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?
Friday, May 30, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, May 29, 2008
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.
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.)
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.)
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
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.
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.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, May 22, 2008
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!
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!
Monday, May 19, 2008
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:
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:
Friday, May 16, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, May 15, 2008
Confidential to The Boy
I'll work that one in some time when I'm writing about the damn golf course that surrounds my house.
Until then, have fun stormin' the castle!
Until then, have fun stormin' the castle!
Flux
I've had a weird week. I've tried to blog it several times, but what ended up on those pages would have first made you cringe, and then made you run away thinking I'm pathetic and sad.
"But social!"
Kudos to anyone who gets that movie reference.
Therefore, I'll try to really shorthand it for you. 1) Simian Boy issues. 2) Female Trouble. 3) Death. 4) War. 5) Taxes.
You can stop reading now.
Still with me?
Begin exposition.
1) You don't need to know even more about enemas than you already know. Let' move on.
2) Being 40 and pre-menopausal isn't my only problem. I've got a BUNCH of uterine fibroids and you will be very happy I'm not going to 'spain how this was diagnosed. I don't know what the next step is because my doctor has this habit of going off and delivering other people's babies when I want to talk to her. Also, I got my boobs squished in that machine again and this time it actually hurt. But not for long, and it's still less painful than the dentist.
3) My aunt died. She was my dad's only sibling. A few months ago I volunteered that when she died, I would go to the funeral to "represent the family." (Dad can't fly any more, we don't want my parents to drive that far any more, and everyone else has a job.) Lucky me, she's already been cremated and they had a "private family service" for her. A memorial will occur later, but none of us need to go to that.
Which tells me, that we weren't considered "close" enough to even be invited to the private service, and not important enough to go to the memorial. Which, considering that my Dad was her only brother, is pathetic and sad. And anti-social. We're blaming the whole thing on this woman having become a "West-coaster" over 60 years ago. We don't know what's up. We don't care. Well, my mom and dad do, but they're still feeling guilty about being relieved that they don't have to go to Washington state and make nice.
What's bothering me is that it puts a blinking neon highlight on the fact that my Dad isn't doing well.
4) Watch The Daily Show interview from Monday. It depressed me horribly.
5) Our rebate check won't come until June because our "electronic filing" technically wasn't electronic, according to the IRS because it came through a secondary source. So we get a hard check with everyone else, in June.
Wow, June's gonna be a Red Letter Month for me, huh.
But hey! I bought a new vacuum yesterday and the Jesus of Cheese was thrilled! I'm gong to vacuum the whole house today after I get done making copies!
So I've got that going for me. Which is nice.
"But social!"
Kudos to anyone who gets that movie reference.
Therefore, I'll try to really shorthand it for you. 1) Simian Boy issues. 2) Female Trouble. 3) Death. 4) War. 5) Taxes.
You can stop reading now.
Still with me?
Begin exposition.
1) You don't need to know even more about enemas than you already know. Let' move on.
2) Being 40 and pre-menopausal isn't my only problem. I've got a BUNCH of uterine fibroids and you will be very happy I'm not going to 'spain how this was diagnosed. I don't know what the next step is because my doctor has this habit of going off and delivering other people's babies when I want to talk to her. Also, I got my boobs squished in that machine again and this time it actually hurt. But not for long, and it's still less painful than the dentist.
3) My aunt died. She was my dad's only sibling. A few months ago I volunteered that when she died, I would go to the funeral to "represent the family." (Dad can't fly any more, we don't want my parents to drive that far any more, and everyone else has a job.) Lucky me, she's already been cremated and they had a "private family service" for her. A memorial will occur later, but none of us need to go to that.
Which tells me, that we weren't considered "close" enough to even be invited to the private service, and not important enough to go to the memorial. Which, considering that my Dad was her only brother, is pathetic and sad. And anti-social. We're blaming the whole thing on this woman having become a "West-coaster" over 60 years ago. We don't know what's up. We don't care. Well, my mom and dad do, but they're still feeling guilty about being relieved that they don't have to go to Washington state and make nice.
What's bothering me is that it puts a blinking neon highlight on the fact that my Dad isn't doing well.
4) Watch The Daily Show interview from Monday. It depressed me horribly.
5) Our rebate check won't come until June because our "electronic filing" technically wasn't electronic, according to the IRS because it came through a secondary source. So we get a hard check with everyone else, in June.
Wow, June's gonna be a Red Letter Month for me, huh.
But hey! I bought a new vacuum yesterday and the Jesus of Cheese was thrilled! I'm gong to vacuum the whole house today after I get done making copies!
So I've got that going for me. Which is nice.
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Dumplin'
The Jesus of Cheese is cooking. I hate when he cooks.
He's a very visual guy, and very typical in not ever reading directions--even when I specifically say, "Please read/look at/at least acknowledge this because I need you to."
Here's an example: Years ago, he decided to make me acorn squash because he loves how his mom/grandma made it. I hate squash. I WON'T ever like it. But I said I would try it because he wanted to do it for me.
So he prepared it how he'd seen his mom do it, and then was very confused as to why cutting it in half, scraping out the seeds, putting in butter and brown sugar and then sticking it in the oven for 40 minutes didn't work.
I asked if he'd asked his mom how to do it, and he said no. It never occurred to him that he hadn't seen the whole process--like the steaming it on the stove for almost an hour before it was baked.
He's done this with a lot of foods.
Anyway, ever since I've met him, he's been wanting a re-creation of his grandmother's dumplings. Even his mom has no idea how her mom did them, though she's come up with a recipe that's as close as she thinks she can get. I've made him that recipe. I've made him other recipes I've found. I've made him my mom's recipe. I even tried Bisquick, because we all know that Grandmas sometimes took shortcuts we didn't know about.
NONE of them have been "right." And he keeps describing the SHAPE of the damn dumplings, as if making them the right shape will also make them the right taste.
(He seems to always forget that I cut them how he wants, and they're still not right.)
So right now, he's making dumplings. Except that he didn't give me the ingredients when I went to the store last, even though I asked him what he needed.
He assumed that we had Crisco in the house. I don't cook with Crisco, unless it's a pretty specific recipe. Even then, I buy in small amounts, and even then it sits in the cupboard so long it goes bad.
So he got all pissed off that we don't have Crisco. I made him use unsalted butter instead, which in my opinion could only improve the recipe.
Anyway, he's thrashing around my kitchen (and YES, it IS mine) doing his passive-aggressive cooking.
Why is it passive-aggressive? He looks for things, can't find them, looks even more loudly (yes, you CAN look for something loudly) and after totally frustrating and pissing himself off, he demands to know where [X] is.
I don't think this batch will turn out like he hopes. The lack of Crisco will be blamed.
And once again, it will be my fault.
At least my beer never blames me for anything.
He's a very visual guy, and very typical in not ever reading directions--even when I specifically say, "Please read/look at/at least acknowledge this because I need you to."
Here's an example: Years ago, he decided to make me acorn squash because he loves how his mom/grandma made it. I hate squash. I WON'T ever like it. But I said I would try it because he wanted to do it for me.
So he prepared it how he'd seen his mom do it, and then was very confused as to why cutting it in half, scraping out the seeds, putting in butter and brown sugar and then sticking it in the oven for 40 minutes didn't work.
I asked if he'd asked his mom how to do it, and he said no. It never occurred to him that he hadn't seen the whole process--like the steaming it on the stove for almost an hour before it was baked.
He's done this with a lot of foods.
Anyway, ever since I've met him, he's been wanting a re-creation of his grandmother's dumplings. Even his mom has no idea how her mom did them, though she's come up with a recipe that's as close as she thinks she can get. I've made him that recipe. I've made him other recipes I've found. I've made him my mom's recipe. I even tried Bisquick, because we all know that Grandmas sometimes took shortcuts we didn't know about.
NONE of them have been "right." And he keeps describing the SHAPE of the damn dumplings, as if making them the right shape will also make them the right taste.
(He seems to always forget that I cut them how he wants, and they're still not right.)
So right now, he's making dumplings. Except that he didn't give me the ingredients when I went to the store last, even though I asked him what he needed.
He assumed that we had Crisco in the house. I don't cook with Crisco, unless it's a pretty specific recipe. Even then, I buy in small amounts, and even then it sits in the cupboard so long it goes bad.
So he got all pissed off that we don't have Crisco. I made him use unsalted butter instead, which in my opinion could only improve the recipe.
Anyway, he's thrashing around my kitchen (and YES, it IS mine) doing his passive-aggressive cooking.
Why is it passive-aggressive? He looks for things, can't find them, looks even more loudly (yes, you CAN look for something loudly) and after totally frustrating and pissing himself off, he demands to know where [X] is.
I don't think this batch will turn out like he hopes. The lack of Crisco will be blamed.
And once again, it will be my fault.
At least my beer never blames me for anything.
Sunday, May 4, 2008
Race Recap: Richmond
Let's get this off the table, quick: Denny ran up front until he was fucked over by his own tire, and then his own bad judgment. Too bad, so sad.
[Explanation for non-fans: Denny Hamlin won the pole for the Richmond race, and then led the majority of laps, and incidentally led the most laps ever in a Richmond race. Then he thought maybe, kinda, he had a tire going down. He dropped back several spots, then the tire finally blew and he came to a complete stop at the top of a turn, until the officials called a caution. They don't call a caution for incidents unless a car is a danger to other cars. As soon as the caution was called, he calmly drove to the pits, which indicated he stopped on purpose. He was penalized by being made to sit in the pits for two laps, effectively erasing any advantage he hoped to gain by forcing a caution. So if he had just gone to the pits as soon as he knew his tire was bad, he would have had a good finish, even if he wouldn't have won.]
Then Junebug took the lead! It was spectacular! Fantabulous!
[Dale Earnhardt, Jr. hasn't won a race in two years. Two years ago at Richmond. He's the most popular driver, and people REALLY want him to win a race...soon.]
All along, Kyle Bush (who I used to refer to as The Perve, and not like I don't think that's still accurate--he's The Perve Who Can Drive Three-Wide By Himself) was in the top five. Solidly there, foiling the plans of other drivers. He was in second place, racing Junebug hard, when Junebug pulled a classic Earnhardt move and tried to force Kyle into second. Kyle got loose and wrecked Junebug, which, to quote the TV commentators, had all the fans "shaking their fists" at Kyle.
Meanwhile as that was unfolding, before the caution was called, Bowyer took the lead...and held it.
I like Bowyer.
At the checkered flag, it was Bowyer, Kyle Bush, Martin, Stewart.
STEWART! You know I love the man. He had sort of a crappy day racing, and then during the red flag (I don't remember who to blame for that...) he reported problems with his alternator. Hmmm.
He had to shut down all "non-essential" electrical functions. Like fans. The fans for the air conditioning to his helmet, and the rotors and brakes and, well, everything.
For the last 100 laps.
And he worked his way up to 4th place.
Which makes him once again, my hero.
[Explanation for non-fans: Denny Hamlin won the pole for the Richmond race, and then led the majority of laps, and incidentally led the most laps ever in a Richmond race. Then he thought maybe, kinda, he had a tire going down. He dropped back several spots, then the tire finally blew and he came to a complete stop at the top of a turn, until the officials called a caution. They don't call a caution for incidents unless a car is a danger to other cars. As soon as the caution was called, he calmly drove to the pits, which indicated he stopped on purpose. He was penalized by being made to sit in the pits for two laps, effectively erasing any advantage he hoped to gain by forcing a caution. So if he had just gone to the pits as soon as he knew his tire was bad, he would have had a good finish, even if he wouldn't have won.]
Then Junebug took the lead! It was spectacular! Fantabulous!
[Dale Earnhardt, Jr. hasn't won a race in two years. Two years ago at Richmond. He's the most popular driver, and people REALLY want him to win a race...soon.]
All along, Kyle Bush (who I used to refer to as The Perve, and not like I don't think that's still accurate--he's The Perve Who Can Drive Three-Wide By Himself) was in the top five. Solidly there, foiling the plans of other drivers. He was in second place, racing Junebug hard, when Junebug pulled a classic Earnhardt move and tried to force Kyle into second. Kyle got loose and wrecked Junebug, which, to quote the TV commentators, had all the fans "shaking their fists" at Kyle.
Meanwhile as that was unfolding, before the caution was called, Bowyer took the lead...and held it.
I like Bowyer.
At the checkered flag, it was Bowyer, Kyle Bush, Martin, Stewart.
STEWART! You know I love the man. He had sort of a crappy day racing, and then during the red flag (I don't remember who to blame for that...) he reported problems with his alternator. Hmmm.
He had to shut down all "non-essential" electrical functions. Like fans. The fans for the air conditioning to his helmet, and the rotors and brakes and, well, everything.
For the last 100 laps.
And he worked his way up to 4th place.
Which makes him once again, my hero.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Last month of school Hell
Economics Fair day (for my daughter) and Farm and Ranch Day (for my son) are OVER!
Farm and ranch day is really cute. They learn all about agriculture, and then they dress up like farmers or ranchers, which I found really funny because the farmers I knew (my dad, me, my brother, and um, well, ALL my relatives on that side of the family) didn't dress like people think of farmers: bib overalls, straw hat, etc. My dad, for instance, wore hand-me-down baggage handler uniforms he got from my uncle who worked for Northwest Airlines. I wore jeans or sweatpants and a t-shirt, with a bikini underneath so I could get a tan during any down time I could catch. My brother wore jeans and Nikes. We all wore baseball caps from the local farm implement company. Sometimes I wore sunscreen, and there was also a frequent donning of dust masks.
Deciding to go traditional, Simian Boy wore cowboy boots, a denim Wrangler shirt, a cowboy hat, and bandana. The bandana was the ONLY authentic, used by an actual farmer item he had; it was my dad's. He promptly ditched the bandana and hat in the car before school ;-(
And did I mention the hobby horse? Well, they had to make a hobby horse. They gave us a template of a horse head and face, and we were supposed to transfer it to sturdy cardboard, attach a yardstick, and decorate it.
Here it is:
This is the third one of these things I've built. The first was for Stick Girl when she was in Kinder, and it unfortunately coincided with the death of The Jesus of Cheese's Grandmother, so we had to get ready to go to the ACUTAL ranch, the day before Ranch Day. Simian Boy saw his sister's horse and demanded one also.
They were cute. They took them to the actual ranch. They wore their cowboy boots so as not to be bitten by snakes.
I got very tired of trying to store the hobby horses and threw them out almost two years ago. I'm glad I didn't do it recently, because then I would have been really mad at myself.
The ranch day activities involved relay races. One of those was while riding the hobby horses. One was they had a pair of cowboy boots, and the class split into two teams, to see who could throw more [rubber] snakes in a boot from a distance.
Did I mention that it was very windy? Well, it was. So we volunteers encouraged cheating. My team won ;-)
Another was two pairs of cowboy boots and two hats, and once again two teams. In succession, each team member had to put on the [adult-sized] boots and hat, run around an orange cone, and then back to hand the boots and hat off to the next team member.
It sounds silly, but it was funny as hell!
Then I had to go and make copies. It took me 2.5 hours so I don't feel bad that I skipped out on half of Ranch day.
Meanwhile, parents were NOT allowed at Economics Fair. Each child was supposed to think of a product to sell their classmates. The budget limit was $20. Then they learned how to market the product. Meanwhile, they were earning "dollars" at school to buy things from their classmates on the big day.
With a LOT of input from me, Stick Girl came up with an Emergency Hygene Kit. It contained a snack (because if you're rushed, you should always make sure you eat!), plus a tooth flosser, a Dentaburst to clean teeth, a Kleenex, a Wet-Nap to clean hands and face, a breath mint, and a comb.
If this sounds suspiciously like the crap I always carry in my purse (when I bother to carry a purse), or like a scaled-down version of why I bring to renaissance fairs, music festivals, NASCAR races, weddings, and funerals, it's not a coincidence.
We assembled them over the past few days, but it was really hard to find combs cheap enough to stay in budget, so I only found them yesterday. Coincidentally, I agreed to sub-contract for my daughter on the project and I was up late, sticking combs in plastic bags already filled with a lot of other crap.
To conclude THAT story, she sold out of her product! Kids chose what they wanted based on what snack was in the bag; peanut allergy kids chose gummi bears, and other pickiness was also catered-to. (We used it as an opportunity to unload all the snacks I'd bought that the kids decided they didn't like.)
And after writing all that, I think I'll actually post this.
Farm and ranch day is really cute. They learn all about agriculture, and then they dress up like farmers or ranchers, which I found really funny because the farmers I knew (my dad, me, my brother, and um, well, ALL my relatives on that side of the family) didn't dress like people think of farmers: bib overalls, straw hat, etc. My dad, for instance, wore hand-me-down baggage handler uniforms he got from my uncle who worked for Northwest Airlines. I wore jeans or sweatpants and a t-shirt, with a bikini underneath so I could get a tan during any down time I could catch. My brother wore jeans and Nikes. We all wore baseball caps from the local farm implement company. Sometimes I wore sunscreen, and there was also a frequent donning of dust masks.
Deciding to go traditional, Simian Boy wore cowboy boots, a denim Wrangler shirt, a cowboy hat, and bandana. The bandana was the ONLY authentic, used by an actual farmer item he had; it was my dad's. He promptly ditched the bandana and hat in the car before school ;-(
And did I mention the hobby horse? Well, they had to make a hobby horse. They gave us a template of a horse head and face, and we were supposed to transfer it to sturdy cardboard, attach a yardstick, and decorate it.
Here it is:
This is the third one of these things I've built. The first was for Stick Girl when she was in Kinder, and it unfortunately coincided with the death of The Jesus of Cheese's Grandmother, so we had to get ready to go to the ACUTAL ranch, the day before Ranch Day. Simian Boy saw his sister's horse and demanded one also.
They were cute. They took them to the actual ranch. They wore their cowboy boots so as not to be bitten by snakes.
I got very tired of trying to store the hobby horses and threw them out almost two years ago. I'm glad I didn't do it recently, because then I would have been really mad at myself.
The ranch day activities involved relay races. One of those was while riding the hobby horses. One was they had a pair of cowboy boots, and the class split into two teams, to see who could throw more [rubber] snakes in a boot from a distance.
Did I mention that it was very windy? Well, it was. So we volunteers encouraged cheating. My team won ;-)
Another was two pairs of cowboy boots and two hats, and once again two teams. In succession, each team member had to put on the [adult-sized] boots and hat, run around an orange cone, and then back to hand the boots and hat off to the next team member.
It sounds silly, but it was funny as hell!
Then I had to go and make copies. It took me 2.5 hours so I don't feel bad that I skipped out on half of Ranch day.
Meanwhile, parents were NOT allowed at Economics Fair. Each child was supposed to think of a product to sell their classmates. The budget limit was $20. Then they learned how to market the product. Meanwhile, they were earning "dollars" at school to buy things from their classmates on the big day.
With a LOT of input from me, Stick Girl came up with an Emergency Hygene Kit. It contained a snack (because if you're rushed, you should always make sure you eat!), plus a tooth flosser, a Dentaburst to clean teeth, a Kleenex, a Wet-Nap to clean hands and face, a breath mint, and a comb.
If this sounds suspiciously like the crap I always carry in my purse (when I bother to carry a purse), or like a scaled-down version of why I bring to renaissance fairs, music festivals, NASCAR races, weddings, and funerals, it's not a coincidence.
We assembled them over the past few days, but it was really hard to find combs cheap enough to stay in budget, so I only found them yesterday. Coincidentally, I agreed to sub-contract for my daughter on the project and I was up late, sticking combs in plastic bags already filled with a lot of other crap.
To conclude THAT story, she sold out of her product! Kids chose what they wanted based on what snack was in the bag; peanut allergy kids chose gummi bears, and other pickiness was also catered-to. (We used it as an opportunity to unload all the snacks I'd bought that the kids decided they didn't like.)
And after writing all that, I think I'll actually post this.
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