other than it's a cool name, because it was a cool song--we'd usually have to pee.

But during daylight hours, Seven Bridges Road is just the best way to get to The Deeps. Did I say "best?" I meant "only." (If DoorKey reads this, he'd call me on that one.)

So if you ever decide you should go, bring 7 beers, toilet paper, maybe a swimsuit and towel. And some bug spray.