Update: Merry New Year

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

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

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

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

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

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

Y'all rock.

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

"Thy will be done."

Just a thought

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

Unless I die naked. That would be fab.

AM Flashback

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Someone left the cake out in the rain

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

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

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

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

As Starfyfreak would say: TOTALLY RANDOM.

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

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

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

Thanks.

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

Bad News, Folks.

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

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

Curtsinger 911

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Daily Messages

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Summer cave retreat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My whole family is looking forward to that day.

Dreams, Insomnia, Resolution

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hotdish

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Most popular is Tator Tot Hotdish:

Ingredients:

Tator Tots

1 lb. ground beef

1/2 C diced onions

1 can of corn

1 can of Cream of Mushroom Soup

Salt and pepper to taste. Any other spices are heretical.

Brown the ground beef with the onions. Spread it in a layer on the bottom of a casserole (I know; shut up) dish. Salt and pepper to taste. Next, carefully spread the Cream of Mushroom soup, straight from the can, over the layer of ground beef and onions. Smooth it out with a spatula. Then, open the corn and drain the corn...okay, squeeze out every bit of water that you are able...oh just use frozen! Spread the corn in an even layer on top of the soup. Then spread a layer of (still frozen) Tator Tots on top. I'm OCD (discussed on an earlier blog post) so I usually line them up really neatly.

Then bake it uncovered at 350F for an hour. Best when served with buttered white bread.

If you want to get fancy you can add a layer of American cheese, but I usually don't.

That's it.

Oh, wait. There's more to this Hotdish thing. Everyone has their own specialty. If you ever ask someone for their hotdish recipe, the recipe they give you will NOT be the way they usually cook it themselves. When you attempt it, your hotdish will be good, but not the same as your friend's hotdish.

Which was the point of this whole post. I'm about to give up my mom's secret to her hotdish.

That's right. Lois' Rice Hotdish, finally revealed to the public for the first time ever!

(It has no potatoes. Shut up.)

Lois' Rice Hotdish: Now that I've told you this, I'll have to kill you. Oh, by the way, read the whole recipe through before you attempt it. It's not for amateurs.

Ingredients:

1 lb lean ground beef (at least 93%)

1 Cup diced onion (your choice but I prefer scallions. I mean, green onions. Whatever.)

1 Cup diced cellery

1 (small) can of mushrooms; ends and pieces are fine

1 1/2 Cup long grain rice (uncooked)

1 1/2 tsp molasses

1 1/2 tsp Kitchen Boquet (next to the Worcestershire sauce at the store. You know, by the steak sauce. It's a brown bottle with a yellow label)

1 1/2 tsp soy sauce

(I use twice as much mollasses, Kitchen Bouquet, and soy sauce. Actually, I just pour in "some.")

1 Can Cream of Mushroom Soup

3 Cups water

For this, you need something bigger than a casserole dish. I suggest the covered roaster you can bake a whole chicken in, but not the one that's for the Thanksgiving turkey. Whatever you use, it must have a lid that fits well.

Now we get to the secret. In a large bowl, combine all ingredients. Do NOT pre-cook the ground beef or anything else. Really. You're putting in the ground beef raw.

Combine until it's fairly uniform. Okay, I know it's not going to be uniform, what with the celery and whatnot. But mix thoroughly.

You want to know the best way to do that? No, you really don't but I'm going to tell you anyway.

Use your hand. Of course, you wash your hands first. Also, you can put on a latex glove to do it. (Found in the pharmacy section of the store; get the ones WITHOUT corn starch. They also come in handy for cutting jalapenos and other things that might stain or sting.)

Anyway, squish the ground beef in the gloppy mixture until resembles...well it will look gross. Mix until there are no lumps of ground beef. It's like making meat loaf, but runnier. The rice will sink to the bottom; don't worry about it.

This CAN be done with a spoon or a wire whisk, but it takes longer that way.

Pour it into the roaster or whatever you're cooking it in, cover and bake in a 350F oven for 90 minutes. Yep, an hour and a half. Stir it every 30 minutes or the ground beef will float. Oh, and the last 30 minutes is usually only 15 minutes in my oven. YMMV.

Once again, serve with buttered white bread. You can also put more soy sauce on top of it before you eat it.

There. Now you all know the secret. May God have mercy on my soul.

But I'm not kidding about the buttered white bread.

It's time to be honest about my OCD.

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

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

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

I know. Ew.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Power Of God

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

1981 was a horrible year for me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Okay, read your line."

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

"Okay, read your line."

AHHHH FEEDBACK!

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

And then, the thing I heard the most:

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

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

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

"Because you have such a good speaking voice!"

WHAT.THE.FUCK.

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

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

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

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

It was 11:55.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oppression upsets me, okay?

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

Tax

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

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

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

We bowled ONCE.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But then, that was The Alley.

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

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

Oh, about the quitting smoking

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

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

Here's how I did it:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And then he punched me

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just as I walked around the corner.

Pocono recap

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

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

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

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

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

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

RIP Koko Taylor

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What about?"

"Baby seats."

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

It felt good to breathe fresh air.

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

"What are you doing with your summer?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charmin: Soft, Strong, or Basic?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Welcome to Spring Break!

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

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

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

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

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

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

Um. No. Just no.

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

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

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

He was on Spring Break.

Carpool

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

Mostly because I was really hungry 45 minutes ago.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

BECAUSE THEY'RE ASSHATS.

Alberta Clipper

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Misery loves company, after all.

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

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

I think I dreamt this once.

Vacuum

Some time today, I get to clean my vacuum.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2) Vacuum was expensive.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A thank you, and a reminder

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

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

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

--

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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






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

What I'd really like to say

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

Dear Sir, Madame, or Other:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sincerely,

Arnie Schnurdbottom