Black-Eyed Peas and a wink to the North

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My Christmas present

Lovin' the alma mater today.

We tell him he's "special."

Sorry, re-post for Brent

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

This is from July 2006.



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

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

Here's the backstory:

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

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

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

So I started thinking. Always dangerous, that.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dad's 81 on August 10th.

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

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

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

Scalping an extra ticket for a Twins game?

Priceless.

A Memory: Lola

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chuck Altman, you are an idiot

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

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

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

Geez.

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

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

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

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

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

Duh.

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

Whatever.

I Like Dreamin'

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

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

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

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

Menu

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

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

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

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

Eve of Destruction Election

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This might be the first year ever.

Cool.

Earthquake!

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

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

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

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

Me, neither.

Another one.

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

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

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

Oh. This:



PS I already voted a week ago, Monday.

Not soon mended

Bank policies suck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

The bank can go fuck themselves.

Hey! I still know how to tie dye!

A Minnesota Recipe

Cheezy Chicken Wild Rice Soup

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

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

Interesting things I learned today:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Now this is a new one.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sad news about OFL

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

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

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

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

Oh, yeah. THAT elephant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know the Girl Scout motto?

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

Our Fearless Leader taught 'em good.

Things I've learned this week

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

Breaking and entering

Today was an adventure. Here's the backstory:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Coozie

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

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

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

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



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

Cheers!

Sonic

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

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

AND!

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

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

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

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

Fast food nirvana. Kid you not.

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

Talladega commentary

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

Wracked my brain

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

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

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

You've got a message.

Could be important.

Four months

Today is the 4 month anniversary of my quitting smoking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Didn't ya see the blinkin' light??

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

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

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

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

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

NOT.15. Just NOT.

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

To review:

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

Thank you.

Check isn't in the mail

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

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

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

Then again, I might not.

It's Really Not My Fault

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

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

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

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

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

I only wish my power of suggestion extended to politics.

Cows

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, I never said I wasn't.

In the house, we accosted my mom.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mom finally walked to the window and looked out.

"THERE'S COWS IN THE YARD!"

"We told you!"

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

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

Checkin' me out. My brain, I mean.

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

"Where's Madison?"

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

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

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

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

"But where IS it?" they guy asked.

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

There was stunned silence.

"How did you know that?"

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

"How do you know this stuff, anyway?"

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

"Wha?"

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

"Um. Okay."

You know what? He did.

August 8th: Bird's Nest

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

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

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

August 9th: Change of conveyance

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cue song.

Griswolds

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

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

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

Ellen, as played by BeerPup

Rusty, as played by Simian Boy

Dana, as played by Stick Girl

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that's how it went.

WTF with the Ibanez? Plus, the BluesFest

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

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

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

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

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

(Ancient Letterman fans will get that one.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What should I bring to the festival?

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

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

What should I not bring to the festival?

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

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

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

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

What can I expect?

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

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

Will I be able to park my car close?

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

What about necessities close to the festival?

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

What about the locals?

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

What about medical emergencies?

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

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

What's with those big ships?

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

Any other tips for attending the festival?

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

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

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

Mama Mia!

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

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

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

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

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

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

But it's fun anyway.

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

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

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

See it if you want. Voulez vous?

'Nuther Clip

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

DDD: A Review

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

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

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

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

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

Toni

Scarlet fever

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

They downplayed it.

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

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

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

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

Random Question

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

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

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

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

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

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

I hate to shop

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

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

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

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

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

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

Because, I guess, I'm stupid.

And, Too, Two...

Um, howdy. Did you miss me?

I'll try and make the recap short.

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

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

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

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

And, Too

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

Me, my PT Cruiser convertible, and the road.

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

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

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

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


*It's a book. Read it.

14? Wow.

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

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

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

Day 5!

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

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

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

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

This time? No craving. NONE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

There's hope for me yet.

Short Attention Span Theater

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

Since having kids, I've had to learn to multi-task even better than before.

Before having kids, worked really hard and practiced typing and talking at the same time. Try it. It's not easy. Oh, and it freaks people out. They won't talk if you're typing. They will not believe you can actually hear what they're saying. Conversely, I've had people for whom I'm typing something--usually a student paper--insist on DICTATING the paper to me. Um, no. I can type faster than you can talk. Give me the damn rough draft!

This program I'm on to quit smoking, which is Nicoderm CQ plus the Wellbutrin I'm already on, has me a little on edge. Not on edge bad, on edge good. I'm not cranky or irrational yet. I've asked The Dave. Repeatedly. And he said "No" the first time and now he just glares at me.

So, on edge. The Dave thinks it might be because I'm following the program for someone who smokes more than 15 cigarettes a day. He didn't think I smoked that much. I do, but because of the kids, I rarely smoke a whole one at a time: sit down, light up, take two drags, and then one of the kids comes into the garage to ask me for something so I put it out (both because there's a kid in the room, and because they need something.) Then later I'll go out and smoke the other half. Sometimes I would light a cigarette four times before I finished it.

Yes, they taste like ass if you put them out and then light them again, but they're expensive.

Oh, hey! I'm not paying for them any more!

Anyway, the patch I'm on, The Dave thinks they're too strong for me. Maybe he's right. Maybe I should switch to the mid-level strength.

The most amazing thing is how much time I have now! It's really cool. Maybe soon, I'll actually clean my house.

Right now the only thing clean is the garage. I had to get rid of my own personal "smoking section" in the garage, so it's gone. I threw out the ash tray, the stool the ash tray was on, the cigarettes, and the lighters. I saved the chair, but it's a folding chair so I just put it away. I also saved the flask of Glenfiddich.

Which reminds me--I need more Glenfiddich.

So right now I'm a little distracted. I start doing things, and then I'll see something sparkly. I can do things for 15 minutes at a time, if I try hard and set a timer. For instance, I just shredded my billing statements from 2003 for 15 minutes.

And now I've been sitting here for 10 minutes trying to figure out what to do next.

Um, post this. Yeah. That's what I'll do.

Self-fulfilling prophecies

An obnoxious habit I have retained from my days as a librarian is that I take notes while I talk to people on the phone. These days I don't write down names or numbers, time or date, because my phone has already done that for me. But I do write down any question that comes up, if it remains unanswered at the end of the conversation. It can be as basic as "Amtrack?" written on a random scrap of paper, or it can be an entire outline of questions, sub-questions, and other points to consider, neatly written in my current favorite spiral-bound notebook.

Strangely enough, I do get back to all of these questions. I never met a question I didn't want to answer. And as I mentioned earlier today, I'm a bit OCD about some things.

One of those things is paper. Any scrap of paper I see, I have to evaluate its value. I have to hold and examine it. My ultimate goal, though, is to be able to dispose of it because I'm done with it and I will never need it again.

Recently I've noticed that both my kids read these notes I write to myself. They also read my e-mail, but that's a topic for another post. When did I realize this?

A couple of weeks ago, I was walking Stick Girl to a birthday party that was--for once--close enough to walk to. Simian Boy was along on the stroll. We passed part of the golf course and a foursome was teeing off.

Stick Girl has spent some time watching the golfers, over at her friend Tori's, because their house is actually on the course and has a net over their yard. Apparently they enjoy purposely making the golfers laugh, by watching one of them tee off and then clapping for him. They think this is great fun, even if they don't know why it's funny.

And also apparently, they listen to what the golfers say.

So there we were, walking down the street, and a guy teed off.

"Big hit!" said Stick Girl.

"Yeah, big hitter, the Lama," said Simian Boy.

Time to start locking up my spiral-bound notebooks. Or is that the OCD talking?

Anyone?

Being mildly OCD as I am--and I know most of y'all don't believe that because most of the time I look like a drunken slob--I have this method of organization that includes leaving any e-mails that require action in my in-box until they're over and done with. I can't move them to an "action item" folder because then I would never see them, and I'd miss all these deadlines and stuff.

Not that I have many deadlines.

Anyhoo, all of my action items right now have to do with end-of-school stuff. Apparently the school year can't just, I dunno, END--it must be celebrated. Repeatedly. Teachers and leaders thanked, snacks funded, good times reviewed.

While I certainly understand why my kids love this stuff, and wholeheartedly agree that thank-you gifts are in order...it still bugs the crap out of me. I really don't like going to my kids' in-school parties. When I grew up, parents didn't attend the school Christmas party (except it's now called the "December Break Party") or the Valentines party or field day. Parents weren't invited. End of story.

But I find that I'm socially obligated to attend these things. And you know what? I don't want to. I've been through Kindergarten through twelfth grade once, and I don't want to do any of it again. Even the pleasant parts, like the parties.

So could someone--anyone--please send me an e-mail that has nothing to do with school ending? Thanks so much.

Because I'm Bored and I Have An Active Imagination

I swear I just saw Don Henley at the grocery store.

I mean, I know I didn't. But one of his homes is only a few miles South of here, and granted there are TONS of grocery stores between here and there, and Don has no reason to cross LBJ freeway, let alone SH121. Oh, except we have a pretty good mall. And maybe he was on his way to Willie Nelson's place.

It was probably just some guy I see at the grocery store a lot. Who looks a lot like Don Henley.

Bees, Tornadoes, and Jellyfish

My daughter has a recurring nightmare involving tornadoes.

This may be my fault. Once I was watching the movie "Twister" when she was pretty young, and I think it made a permanent impression.

On top of that, we do have frequent tornadoes and--as opposed to where I grew up--I take the tornado siren seriously. We really do go and sit in the closet when it goes off.

Growing up, we didn't live anywhere near a tornado siren. We were also in an area totally ignored by the local weather broadcast. It was as if we didn't exist as far as KTHI, WDAZ, and KXJB were concerned. We were NEVER included in the evening stats and predictions, we weren't on their map, and hell, we had more than one tornado over the years that was NEVER MENTIONED on the news. This isn't because we were on the edge of their broadcast--most towns all around us got coverage. Smaller towns than us consistently were told what temps to expect in their town the next day, but Warren, Minnesota? Never. Or almost never.

Once. Exactly once in the 18 years I lived in that town, did they acknowledge that any weather even occurred in Warren. It happened to be the day that my sister's science class was studying weather prediction, and called it in to the TV station, strongly encouraging them to put it on their broadcast. So once, it appeared on TV, and let me point out--they didn't even have to do the predicting themselves. All they had to do was type it in.

It wasn't that we weren't ever included; that wasn't too bad. It was they way they INSINUATED that since they weren't predicting the weather in our town, there WAS no weather going on in our town.

"Blizzard hit Warren? It's not on our radar. Must not be too bad."

Years later, the TV stations went through some ownership changes, and a lot of on-air talent changes, and also I think my town (and a few others) led a revolt. It was probably associated with the Flood of '97, in that other towns with LESS to worry about were given more information about the pre-flood conditions. In other words, loss of property and possible loss of life had to occur before the local meteorologists discovered that weather in Warren, Minnesota does in fact exist.

(Oh, that and Doppler and NEXRAD.)

Lovin' that man o' mine

I was just considering a trip to the store. I have to get the timing right on these trips, sometimes. Usually I try to go in the afternoon, but before the kids are out of school, because they really don't like going to the store with me. I get really bossy at the store: "No, we can't have 'Super Sugar Poof Cereal, now with meth!'" "No, you can't have another water cannon." "Let your sister out of the freezer--she's turning blue." "I'm pretty sure handicap cart racing isn't going to be a new NASCAR tier any time soon."

Basically, I only wanted to go to the store for beer, because I know for a fact I only have 5 Shiners left, which is the lowest I ever allow the inventory to get before 6pm.

Then I double-checked the fridge and remembered: The Jesus of Cheese bought me beer on Sunday! I have LOTS of beer!

O, how I love that man.

Hiya, Googler!

Just want to make a post that hit all the topics that bring new folks here from Google searches. The following statement is a total lie:

The other day my husband The Jesus of Cheese was playing "Roxanne" on his Joe Satriani Ibanez and I was counting up just how many times they sing "Put on the red light" in that song. Then I asked him to play "Girl from Ipanema" because that song's from Brazil, right? Then, since my TMJ (temporomandibular joint) Disorder hasn't been acting up, I gave him a blow job. But I didn't finish because the NASCAR race came on. Too bad, so sad.

Once again, this didn't happen.

Oh, I forgot one: I know how to make a hobby horse out of cardboard but I'm not going to tell you how because I tried to write down the steps and it's a really LONG "how-to" post. But maybe I could give you a clue.

Um, okay, there's a picture of the hobby horse somewhere on the blog. That should give you a clue. Oh, and to hold it together, use Liquid Nails. Buy it at Home Depot.

You can TOO wear it again!

Back in the early 90s, my brother got married in a place called Olga, North Dakota. It consisted of a couple of houses, a Catholic church, a town hall, and a bar. All the buildings in town were used in the festivities.

My sister and I were both bridesmaids. We were to make, or have someone els make our own dresses, the design of which positively screamed "early 90s bridesmaid dress."

The bodice was black velvet, and had a sweetheart neckline. The skirt was poofy and tea-length, the sleeves were puffy princess 3/4 length, both in iridescent emerald green.

Every bride thinks that the dresses she has chosen will be beautiful, practical, and can be worn again for some other function.

On this one, though, I was kind of unsure. It's not like I was likely to be invited to a Leprechaun Prom anytime soon.

(Incidentally, when got married myself and I chose a dress for my ONE bridesmaid, it was exactly the same as my wedding dress, in blue instead of white, and I told my sister The BeerHound who had to wear it that there was probably no way in hell she could ever find another use for it, but I was paying for it, so it's not like it was a financial loss on top of a fashion loss.)

So. The dress from The Boy's wedding. It was actually exactly in fashion, at the time. The biggest issue I had with it was that it was difficult to sew.

Yes, I sew. I sew better than most professional seamstresses. It would have been a waste of money (that I didn't have) to pay someone else to make it.

It is phenomenally difficult to sew velvet. You could pin that stuff together every 1/4 inch and it would still move around on you. I know. I tried.

So I made the dress. It was nearly done, except for the hem, and it was one day away from having to leave for the wedding. No one had told me the length the hem was supposed to be. I tried the bride, but she was out with her friends, my sister wasn't home, and finally I called my mom who also didn't know, but she told me to wing it.

First, I had the ONLY totally irrational temper tantrum my ex ever saw me have. I scared him.

Then I picked a hem length, and sewed it.

I have NO idea why it was so important to me at the time. Like I said--irrational.

The whole deal was, I didn't particularly want to be a bridesmaid. While some young women really enjoy that, I never did. I'd rather be the personal attendant, or the wedding party liaison, or whatever. I really like being the person who shows up at a wedding with a bag of tricks and fixes all the problems and makes the crises go away.

Either that, or I'd rather just be a guest. Give me some alcohol and I'm happy.

The wedding itself was lovely. Fun.

But then...I had this dress that I'd worked my ASS off making, and I couldn't just get rid of it. I was probably going to put it up for sale at the consignment shop, when Sweet Irish George called me about a week and a half after the wedding and asked if I had a sewing machine he could borrow. I told him sure, and he could borrow a seamstress as well. He needed a Halloween costume; he wanted to be Robin Hood.

I asked if he'd like a green iridescent cape. He said sure. I said how about a matching hat out of my scrap fabric. He said great.

So George came over and I gleefully sliced the skirt off the dress. He was a little nervous that I was ruining a dress I'd obviously put a lot of work into, but I told him it was my work and if I wanted to ruin it, I would.

George looked great in his costume. I guess he still has it.

Once I looked closely at the rest of the dress--that bodice that had taken so many hours and so many pins--I decided it could be made into some type of renaissance-era dress with just a few eyelets and a leather shoestring up the back. Oh, and another skirt.

It was the start of my "beer wench" traditional halloween costume. I think I wore it several times as that, with different skirts and stuff.

Then one year I got it into my head that I should be a Dryad for Halloween. (Look it up; I'll wait.) So I grabbed the bodice, finally cut off the iridescent green sleeves, and cut the underskirt into strips. Then I stapled craft leaves that I bought at Michael's onto the strips and around the sleeves.

The color from the leaves got all over my skin and I looked like I had a liver disease. And the following week, I finally threw the whole thing away.

See? You CAN wear a bridesmaid dress again!

Turtles

This morning my kids reminded me of turtles, with their backpacks; Stick Girl had problems getting into the back of the convertible and was "stuck" because her backpack was bigger than her (the seat wasn't tipped forward.) When I was young, I don't remember carrying so much crap to school.

My Kindergarten education wasn't nearly so paper-based as my children's seems to be. I didn't have nearly as much to carry. Sometimes carried my lunch in my Peanuts lunch box (The Boy and The BeerHound has Partridge Family ones.) I think sometimes I brought home crap I had made, like the handprint in playdough and the "Brown Bear" book. But Kindergarten was different back then; it was more like pre-school is now. I learned the alphabet, but not how to read. I learned counting, but not math. I learned the months of the year and the days of the week.

But let's face it: I already knew all that crap before I went to Kindergarten. In fact, I had the misguided notion only a 5-year-old can have, that I was supposed to know all that before they let me IN. I thought there was a test.

And at my school, unfortunately, THERE WAS A TEST. It wasn't a test of knowledge, specifically; it was a psychological test to see if the kids were "ready" for Kindergarten.

The child psychologist was a hippie. Lennon glasses, long hair, beard and mustache, Jesus sandals. Whatever. Except I'm kind of amazed that they even let him in the building looking like that; it was 1973 and hippies were NOT welcome in my hometown.

He gave me a test, the parts of which I remember were tying a shoe which wasn't a real shoe; it was a cardboard drawing with holes punched in it and a lace through it; and drawing a person, next to which was an example of a stick person.

Now, I've always known pretty quickly who I did and didn't like, and I DID NOT LIKE this guy. He was condescending. His tests were condescending. I wouldn't talk to him and I wouldn't do anything he asked.

So when it was time to actually register me for Kindergarten, apparently there was a PUBLIC LIST of how each child ranked for intelligence and maturity--you saw where your kid fell on the scale, and also where EVERYONE ELSE'S KID ranked. I know this is illegal now, and I'm pretty sure it was illegal then.

However, this turned out to be a lucky thing, because my friend Otis's mom got there before my mom. She saw where Otis was ranked and thought it was accurate. Then she saw that I was ranked at the maturity and intelligence level of a 3 year old, and she had a fit. She pointed out to the principal, the teacher, the secretary, and the school counselor (who was NOT the hippie) that I knew my entire alphabet, could count to 49, draw detailed pictures of people all the way down to their eyelashes, and had in fact taught Otis how to tie his shoes. And also, that I was initially shy but would happily talk to anyone, once I got to know them.

By the time my mom got there, the secretary headed her off and said, "We understand there's been a mistake in regard to your daughter's testing."

To which my mom replied, "I'm not surprised. My daughter said that the guy who tested her couldn't even draw a real person; he just had some lines. And he couldn't tie his own shoes either, since he had to wear sandals with buckles."

I really did think that guy was stupid. In my thinking, there was no point in tying the laces on a fake shoe, because the only reason to tie your shoes is to keep them on your feet. The fake shoe served no practical purpose, so tying it was pointless.

Looking back, I'm pretty sure the guy was biased against girls, and I have the statistics to prove it. The class ahead of me, the class of '85, had (in 1984) 56 people, 25 of whom were girls--44%. My class, '86, had 47 people, 15 of whom were girls--31%. The class of '87 had 44 people, 21 of whom were girls=47%.

So the female percentage dropped from 44%, went down to 31%, then went up to 47%? I can think of at least five girls in the class of '87 who were supposed to be in my class, and only one of them, in retrospect, would I say was behind in maturity/social skills. A couple of them were being abused by their father (we found out much later). I can think of a couple of boys who were also held back, but that assessment was probably correct.

I'm pretty sure I'm the only person who even remembers any of this, and I'm tempted to call my grade school and ask to see my "Permanent Record." You know, just to see if I've been wrong all my life, and I'm actually really stupid and anti-social.

Then I'll find that psychologist and ask him to draw a picture of this:

Dante, AKA an addendum to the North Dakota trip from June 2007

There was this time, I was at this McDonald's in--Kansas? Nebraska? South Dakota?--some flyover state. And the cashier took something like five orders ahead of me, gave each person a receipt, and told them to wait for their order.

When I got up front and gave my order, she asked me to step to the side. I refused. I stood there and waited for my food, and kept her from taking more orders.

I mean, it was fucking MCDONALD'S--where these managers are supposed to have gone to burger college, or something. Where you should KNOW that you don't take SIX orders (that's including mine) and then try and take a seventh, without even starting to pour the drinks for the first one. She had a lot of hostile people in line.

I was DEFINITELY one of them, but really, I was giving the woman a break; an excuse to actually, oh, I dunno, DO HER FUCKING JOB. (Granted, she was seriously impeded by a co-worker who was obviously hopped up on meth and Red Bull, but even so.)

It wasn't Burger King, or Whataburger, or any place where there's a protocol for giving people a receipt and making them wait a while for their order.

I was really mad. I was going to write a letter. But I didn't.

Because, you know, it was just in one of those flyover states.

And you know, Hell defines its own levels.