I suck.
My daughter lost a tooth today, gave it to me for safe keeping, and I lost it.
Fuck.
I put it next to my computer and now it's just...gone.
Okay, considering both my kids have been messing around by my desk, I could blame them, but it was a stupid place to put it and expect it to be there later.
Under my daughter's supervision, I wrote a note to the Tooth Fairy, for under her pillow. I e-mailed the Tooth Fairy. Stick Girl wouldn't go to bed until she saw me type "toothfairy@gmail.com" into the "To:" field. Explained. Hit "Send." Born micromanager, that Stick Girl.
I'm pretty sure the Tooth Fairy will pay up and accept the tooth later when we find it...if ever.
The Tooth Fairy's pretty forgiving, that way.
Friday, June 29, 2007
Wednesday, June 27, 2007
Letter of complaint
Dear Rain God:
I apologize profusely for not knowing your name. Believe me, I have much respect for your status as a deity and a supernatural being. But perhaps your name has fled from the general consciousness of humans because...well, there's no way to put this nicely.
WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN, AND WHY DO YOU THINK MAKING UP FOR YOUR ABSENCE IS A GOOD IDEA????
Have you been asleep? On vacation? Chained to a rock somewhere with a bird tearing out your liver? Cursed by another god and surviving just fine as a saguarro cactus in Arizona? Where?
From an administrative standpoint, it's farily obvious that you let your e-mail pile up, and then once you answered all those requests, you pulled an all-nighter and answered them all "yes." Individually. Even though some of them arrived a couple of years ago.
(It reminds me of this time I ordered a maternity bra from an online company. They were out of stock and neglected to tell me, but they didn't bill me either. Ten months later they called and asked if I still wanted the bra, and I said, the baby's six months old and my breasts occasionally look like footballs--alternatively fully inflated, or empty and pathetic, several times a day--so um, no, I don't need a maternity bra any more, but would you happen to have something for this football problem of mine? They recommended something with hydraulics that I couldn't really afford, plus it was a pain in the ass to have to cart the power source (Honda generator) through the grocery store and manage the baby in the shopping cart at the same time.)
Point is. Needs change. Just because you're a god and all doesn't excuse you being slow on the uptake and then trying to make up for it.
Let's get specific. Last year, during the whole month of June, my city received .34 inches of rain. No, not 34, ZERO POINT THREE FOUR inches. As in, less than one.Inch. You could have generated that much by sneezing in your sleep, and I suspect (and hope) this was the case, rather than a half-conscious trip to the bathroom, which I don't even want to think about.
Your performance over the last couple of years has been pathetic. It was so bad in 2005 that once, when I was asleep, I awoke delighted to hear water hitting my bedroom window. Rain! I thought. I was elated. I was also sad because I couldn't wake my husband up and tell him, since he was in California doing the Tech Ed thing. Anyway, then I realized that the water was only hitting ONE window. So I looked out the front door. A small whorl of dust came in and settled at my feet. I swear I heard a whistle and a harmonica in the distance.
Then I went outside, and discovered that the sprinkler had blown a head and the water was shooting up in a geyser and hitting my window. It wasn't raining. It was just my plumbing hemorrhaging.
This month, we've gotten (in case you haven't kept track yourself) 9.7 inches so far, and you seem to be planning on sending us more on each of the remaining days of the month. Um, are you compensating for something?
So. Though we humans really appreciate the rain...okay not all. I'm sure those four people who have died in the flooding in Texas didn't really appreciate it, nor the people who have to repair the roads, but, well, most of us really appreciate the rain you've sent us. And we're very happy the drought has technically ended. The ducks and golfers in my neighborhood are particularly happy, and for that I commend you.
But even so, you can stop with the rain now.
Really. Just stop. Delete all those e-mail requests; you've granted their requests already!
Stop!
I'm really missing that sun god. What's his name again...
I apologize profusely for not knowing your name. Believe me, I have much respect for your status as a deity and a supernatural being. But perhaps your name has fled from the general consciousness of humans because...well, there's no way to put this nicely.
WHERE THE FUCK HAVE YOU BEEN, AND WHY DO YOU THINK MAKING UP FOR YOUR ABSENCE IS A GOOD IDEA????
Have you been asleep? On vacation? Chained to a rock somewhere with a bird tearing out your liver? Cursed by another god and surviving just fine as a saguarro cactus in Arizona? Where?
From an administrative standpoint, it's farily obvious that you let your e-mail pile up, and then once you answered all those requests, you pulled an all-nighter and answered them all "yes." Individually. Even though some of them arrived a couple of years ago.
(It reminds me of this time I ordered a maternity bra from an online company. They were out of stock and neglected to tell me, but they didn't bill me either. Ten months later they called and asked if I still wanted the bra, and I said, the baby's six months old and my breasts occasionally look like footballs--alternatively fully inflated, or empty and pathetic, several times a day--so um, no, I don't need a maternity bra any more, but would you happen to have something for this football problem of mine? They recommended something with hydraulics that I couldn't really afford, plus it was a pain in the ass to have to cart the power source (Honda generator) through the grocery store and manage the baby in the shopping cart at the same time.)
Point is. Needs change. Just because you're a god and all doesn't excuse you being slow on the uptake and then trying to make up for it.
Let's get specific. Last year, during the whole month of June, my city received .34 inches of rain. No, not 34, ZERO POINT THREE FOUR inches. As in, less than one.Inch. You could have generated that much by sneezing in your sleep, and I suspect (and hope) this was the case, rather than a half-conscious trip to the bathroom, which I don't even want to think about.
Your performance over the last couple of years has been pathetic. It was so bad in 2005 that once, when I was asleep, I awoke delighted to hear water hitting my bedroom window. Rain! I thought. I was elated. I was also sad because I couldn't wake my husband up and tell him, since he was in California doing the Tech Ed thing. Anyway, then I realized that the water was only hitting ONE window. So I looked out the front door. A small whorl of dust came in and settled at my feet. I swear I heard a whistle and a harmonica in the distance.
Then I went outside, and discovered that the sprinkler had blown a head and the water was shooting up in a geyser and hitting my window. It wasn't raining. It was just my plumbing hemorrhaging.
This month, we've gotten (in case you haven't kept track yourself) 9.7 inches so far, and you seem to be planning on sending us more on each of the remaining days of the month. Um, are you compensating for something?
So. Though we humans really appreciate the rain...okay not all. I'm sure those four people who have died in the flooding in Texas didn't really appreciate it, nor the people who have to repair the roads, but, well, most of us really appreciate the rain you've sent us. And we're very happy the drought has technically ended. The ducks and golfers in my neighborhood are particularly happy, and for that I commend you.
But even so, you can stop with the rain now.
Really. Just stop. Delete all those e-mail requests; you've granted their requests already!
Stop!
I'm really missing that sun god. What's his name again...
Monday, June 25, 2007
Guyz Nite: Because I can't get it out of my head and you shouldn't be able to, either!
NSFW. Okay, maybe if you listen on head phones, it's SFW.
Friday, June 22, 2007
Day Six: Recurring Dream in Warren, Minnesota
In my many phone conversations on the road home, I learned that my brother, The Boy, had a plan.
The Boy told me that he had a plan. Or rather, he had an undertaking he needed help with. On the Clone Farm are several buildings. My parents' home is your typical 1970s ranch-style and is intact. My grandparents' home, a few yards away, was the original "homestead." It's not a real homestead in the legal sense, but it was one of those farm houses that started as a 10' by 20' two-story structure and ended up about three times that size, after two additions.
My grandfather died in 1979 and my grandmother in 1981, and no one has spent a night in it since.
We used it as storage space, and as an extra bathroom for a while. Then after the water was disconnected, just as storage. A few years ago my dad started taking it down, before it fell down. He didn't want it to become a danger and a legal liability.
He was dismantling it in the reverse order it was built. First he removed the mud room and bathroom, which were put in when they got indoor plumbing. I don't know the year and I wouldn't tell anyway, in case you'd think my family is totally backward.
Which it is, but I don't want y'all to think that.
Then he took off the kitchen and dining room, and his own old bedroom. He'd used the stove to make a heater for his fish house, and gave the cupboards to my brother for garage storage. The stuff we had stored in these spaces made their way into my parents' house, or were crammed into the remaining space.
That leaves the original house.
The Boy investigated this spring, and discovered that the floor had become totally unstable, mostly due to the fact that the wall in between the two first-floor rooms was made of brick. "Totally unstable" translates to "sunken by a foot or more." The place needed to be emptied and demolished.
My parents claimed that "most of the stuff over there belongs to you kids."
Um, bullshit. Or at least, if I wanted it, I'd have it by now.
But anyway, The Boy told them that he'd go through it and discard and salvage using his own judgement, and suffer the consequences should my sister or I take issue. He was a little relieved that I'd be around to assist.
Unfortunately, the day dawned rainy, and there were a few artifacts that really shouldn't be exposed to such conditions.
Or so we thought. Once the initial deluge ended, we rallied on and discovered that there was nothing in the house but a bunch of crap. Oh, there were a few things that were worth something--a lovely blinged-out peacock-inspired handbag of my grandmother's, and a little box filled with gold jewlery that would have been pilfered for sure if my aunt had known it was there. But mostly, excrement.
Literally. Some raccoons had taken up residence for a while and we found their...leavings.
Of value were some antique apple boxes and my dad's crib, and perhaps some toys, which my mom will distribute to the local historical society where she volunteers.
So we emptied the place, mostly by pitching things out the doorway that used to lead to my dad's room, onto the [unstable] floor below.
We were almost done when I was walking down the stairs and stopped halfway.
"Wait. I've gotta do this."
I started pulling at the plaster at a certain spot. My dad was perplexed, and asked me why I needed to pull at the plaster there. He seemed a little offended. After all, he said, he had put that plaster up, 60 years before.
"In all my recurring dreams about this house, THIS is where the door to the secret room is!"
The spot was a square of plaster, whereas the rest of the wall was wood planks.
"It used to be a window," The Boy said.
"OH!" Well, that was the answer. Thirty years of recurring dreams, all over an architectural band-aid.
Maybe the dreams will stop now.
The Boy told me that he had a plan. Or rather, he had an undertaking he needed help with. On the Clone Farm are several buildings. My parents' home is your typical 1970s ranch-style and is intact. My grandparents' home, a few yards away, was the original "homestead." It's not a real homestead in the legal sense, but it was one of those farm houses that started as a 10' by 20' two-story structure and ended up about three times that size, after two additions.
My grandfather died in 1979 and my grandmother in 1981, and no one has spent a night in it since.
We used it as storage space, and as an extra bathroom for a while. Then after the water was disconnected, just as storage. A few years ago my dad started taking it down, before it fell down. He didn't want it to become a danger and a legal liability.
He was dismantling it in the reverse order it was built. First he removed the mud room and bathroom, which were put in when they got indoor plumbing. I don't know the year and I wouldn't tell anyway, in case you'd think my family is totally backward.
Which it is, but I don't want y'all to think that.
Then he took off the kitchen and dining room, and his own old bedroom. He'd used the stove to make a heater for his fish house, and gave the cupboards to my brother for garage storage. The stuff we had stored in these spaces made their way into my parents' house, or were crammed into the remaining space.
That leaves the original house.
The Boy investigated this spring, and discovered that the floor had become totally unstable, mostly due to the fact that the wall in between the two first-floor rooms was made of brick. "Totally unstable" translates to "sunken by a foot or more." The place needed to be emptied and demolished.
My parents claimed that "most of the stuff over there belongs to you kids."
Um, bullshit. Or at least, if I wanted it, I'd have it by now.
But anyway, The Boy told them that he'd go through it and discard and salvage using his own judgement, and suffer the consequences should my sister or I take issue. He was a little relieved that I'd be around to assist.
Unfortunately, the day dawned rainy, and there were a few artifacts that really shouldn't be exposed to such conditions.
Or so we thought. Once the initial deluge ended, we rallied on and discovered that there was nothing in the house but a bunch of crap. Oh, there were a few things that were worth something--a lovely blinged-out peacock-inspired handbag of my grandmother's, and a little box filled with gold jewlery that would have been pilfered for sure if my aunt had known it was there. But mostly, excrement.
Literally. Some raccoons had taken up residence for a while and we found their...leavings.
Of value were some antique apple boxes and my dad's crib, and perhaps some toys, which my mom will distribute to the local historical society where she volunteers.
So we emptied the place, mostly by pitching things out the doorway that used to lead to my dad's room, onto the [unstable] floor below.
We were almost done when I was walking down the stairs and stopped halfway.
"Wait. I've gotta do this."
I started pulling at the plaster at a certain spot. My dad was perplexed, and asked me why I needed to pull at the plaster there. He seemed a little offended. After all, he said, he had put that plaster up, 60 years before.
"In all my recurring dreams about this house, THIS is where the door to the secret room is!"
The spot was a square of plaster, whereas the rest of the wall was wood planks.
"It used to be a window," The Boy said.
"OH!" Well, that was the answer. Thirty years of recurring dreams, all over an architectural band-aid.
Maybe the dreams will stop now.
Backtrack to Day Five: It began at the motel in Medora, when the thunderstorm started
Since few of you will ever see it, I will attempt (and fail) to describe the most stunning sight I've ever seen: The Badlands lit up by lightning. Pitch black, then the thunder crash and the hills (mountains?) were lit up for less then a second, burned on our retinas. Then a wait, and then it would happen again, but we didn't know exactly when. It was a powerful, glorious, fleeting vision.
Then in the morning we went to this bar and ordered breakfast which took forever to come out of the kitchen, but it was really good. Stick Girl's pancake was huge. If she kept eating those, she'd no longer be Stick Girl.
We toured the Chateau de Moreswhich isn't really a chateau.
After that, our original intention was to take the northern route across the state (on Highway 2) but I made the executive decision that I didn't feel like slowing down for towns. Good thing, because the weather was nasty. Here's an excerpt from a phone conversation I had with the Jesus of Cheese.
"We're on the Interstate heading toward Bismarck. Can you look up a weather radar screen on the internets for us?"
"Where are you?"
"On the Interstate. West of Bismarck."
"You should be fine. It's clear in Bismarck."
"But we're not there yet. We're pulled over to the side of the freeway because..." I glanced at Marty Mouse. I decided to not mention the hydroplaning we'd just done. "Well, just because."
"It looks fine, except for one dot of really bad weather about 40 miles West of Bismarck on this one big road, and it looks like it's just passing over there. What's that noise? Are you standing next to a diesel engine or something?"
"The sound is that dot passing over our heads."
And later, we heard of tornadoes on the road we had planned on taking but didn't. So I made a good call. Go, me!
A quick stop at Paradiso in Fargo (the kids loved it), and we were at the Cloning Factory a couple of hours later. My parents were happy to see us.
Ah, the Cloning Factory. It smells like old people, but it's home.
Then in the morning we went to this bar and ordered breakfast which took forever to come out of the kitchen, but it was really good. Stick Girl's pancake was huge. If she kept eating those, she'd no longer be Stick Girl.
We toured the Chateau de Moreswhich isn't really a chateau.
After that, our original intention was to take the northern route across the state (on Highway 2) but I made the executive decision that I didn't feel like slowing down for towns. Good thing, because the weather was nasty. Here's an excerpt from a phone conversation I had with the Jesus of Cheese.
"We're on the Interstate heading toward Bismarck. Can you look up a weather radar screen on the internets for us?"
"Where are you?"
"On the Interstate. West of Bismarck."
"You should be fine. It's clear in Bismarck."
"But we're not there yet. We're pulled over to the side of the freeway because..." I glanced at Marty Mouse. I decided to not mention the hydroplaning we'd just done. "Well, just because."
"It looks fine, except for one dot of really bad weather about 40 miles West of Bismarck on this one big road, and it looks like it's just passing over there. What's that noise? Are you standing next to a diesel engine or something?"
"The sound is that dot passing over our heads."
And later, we heard of tornadoes on the road we had planned on taking but didn't. So I made a good call. Go, me!
A quick stop at Paradiso in Fargo (the kids loved it), and we were at the Cloning Factory a couple of hours later. My parents were happy to see us.
Ah, the Cloning Factory. It smells like old people, but it's home.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Day Ten: Topeka, Kansas
Last day of travel. Yesterday we logged over 700 miles, and passed the 3,000 mile mark for the trip total.
Also yesterday was my worst nightmare come true. Honestly, I have a recurring nightmare about having to drive on a flooded road. I-94 was flooded East of Bismark, but not so bad we couldn't get through. It's so odd to be in your car and hear that water-slapping sound you only normally hear in a boat. I'm sure the experience will torture my psyche for years to come.
And yes, I'm aware I skipped a lot of days. I'll get back to it, but at the moment I'm a little exhausted.
"Nothing a nap and a fuck won't take care of." --some character in L.A. Story
Also yesterday was my worst nightmare come true. Honestly, I have a recurring nightmare about having to drive on a flooded road. I-94 was flooded East of Bismark, but not so bad we couldn't get through. It's so odd to be in your car and hear that water-slapping sound you only normally hear in a boat. I'm sure the experience will torture my psyche for years to come.
And yes, I'm aware I skipped a lot of days. I'll get back to it, but at the moment I'm a little exhausted.
"Nothing a nap and a fuck won't take care of." --some character in L.A. Story
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Day Four: Medora, North Dakota
I don't know why I had this urge to re-live my childhood family travels. I didn't mean to. Really!
Some things are the same from generation to generation. Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse are always the same. Devil's Tower doesn't change, though I saw that on my own as an adult, and not with my family on the Big Trip of 1977.
But restaurants and hotels? Now it's getting weird.
Yesterday, after forcing the children to walk around Devil's Tower (they were NOT happy) and forcing them to look at but not buy overpriced crap in junk shops in Deadwood (when I really wanted to be drinking beer and gambling there, but one can only manage a small amount of vice when one is with one's children and mother-in-law)...wait, my sentence has gotten all un-gramatic. Yesterday, after all that, we stopped at a restaurant in Spearfish. We had passed up a couple of other places, due to their less than savory appearance. It said it was a family restuarant.
"This used to be a Country Kitchen," I said. "In fact my family went to a Country Kitchen somewhere around here in 1977 and...wait a minute..."
Yep. Same place. The place stuck in my mind because back in 1977 when we were there, the waitress took our order and then disappeared for 40 minutes. When we finally flagged down another waitress, who flagged down a manager, it was discovered that our waitress had gone off-shift and our order had been completely lost. But we eventually got to eat and we were happy.
So yesterday, our order took forever. The manager and the waitress (who this time had NOT gone off-shift) apologized. They were short a cook, but even then it took too long. So I told them it was better than the last time. They thought the story was funny.
They gave the kids free ice cream and cake and took one meal off our tab. We were happy.
Then we drove to where we are now. At the same motel I stayed in with my family in 1977, in Medora.
North Dakota.
Some things are the same from generation to generation. Mt. Rushmore and Crazy Horse are always the same. Devil's Tower doesn't change, though I saw that on my own as an adult, and not with my family on the Big Trip of 1977.
But restaurants and hotels? Now it's getting weird.
Yesterday, after forcing the children to walk around Devil's Tower (they were NOT happy) and forcing them to look at but not buy overpriced crap in junk shops in Deadwood (when I really wanted to be drinking beer and gambling there, but one can only manage a small amount of vice when one is with one's children and mother-in-law)...wait, my sentence has gotten all un-gramatic. Yesterday, after all that, we stopped at a restaurant in Spearfish. We had passed up a couple of other places, due to their less than savory appearance. It said it was a family restuarant.
"This used to be a Country Kitchen," I said. "In fact my family went to a Country Kitchen somewhere around here in 1977 and...wait a minute..."
Yep. Same place. The place stuck in my mind because back in 1977 when we were there, the waitress took our order and then disappeared for 40 minutes. When we finally flagged down another waitress, who flagged down a manager, it was discovered that our waitress had gone off-shift and our order had been completely lost. But we eventually got to eat and we were happy.
So yesterday, our order took forever. The manager and the waitress (who this time had NOT gone off-shift) apologized. They were short a cook, but even then it took too long. So I told them it was better than the last time. They thought the story was funny.
They gave the kids free ice cream and cake and took one meal off our tab. We were happy.
Then we drove to where we are now. At the same motel I stayed in with my family in 1977, in Medora.
North Dakota.
Monday, June 11, 2007
Day Three: Keystone, South Dakota
Day Two was largely spent driving across Nebraska.
Nebraska is large.
Right now, however, I am sitting outside my motel room in the heart of the Black Hills. I can see Mt. Rushmore off to my left, and a lot of RVs off to my right, so I'm sure I'm in the right place.
Yesterday we saw wild buffalo, went to the Crazy Horse monument, to Mt. Rushmore, and ate pizza. I highly recommend Crazy Horse. It's cool. Amazing. Impressive. Enlightening. Sort of weird.
Mt. Rushmore is Mt. Rushmore. You go because it's there, not because you want to. The kids loved it because it gave them the opportunity to run up and down the stairs of the amphitheater, and because they sell ice cream there. The place also has THREE bookstores.
Today we'll drive through Deadwood and walk around the base of Devil's Tower. I don't think we'll meet any aliens, though.
We'll spend the night somewhere in that state further up the road.
North Dakota.
Nebraska is large.
Right now, however, I am sitting outside my motel room in the heart of the Black Hills. I can see Mt. Rushmore off to my left, and a lot of RVs off to my right, so I'm sure I'm in the right place.
Yesterday we saw wild buffalo, went to the Crazy Horse monument, to Mt. Rushmore, and ate pizza. I highly recommend Crazy Horse. It's cool. Amazing. Impressive. Enlightening. Sort of weird.
Mt. Rushmore is Mt. Rushmore. You go because it's there, not because you want to. The kids loved it because it gave them the opportunity to run up and down the stairs of the amphitheater, and because they sell ice cream there. The place also has THREE bookstores.
Today we'll drive through Deadwood and walk around the base of Devil's Tower. I don't think we'll meet any aliens, though.
We'll spend the night somewhere in that state further up the road.
North Dakota.
Saturday, June 9, 2007
Day One: York, Nebraska
So far, not much to report. Except that both Kansas and Nebraska smell like cows.
Tomorrow we'll be heading up to the NorthWest corner of the state and over into the Black Hills of South Dakota, where we will at least take cheezy tourist pictures.
Simian Boy decided that our UrbanTruckster is now named Billy Bob Joe. First name Billy, last name, Bob Joe.
Hey, he's five. The story he was telling was the most interesting thing happening North of Salina, Kansas.
Side note: Wal-Mart is the lowest common denominator of humanity wherever you go. I fucking hate the place.
Tomorrow we'll be heading up to the NorthWest corner of the state and over into the Black Hills of South Dakota, where we will at least take cheezy tourist pictures.
Simian Boy decided that our UrbanTruckster is now named Billy Bob Joe. First name Billy, last name, Bob Joe.
Hey, he's five. The story he was telling was the most interesting thing happening North of Salina, Kansas.
Side note: Wal-Mart is the lowest common denominator of humanity wherever you go. I fucking hate the place.
Friday, June 8, 2007
Abrupt itinerary change
Tomorrow, we leave on the Big Trip of the Summer. We're going to Bismarck, North Dakota.
"We" means me, my kids, and my mother-in-law, Marty Mouse.
We were originally planning a different route. New, for me, and a little more touristy. I won't even tell you what that plan was, because it is now defunct.
Because it was a lame plan.
The kids would have been bored to death.
The new plan is to go to South Dakota--Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse monument, meander up through Deadwood, drift West and take a few pictures of Devil's Tower, then press on North to the North Dakota badlands, then East 'till Minnesota, stopping only to ponder our existence in the geographical center of North America, which is in Rugby.
North Dakota.
We'll spend one day in Warren. Minnesota. Then we'll take a day trip to see the headwaters of the Mississippi, and finally head back West and a little South, to Bismarck.
North Dakota.
Apparently next Saturday there's a big historical/interpretive weekend at the fort where Lewis & Clark spent the winter before beginning their big fact-finding trip, and also picked up a guide named Sacagawea. Okay, they hired her husband, but she actually did the guiding. If you're not sure who she is, look on the newest US Dollar coin. That's her. The one with the baby on her back. She was born in Idaho but Lewis & Clark found her at a fort.
In North Dakota.
Then we'll do the family reunion thing. I'm not originally from there. But I have some family there.
North Dakota.
The place is not nearly as boring as you'd think. Some of you thought it might have been exiting for a while after that movie came out, but none of it was actually true. What was it called again? Fargo.
North Dakota.
So if you can't get me by e-mail for the next few days, try my cell phone.
I'll be in North Dakota.
"We" means me, my kids, and my mother-in-law, Marty Mouse.
We were originally planning a different route. New, for me, and a little more touristy. I won't even tell you what that plan was, because it is now defunct.
Because it was a lame plan.
The kids would have been bored to death.
The new plan is to go to South Dakota--Mount Rushmore and the Crazy Horse monument, meander up through Deadwood, drift West and take a few pictures of Devil's Tower, then press on North to the North Dakota badlands, then East 'till Minnesota, stopping only to ponder our existence in the geographical center of North America, which is in Rugby.
North Dakota.
We'll spend one day in Warren. Minnesota. Then we'll take a day trip to see the headwaters of the Mississippi, and finally head back West and a little South, to Bismarck.
North Dakota.
Apparently next Saturday there's a big historical/interpretive weekend at the fort where Lewis & Clark spent the winter before beginning their big fact-finding trip, and also picked up a guide named Sacagawea. Okay, they hired her husband, but she actually did the guiding. If you're not sure who she is, look on the newest US Dollar coin. That's her. The one with the baby on her back. She was born in Idaho but Lewis & Clark found her at a fort.
In North Dakota.
Then we'll do the family reunion thing. I'm not originally from there. But I have some family there.
North Dakota.
The place is not nearly as boring as you'd think. Some of you thought it might have been exiting for a while after that movie came out, but none of it was actually true. What was it called again? Fargo.
North Dakota.
So if you can't get me by e-mail for the next few days, try my cell phone.
I'll be in North Dakota.
Thursday, June 7, 2007
So not worth my time
I used to be a credit union teller. Being a credit union teller, as opposed to a bank teller, means that the tellers get paid less, work longer hours, and a bunch of services that would normally have been handled by someone else--for example, a BANKER, were handled by a teller.
This place was 20 miles from our main branch and in another city and county. The main branch had fewer teller windows, yet they had a full-time receptionist, whereas we were expected to answer the phone while also completing transactions for members.
We opened new accounts, so new members weren't even allowed to sit while filling out all those forms. We sold CDs. We had to read the obituaries (AKA OhBitches!) to see if any of our members had kicked off, so we could block their accounts (never mind if there was a surviving widow or widower whose money was also in the account.) We had to make clandestine phone calls to all the banks in town each week to find out their current loan and savings interest rates (the banks would always want to meet with us to discuss it. With a banker. What a novel idea!)
Oh, and then there was the deposits, withdrawals, money orders, bank drafts, check cashing, and money counting thing.
This job didn't even require a high school diploma. It paid minimum wage, which at the time was maybe $5.63.
It wasn't difficult, but management treated our branch like a bastard step-child.
The day before Thanksgiving, we were required to attend the all-employee meeting. It was held ten miles on the other side of the main branch, in at some lodge in the middle of the Indian reservation.
I don't remember what information we actually received pertaining to work. Possibly something about a change in the health insurance (I was part-time despite the 40+ hours a week I put in, so it didn't pertain to me), and security in regard to what to do during a robbery.
Then. THEN we had to watch a video about United Way. The example was this local woman who had a gambling addiction and lost her home because of it, and how United Way helped her and her family. Then our president got up and encouraged us to donate, repeating over and over and over, "All the money you donate stays right here in Carlton County."
Um, I didn't live in Carlton County. Nor did I consider the example case "charity," when compared to people in need of food, clothing, and heat in their homes for the winter. Was the woman in need of help? Yes. But not MY help.
Then on the way home, we were nearly in a head-on collision when someone pulled out of a bar down the road and started driving on the wrong side--my side.
So I was made to drive for over an hour in dangerous conditions (there was also a snowstorm), asked to give up some of my $5.63/hour--less taxes--to a charity I hate, on the day before a major holiday, and they didn't even pay us for our time.
They did feed us supper, so I guess that was supposed to be our "pay."
I turned in my resignation the following week. The president actually came out to the branch for something else and asked to meet with me, told me they valued me as an employee, and what could they do to retain me, or at least others like me?
I didn't voice any of my complaints, because it was a crap job with crap duties and there wasn't anything they could do to change that. I simply said, "Your remember at the employee meeting when you talked about United Way and kept repeating that all the money stayed in Carlton County? Do you realize that less than half of your employees live in Carlton County?"
"No, I didn't think about that."
"Obviously."
This place was 20 miles from our main branch and in another city and county. The main branch had fewer teller windows, yet they had a full-time receptionist, whereas we were expected to answer the phone while also completing transactions for members.
We opened new accounts, so new members weren't even allowed to sit while filling out all those forms. We sold CDs. We had to read the obituaries (AKA OhBitches!) to see if any of our members had kicked off, so we could block their accounts (never mind if there was a surviving widow or widower whose money was also in the account.) We had to make clandestine phone calls to all the banks in town each week to find out their current loan and savings interest rates (the banks would always want to meet with us to discuss it. With a banker. What a novel idea!)
Oh, and then there was the deposits, withdrawals, money orders, bank drafts, check cashing, and money counting thing.
This job didn't even require a high school diploma. It paid minimum wage, which at the time was maybe $5.63.
It wasn't difficult, but management treated our branch like a bastard step-child.
The day before Thanksgiving, we were required to attend the all-employee meeting. It was held ten miles on the other side of the main branch, in at some lodge in the middle of the Indian reservation.
I don't remember what information we actually received pertaining to work. Possibly something about a change in the health insurance (I was part-time despite the 40+ hours a week I put in, so it didn't pertain to me), and security in regard to what to do during a robbery.
Then. THEN we had to watch a video about United Way. The example was this local woman who had a gambling addiction and lost her home because of it, and how United Way helped her and her family. Then our president got up and encouraged us to donate, repeating over and over and over, "All the money you donate stays right here in Carlton County."
Um, I didn't live in Carlton County. Nor did I consider the example case "charity," when compared to people in need of food, clothing, and heat in their homes for the winter. Was the woman in need of help? Yes. But not MY help.
Then on the way home, we were nearly in a head-on collision when someone pulled out of a bar down the road and started driving on the wrong side--my side.
So I was made to drive for over an hour in dangerous conditions (there was also a snowstorm), asked to give up some of my $5.63/hour--less taxes--to a charity I hate, on the day before a major holiday, and they didn't even pay us for our time.
They did feed us supper, so I guess that was supposed to be our "pay."
I turned in my resignation the following week. The president actually came out to the branch for something else and asked to meet with me, told me they valued me as an employee, and what could they do to retain me, or at least others like me?
I didn't voice any of my complaints, because it was a crap job with crap duties and there wasn't anything they could do to change that. I simply said, "Your remember at the employee meeting when you talked about United Way and kept repeating that all the money stayed in Carlton County? Do you realize that less than half of your employees live in Carlton County?"
"No, I didn't think about that."
"Obviously."
Tuesday, June 5, 2007
Stress, recovery, and recovery from recovery
I'm pretty sure none of y'all out there have attended a sleep-over with a bunch of 7 year olds lately. Most of you, not since you were seven.
I wasn't invited to, nor allowed to have a sleep-over when I was that young. The earliest I remember attending one was 4th grade, possibly third.
When my daughter kept asking for a "half-birthday" party at some venue like Pump It Up, GattiTown, or the Wiggly Play Center, I 'splained to her that she couldn't have a half-birthday this year, because she had a big regular party just six months ago, and it not appropriate to attach the word "birthday" to any pary because it means people would bring presents, and that was unacceptable. Being she already got presents this year.
There were tears and a small tantrum.
The "beginning of summer swim and sleepover" idea was a compromise. Something kick-ass enough, in the mind of a 7 year old, that it's okay if she doesn't get presents.
One major issue we had is that Stick Girl is scared to death of the water, yet she wanted a Hawaiian theme and for everyone to go swimming.
I had many minor panic attacks during the planning of this party. I'd never been to our community pool before (even though we've paid for it through our evil housing association's dues for 7 years). Stick girl kept over-planning things, and I knew she was bound to be disappointed with some aspect of the party. And we had to buy a bunch of grass skirts and Hawaiian clothes that might not arrive in time for the party (they did).
In the end, I figured out:
--Put a bunch of kids together and they'll come up with their own entertainment. In the pool, in the back yard, on the top bunk, their entertainment just happened.
--Kids think it's great if you give them a bunch of junk food. And when it's a party, you can feed kids a bunch of crap you wouldn't otherwise serve them.
--If you speak to other people's kids sternly, they will actually listen to you.
--Little girls love grass skirts.
The only stressful part for me, ultimately, was the sleep issue. It was the first big sleepover for more than one of the girls, and I was prepared to stay up until every last one was asleep, just to make sure I was available if one of them needed to go home.
Luckily, it wasn't necessary. In the end, after hearing the same girl utter, "But I can't sleep!" for the fourth time in ten minutes (at 1:32am) and 'splaining that all they really needed to do was close their eyes and not talk for a few minutes, what worked was uttering, "Well, there's always duct tape," under my breath.
I didn't hear another peep.
Of course, they were all up at 7am, and The Jesus of Cheese kindly went out for Krispy Kremes, saving me from cooking the healthy but boring breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast and fruit that I had planned.
They were all gone by 11am. Even Red and Freckled.
I had an afternoon of beer and NASCAR planned for myself, but the NASCAR didn't happen--Dover had a rain delay.
The 7-11 guy teased me because it's usually guys who start drinking at noon.
Hey, I had my reasons.
I wasn't invited to, nor allowed to have a sleep-over when I was that young. The earliest I remember attending one was 4th grade, possibly third.
When my daughter kept asking for a "half-birthday" party at some venue like Pump It Up, GattiTown, or the Wiggly Play Center, I 'splained to her that she couldn't have a half-birthday this year, because she had a big regular party just six months ago, and it not appropriate to attach the word "birthday" to any pary because it means people would bring presents, and that was unacceptable. Being she already got presents this year.
There were tears and a small tantrum.
The "beginning of summer swim and sleepover" idea was a compromise. Something kick-ass enough, in the mind of a 7 year old, that it's okay if she doesn't get presents.
One major issue we had is that Stick Girl is scared to death of the water, yet she wanted a Hawaiian theme and for everyone to go swimming.
I had many minor panic attacks during the planning of this party. I'd never been to our community pool before (even though we've paid for it through our evil housing association's dues for 7 years). Stick girl kept over-planning things, and I knew she was bound to be disappointed with some aspect of the party. And we had to buy a bunch of grass skirts and Hawaiian clothes that might not arrive in time for the party (they did).
In the end, I figured out:
--Put a bunch of kids together and they'll come up with their own entertainment. In the pool, in the back yard, on the top bunk, their entertainment just happened.
--Kids think it's great if you give them a bunch of junk food. And when it's a party, you can feed kids a bunch of crap you wouldn't otherwise serve them.
--If you speak to other people's kids sternly, they will actually listen to you.
--Little girls love grass skirts.
The only stressful part for me, ultimately, was the sleep issue. It was the first big sleepover for more than one of the girls, and I was prepared to stay up until every last one was asleep, just to make sure I was available if one of them needed to go home.
Luckily, it wasn't necessary. In the end, after hearing the same girl utter, "But I can't sleep!" for the fourth time in ten minutes (at 1:32am) and 'splaining that all they really needed to do was close their eyes and not talk for a few minutes, what worked was uttering, "Well, there's always duct tape," under my breath.
I didn't hear another peep.
Of course, they were all up at 7am, and The Jesus of Cheese kindly went out for Krispy Kremes, saving me from cooking the healthy but boring breakfast of eggs, sausage, toast and fruit that I had planned.
They were all gone by 11am. Even Red and Freckled.
I had an afternoon of beer and NASCAR planned for myself, but the NASCAR didn't happen--Dover had a rain delay.
The 7-11 guy teased me because it's usually guys who start drinking at noon.
Hey, I had my reasons.
Sunday, June 3, 2007
I'll happily go to hell for my joy over this
School has finally ended, all that insanity is done. Wahoo!
My daughter had her first sleep-over last night and I'm exhausted, but it was a great success. The seven extra little girls (okay, one's not little because she's 10 and taller than me) have gone home. Wahoo!
Now the weirdness, and it's over conflicted emotions. My friend Cat's ex committed suicide. I'm conflicted because a man is dead, but I'm very relieved for her. Let me explain.
Cat had to move out of her home country three years ago, to Dallas, because he was abusive and threatened (and tried) to kill her. She left her home country because the border was a good defense, considering the man's criminal record. She has three kids, one of whom is friends with my daughter. Her oldest is our babysitter. Luckily she could transfer within her company, but she was still extra-cautious in terms of being low-profile, like using a PO box and such.
A year ago she was hoping they could go to her home country to visit, because her ex had violated parole (threatened/tried to kill his new girlfriend) and she was hoping he would be incarcerated so they could at least visit family. The idiot judge gave him probation.
('Scuse me? The man pledged to kill at least two women and you let him loose? Fuck. Just.Fuck.)
This is a very strong, sweet woman who up-rooted her kids to keep them and herself safe. She was prepared to do this for the rest of her life. She felt guilt over her kids having to leave their friends and family, and alot of separation anxiety, but at least they were safe.
When she picked up her daughter this morning, she said she was going to her home country next weekend, and told me how they were safe now because her ex was no longer a threat. She's put in for a work transfer, and it's a big company so I'm pretty sure she'll get it.
So she gets to go visit her parents at their house, which hasn't been safe for her in three years (more, acutally), and she'll be a keynote speaker at a conference about domestic abuse.
I'll deal with my own guilt over being happy her ex is dead. Because Cat is free.
Wahoo!
My daughter had her first sleep-over last night and I'm exhausted, but it was a great success. The seven extra little girls (okay, one's not little because she's 10 and taller than me) have gone home. Wahoo!
Now the weirdness, and it's over conflicted emotions. My friend Cat's ex committed suicide. I'm conflicted because a man is dead, but I'm very relieved for her. Let me explain.
Cat had to move out of her home country three years ago, to Dallas, because he was abusive and threatened (and tried) to kill her. She left her home country because the border was a good defense, considering the man's criminal record. She has three kids, one of whom is friends with my daughter. Her oldest is our babysitter. Luckily she could transfer within her company, but she was still extra-cautious in terms of being low-profile, like using a PO box and such.
A year ago she was hoping they could go to her home country to visit, because her ex had violated parole (threatened/tried to kill his new girlfriend) and she was hoping he would be incarcerated so they could at least visit family. The idiot judge gave him probation.
('Scuse me? The man pledged to kill at least two women and you let him loose? Fuck. Just.Fuck.)
This is a very strong, sweet woman who up-rooted her kids to keep them and herself safe. She was prepared to do this for the rest of her life. She felt guilt over her kids having to leave their friends and family, and alot of separation anxiety, but at least they were safe.
When she picked up her daughter this morning, she said she was going to her home country next weekend, and told me how they were safe now because her ex was no longer a threat. She's put in for a work transfer, and it's a big company so I'm pretty sure she'll get it.
So she gets to go visit her parents at their house, which hasn't been safe for her in three years (more, acutally), and she'll be a keynote speaker at a conference about domestic abuse.
I'll deal with my own guilt over being happy her ex is dead. Because Cat is free.
Wahoo!
Friday, June 1, 2007
It's still to early for beer
So this morning I was sitting, re-reading one of my favorite trashy romance books, except this one is a good book masquerading as a romance book. Faking It by Jennifer Crusie. It's not a formula romance book because A)The sex isn't "perfect" or "best ever," B)More than just the two main characters are developed, C)It's really funny, D)People have sex because they feel like it, not because they fancy themselves in love with anyone, and finally, E)It has an actual plot that, if you took out the sex, and okay, the "love" story, it would still be a good book.
One plot point got me to wondering. When someone commits a crime, and there is money involved, and the person gets caught, who gets the money? I'm not talking about theft--I'm talking about money handed over (or attempted to be handed over) to undercover cop/prostitutes, undercover cop/hitmen, or undercover cop/caterers. Yeah, some of of it is small amounts (like, say, $50 for a blowjob,) but some is larger, like thousands for a hit. Where does it go? Does the criminal get a refund? Does it go toward some widows and orphans fund? Does it get auctioned off like the cars: "Next up for bids, and undisclosed amount of money, seized during a prostitution sting operation. I can't divulge who was involved, but the guy wanted to be spanked and called 'Bad Little POTUS.' Let's start off the bidding at $100."
I suppose I could look it up. But that would seem like work to me.
Wait a minute. That DID used to be my job. Boy, my memory's going. And I can't recall things very well, either.
Oh look! A duck!
One plot point got me to wondering. When someone commits a crime, and there is money involved, and the person gets caught, who gets the money? I'm not talking about theft--I'm talking about money handed over (or attempted to be handed over) to undercover cop/prostitutes, undercover cop/hitmen, or undercover cop/caterers. Yeah, some of of it is small amounts (like, say, $50 for a blowjob,) but some is larger, like thousands for a hit. Where does it go? Does the criminal get a refund? Does it go toward some widows and orphans fund? Does it get auctioned off like the cars: "Next up for bids, and undisclosed amount of money, seized during a prostitution sting operation. I can't divulge who was involved, but the guy wanted to be spanked and called 'Bad Little POTUS.' Let's start off the bidding at $100."
I suppose I could look it up. But that would seem like work to me.
Wait a minute. That DID used to be my job. Boy, my memory's going. And I can't recall things very well, either.
Oh look! A duck!
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