TTAM2 = Things That Annoy Me Part 2

Hi, my name is Lisa and it's been 17 days since I posted the first TTAM post. I'm not sure that bodes well for my patience. Obviously, this proves I am too easily annoyed. I blame it on pre-pre-menopause.

So here's the list:

Ten Things That Annoy Me since March 8 in no particular order of annoyance:

1. Trains. This train above in particular. On the one hand it's all cool and nostalgic to see and hear a train running through your very own tiny rural town. On the other hand, it's a pain in the keister when you are in a hurry. Those trains are long. And slow. And annoying.

2. Smoking. By anyone, anywhere, ever. Yeah, yeah it's your right to kill yourself slowly and painfully but don't take me with you. Also, it gives me a banging headache.

3. Returns. I hate having to return anything to any store. Even when I have the receipt and I know some uppity store clerk is not going to hassle me. I especially hate returning things that didn't work directly out of the package. Like the digital thermometer I bought at Wally World that has ONE button on it to push to turn the thing on. Did it work? No. It did not. Back to Customer Service I had to go.

4. Rude Car Drivers. Especially those who do not acknowledge my supremely magnanimous generosity when I let them into traffic in front of me even though they've been a douche and have not been paying attention to the obvious signs and traffic directions.

5. Companies I Have To Deal With. Mostly those who will not let ME access our accounts because the don't have BOTH of our names on them. Whatever. If they want my money, they'd best let me take care of things because Bryon has no idea what the passwords are or where to even find the websites. If I fall off the planet tomorrow, they are so screwed.

6. One Square. That Seinfeld episode was so great. The one where Elaine asked the lady in the stall beside her if she could spare a square when she realized her toilet paper dispenser was out of paper. Honestly, one square is not nearly enough, but when there are no squares...one is wonderful. If you use the last square, tell someone who can take care of it. Because if I don't have a square, someone will receive my wrath.


7. Pay At The Pump Receipts That Don't Print. Frankly, if I do not want to schlep the fifteen steps into your store for a receipt. Refill the dang printer paper on the pump. Don't ask if I want a freakin' receipt if you aren't prepared to deliver it.

8. The Chairs At Barnes & Noble.  I have a love/hate relationship with Barnes & Noble as it is. I feel like they basically crushed my true love, Borders, and ran them to bankruptcy. B&N is the only substantial bookstore/coffee shop in town so if I want to peruse new books with a cafe mocha in my hand, that's the place I have to go. They are not loiter friendly. The chairs are purposefully uncomfortable and few. If you aren't lucky enough to sit with the A Listers in the cafe, you're relegated to sitting with your back to the Glenstone Street window and facing a row of puzzle boxes. There isn't even anything to put your feet up on. AND they took the only two soft chairs out and replaced them with Sunday church pew-hard arm chairs.

I suppose we should be happy they have arms to balance our cafe mochas on. Honestly those soft chairs weren't the prize I thought they'd be anyway. One day I finally scored one. I immediately sank to the bottom of it and landed on a hard board and the chair smelled funky. NOT a good funky. A few times I've had to cruise the cafe and the row of Glenstone misfits like a vulture until someone finally bugs out. Friday I finally scored a Glenstone chair only to notice the not so subtle hint of dead mouse wafting from the wall behind me. Foiled again.

9. My Dog. Almost constantly.

10. Unreliable Bloggers. Especially those who wait 10 days between posts. Who can trust them?

I Got The Music In Me

Every once in a while you come across an album (can we still say album?) that is just right for the place and time you are occupying. It's like a cosmic gift. It punches all the right buttons and speaks the words you need to hear.

In the mid 80's there were three for me: Van Halen's Diver Down, Aerosmith's Greatest Hits and AC/DC's Back In Black. I have two of those albums on my most frequent playlist still. They were resurrected thanks to seven seasons of Supernatural. (Best show EVER by the way, seriously you should watch it if you dig monsters and apocalyptic terror. And really, who doesn't?)

The classic rock bug bit me hard again. I have seven AC/DC albums on my phone right now ready to rock at a moment's notice. Listening to those songs is like chatting with a long lost friend. They still get me even though I'm thirtyish years older. As soon as those church bells start bonging in Hell's Bells or those drum beats start banging in Back In Black, I'm sixteen again and cruising the strip in Bolivar wondering where exactly Bryon is. But that's a different post. Maybe I'll tell you that story one day if you don't already know it.


Bryon has always been a much bigger music buff than I have. And our friend Damon trumps us both. They can remember stats, musical histories, which band member was in which band and where they went or when they flamed out and died. I just remember emotions linked to songs and albums. I can't be bothered with the details.

I can barely stand to listen to a Journey album without tearing up with seventh grade angst. I went to every dance in the United Methodist Church basement. Junior high dances are painful, gut wrenching affairs. I had a big crush on one boy in particular who regularly attended those dances with his herd of friends. I asked him to dance every time to Open Arms, probably the drippiest most obvious song a goofy self-conscious thirteen year old girl could pick. He always danced with me (probably reluctantly) but I reveled in it and I can still conjure his clean, Zest soap smell.

He turned out to be a great guy but not THE GUY. Bryon was THE GUY and our HS song was Ratt's Round And Round. We danced many a foot loose night before that movie every became famous.

When I went to college, Pink Floyd's The Wall became one of my obsessions. I wrote a paper on it. Twelve pages if I remember correctly. It was the longest paper I'd ever written. It may have been the longest I had to write for my entire degree come to think of it. Wow, does twelve pages seem paltry now. I could write twelve pages in my sleep.

I'll have to admit to an elementary crush on Barry Manilow, Neil Sedaka and Shaun Cassidy. Shaun was the Justin Bieber of my time.

There were lots of others, too many to list. Just a couple of weeks ago, I found a new favorite: Dr. Dog Be The Void. There was a great review of them on NPR, and I finally downloaded their album to check them out after I heard them one day at my favorite coffee house.

I usually have to listen through an album several times before it takes root and grows or dies on the vine. I don't like story songs anymore. I've been wearing this album out while I burn down the highways.

I like Dr. Dog because it has a Kings of Leon/Mighty Mighty Bosstones meets the Bottle Rockets feel to me. Not every song makes a lot of sense but there are snippets of lyrics that hit spot on for me. I especially like That Old Black Hole. I wish I could give you a listen here, but you can check them out and the NPR interview if you would like.

It may not be your thing. You might not dig it. Music, like books, finds us when and where we are and gives us what we need if we are willing to accept it. Sometimes it gives us a shoulder to cry on, a driving beat and a boost of confidence to muddle through. And sometimes it's like an encrypted message from God with an answer you've been needing. Or a command to just wake up and smell the damn roses in a few lines of lyrics that won't mean crap to anyone else.

Because it's your music. And it's your time for it.

Purse Pursuit

I have been on a quest for the perfect purse for many years now. Searching for the perfect purse is much like the search for your soul mate. You have to try out several before you know for sure that you have finally found the right one.

Often, you think you have found the right one. He seems interesting. He is attractive to you in all the right ways. He surprises you with all of his useful qualities and handy pockets. (Uh, okay maybe not the pocket thing.) Then just when you have bought into his appeal and colorful exterior you realize that you really aren't a good fit after all.

He's dragging you down because he has too much baggage. In fact, he is the baggage. So you toss him away or in the case of the purse, relegate it to the back of the closet. Mr. Right wasn't Mr. Right at all. He was just Mr. Right-Now.

So like Don Quiote you once again tilt at windmills in search of the prize: the perfect purse.

I have quite a collection of almost purse soul mates. For a while, they were lovely. Then sometimes slowly, sometimes quickly, I fell out of love with them. It wasn't them, it was me. My needs changed.

In the 80's I carried tiny purses. I didn't need to carry a lot of stuff around. Keys, driver's license, some cash were all I really needed. In the 90's, I carried medium sized purses until I realized the larger the purse I carried the more crap I had to haul around. My shoulders began to hurt.

I switched to backpack style purses. Those worked great for a while, but soon enough newer models caught my eye. I returned to the small minimalistic purses with long straps I could loop over my head and across my back and chest. Carried the bare essentials. I was hands free before it was cool.

Then I had a baby. I needed a wagon, not a purse to convey all the extraneous gear babies bring to the game. Now that baby is seven and she can carry her own things.

It turns out, it still takes a lot of stuff to be me. It wasn't all baby weight after all.

My carefully cultivated preparedness mentality demands I carry a lot of just-in-case items. The sort of things you don't use very often but as sure as you remove it from your bag you need it and have to buy another one. Immediately.

Things like: a pocket knife, a bottle of Tylenol and antacids, my netbook, reusable shopping bags, gloves, hand lotion, weird loyalty cards and Silver Dollar City passes, extra gel pens, three chapsticks, hand sanitizer, hair barrettes, beads and buttons, a notebook, compact, wallet, phone, a book, a flashlight, a tire gauge.

You can't carry all of that in a tiny purse.

I can't even carry it in the large purse I have now. The quest continues. 

Long live the hero.

My365 Photo Challenge

Okay, this is a quickie. You like quickies right?

My friend Cara turned me on to this 365 day photo challenge. I have an iPhone so that makes it pretty easy. There's an app. My phone is also a camera. And this site Fatmumslim gives you photo topics everyday. The My365 app lets you post your pics to a calendar.

So far, here is what I have uploaded so far:

Something I wore

Window

Red

Loud

Here are the topics for March.

If you have an iPhone ... join in and follow me on My365. It's a neat way to be creative and take some cool pics as you go about your day.

TTAM1 = Things That Annoy Me–Part 1

I fear I’m growing crotchety in my middle age.

Things I may otherwise not have noticed, drive me to distraction and full on grumpiness now. Maybe it’s hormones. Maybe it’s stress. Or more likely, maybe it’s that people and businesses are out to perpetually annoy me. Yeah, most definitely it’s that last thing.

I conjured enough things just today thinking about it in my car on my way to and fro that I think this could become a regular blog feature. Hopefully it won’t be a weekly feature because that would mean either: A. the world really is conspiring against me or B. I’m becoming one of those bitchy people I can’t stand.

Either way, here are the Top Ten Things That Annoyed Me Today in no particular order of annoyance.

1. The complete lack of hooks, baby changing table or shelf to sit my purse on in 3 public ladies restrooms. This results in one of two things: purse on the floor (ick) or purse around my neck or other necessary body part. Either way = unhappy customer.

2. The piece of tasty Buffalo Chicken goodness that the dude ALWAYS leaves stuck to the paper tray when he dumps it onto my sandwich at Subway. Seriously, you don’t put enough chicken on that sandwich as it is. I want it all.

3. Random message lights appearing on my car dashboard and then going back off. Honestly, I think the car companies just have them set to go off at odd intervals so we have to go to the dealership and Scooby Doo that mystery each time.

4. People who call my cell phone and do not leave a message. I will not call your random number back and investigate. Leave me a dang message.

5. Automated answering systems for companies that disconnect me time and again when I am trying to follow their verbal labyrinth

6. Any '”man made material” in shoes or purses. Man made material just means it will fall apart, scuff up or peel off. You don’t see any cows walking around with holes worn through them, now do you?

7. Shoe Carnival Barkers. All of them. I hate that store.

8. Giant 18 wheelers in the rain.

9. Pavement on state highways that suddenly and inexplicably ends ten miles into my twenty mile trip to the next town. My car isn’t made for gravel roads. I had to turn around and backtrack.

10. How nice the dog acts when Bryon is home early and how bad she acts when he’s not.

Fear not, I’ll keep a list. There will be more.

What annoyed you today?

Focus Grasshopper

So here's the problem on this unbelievably nice Sunday afternoon at the end of February, there are about 16 things I would like and need to do, but I can't seem to focus on any of them. I have a rare three or four hour block of time free to use in these endeavors, yet I can't seem to get my heart into any of them even though I want them all accomplished.

First off in an effort at full disclosure, Grace is at Nana's this weekend and will be back in mere hours. Bryon and I slept in late, skipped church and went to Freda's for breakfast. This killed half the day. I'm more than okay with that part but now I am plagued with "the weekend is nearly over, here are all the things I still want to do, but am not going to get done" blues.

If time is the enemy of ambition; focus is the enemy of success.

Before you suggest I Google ADD medications, I'm fairly confident that is not the problem. The problem is I am always looking and planning ahead to the next thing. Once I'm in the "get shit done" mode, more and more things appear that need to be added to that list.

For example, as I was walking to my writing cave upstairs to work at banging out this inspired post,  I realized the upstairs carpets really needed vacuuming.  Then as I walked by the bar, I noticed several things sitting on the cabinet that needed put away. The game table needed cleaned off. The couch blankets needed folded. I forgot to spot spray the soda stain in my writing cave where Grace dribbled pop. My desk is untidy. The upstairs windows really need cleaned. Etc. Etc. Etc.

Living in the moment is not something I am usually capable of achieving. You'll get no Zen here. For that, check out Leo over at Zen Habits. What I am capable of, when the wheels finally start turning, is knocking out some epic tasks.

Here is the random list of wants and needs swimming around in the list in my head:

1. Clean the rabbit cage
2. Scoop the dog poop our of the yard. 
3. Wash the clothes
4. Fold the clothes
5. Clean Grace's room before she gets back home
6. Work on my novel edits
7. Work on writing all this week's posts ahead of time and scheduling them
8. Cruise the internet for blog post ideas
9. Clean all of the floors
10. Clean out the chicken house
11. Do a yard sweep for bones, trash and various other dog flotsam and jetsam
12. Sweep the chicken poop off the porch
13. Clean all the misc. accumulated household stuff of the kitchen bar
14. Catch up on reading my magazines
15. Read something, period
16. Catch up on Facebook

You can probably figure out which are the wants and which are the needs. Ironically, I notice many of them have a common theme of either cleaning or poop or the cleaning of poop. That's a little disturbing.

Several more of them require alone time and quiet to accomplish. Those are the ones I am trying to focus on now before the Grace maelstrom arrives back home. After that, all bets are off.

We've tried to get Grace on chore schedule of her own in an effort to both instill a work ethic and knock a few things off that revolving list. We also bribe her with the promise of cold hard cash. Unfortunately, as I figured, that lasted about one week. The second week I hounded and nagged her until she finished one thing on the list (hanging up and putting away all of her clothes). Of course, she didn't get paid that week. She didn't care. She still has no feel for the value of work or a strong enough desire to work toward a long term goal to achieve it. And I don't have the patience to enforce it.

Sure I know I should be trying harder to instill that but seriously, it's just easier to do it myself than wait and struggle and cajole her. I'm pretty sure that's a universal parenting dilemma. Right? Right?

So what have I accomplished in this first hour of free time? I have managed to complete one seventh of one task on my list and add six more to the list.

If I were getting paid for these chores or in this case, for just being me, this would be job security.

As it is, I'm continually plotting for a way to retire TODAY but at the same income level so I can work on my revolving to do list. Whoever came up with the five day work week and two days off plan was an idiot. Probably a business owner. When I'm Queen, it will be the other way around.

The saying goes, "Shit Happens". Trust me, it doesn't just happen. You have to make it happen.

Next.

Diamonds Are Not This Girl's Best Friend

Okay, I'm probably in the minority here, but diamonds do not turn me on at all. Really, expensive jewelry in general has no appeal to me. Sure diamonds are shiny and sparkly, but I just do not believe in their value. Who decided that the diamond is the most valuable stone?

I understand they are rare, difficult to find and take a master craftsman to turn into a tiny little jewels to bedazzle my finger or ears.  Still, I can't distinguish a real diamond from a fake so it would basically be wasted on me.

I have only every owned one diamond.

Back in the day, before we graduated from college Bryon and I got engaged. One night he came to the mall where I was working in the juniors department of Famous Barr and during my break, he gave me the choice between a nice leather jacket from the mall or a diamond ring. I'll admit it, I was young and didn't yet know of my disregard for diamonds. I chose the diamond. I knew that when I wore it everyone would know I was engaged.

In that case, the symbolism was worth more than the $125 it cost. That $125 was a lot of money for a college student with a part time job. I wore it proudly.

We waited until we graduated from college and then got married in 1990. Our entire wedding cost $500 and included my $80 dress from J.C. Penny, our $40 each gold wedding bands and the keg of beer for the reception afterwards. This summer will be our 22nd anniversary, so I'm think overall that was a pretty good investment.

So where is that little diamond ring now? I think it's in my dresser drawer. I haven't worn it in years. And my gold wedding band, I eventually exchanged for a $10 silver one I bought at the Ozark Empire Fair many years ago.

This week they unearthed an apparently huge and rare pink diamond in Australia. They think it will be worth $1.07 million. In 2010 a big pink diamond sold for $46 million. Now, for someone to pay $46 million for a jewel, no matter how pretty, a whole lot of people have to buy into the myth of its worth.

Luckily for Bryon, he knows not to waste money on expensive jewelry for me. Now, give me some cool computer or electronics and it's a whole different ballgame.

I am fairly sure an iPad could be my new best friend.

The Helpful Gene

I can't help but be helpful.

Or nosy and overbearing, depending on your perspective. From my perspective, I am helpful.

Helpful = Right

Case in point: Friday afternoon at Barnes & Noble, I overheard a lady talking to her husband. They were one table over from mine.

Lady: We need to get involved in a CSA.
Husband: A what?
Lady: A CSA.
Husband: What the hell is a CSA?
Lady: Well, uh, it's ... just a minute ... it's in this book ...

Lady struggles to find what CSA stands for.

Me: Community Supported Agriculture
Lady: Yeah! That!

See, that was helpful. I did manage to just shut up after that and not pummel her with my plethora of information on CSA's and the the fact that a friend of mine is actually starting one and in the process of signing folks up for it right now! It was excruciating to shut up. If she had given me any indication that she would like to mine me for more information, I would have vomited CSA all over her.

It's a curse really.

As you can tell on this blog, I'm prone to the occasional (okay daily) over-share.  I can't just stop with the Reader's Digest version either. The problem is that most of the time even while I'm spewing forth all of this sage advice, I am realizing I'm making absolutely no sense and randomly flinging facts and info at people.

It's even worse when I see a need somewhere that I could fill if only I were so inclined. For example, a couple of people have asked me about blogging, and how to do it. It's easy. You can set up a free blog in minutes. It's the kind of thing that I think lots of folks would be interested in starting.

Here is another example of my helpful gene on overload. Just the other day as I was trolling Facebook, I came across this Webster County Library post:

I couldn't let it go without a comment ... and a plug for the blog. Then I got to thinking, I bet those Adult Journalers would really dig learning how to blog online. I could call the library and set up a time for a class and get them all signed up and on board the blogging train. Then I thought, Am I insane? I don't have time to do the things I need and want to do right now. 

I didn't call the library. But I still think it would be a good idea. This happens dozens of time a week. I offer unsolicited advice or dispense information (immediately helpful if not appreciated) and think of spectacularly good ideas that would be supremely helpful to others. Then I get home and do the laundry, fix dinner, watch my DVR'd shows and the inspiration to help others evaporates. Poof!

It brings to mind the quote, "God helps those who help themselves". Which I was pretty sure was a Bible quote, but apparently is not. (See helpful link to the Wikipedia page for your reading pleasure) Still, I think it's helpful, if not a little selfish.

My dilemma is this; if I CAN help, MUST I help? Because I've often got a good dose of Catholic guilt about such things which is ironic because I'm a Methodist.  Some things are just universal I suppose.  Maybe I just need a better personal filter so I don't have to feel guilty about not acting on every good idea. I wonder if you can get one of those on Amazon?

Now that would be helpful.

Girl Scout Cookies: Thin Mint Ecstasy

Oh thank God it's time for Girl Scout cookies again. I'm not even going to tell you how many boxes I buy each year, but I would suspect it's above average.

Those Thin Mints are like cookie crack. I'm hopelessly hooked on them.

One year I brought home several boxes and tried to eat just three or four cookies at a time. I asked Bryon if it would be bad if I just ate the entire sleeve. He said, "You're going to eat them eventually anyway, right?"

Why yes. Yes, I am. I like that logic.

I ate the entire sleeve. Yesterday, I may or may not have eaten an entire box. I'm telling you, it's a good thing they aren't available year round. It's also a good thing Grace is not a Girl Scout. If I had cases of those things at my disposal. Well, let's just say things would not end well for anyone.

I ate 1,280 calories worth of Thin Mint cookies yesterday. I only walked 5,526 steps which burned 220 calories. I'd have to walk 5X that (the equivalent of a half marathon) to burn those cookie calories off. Dear God. Why? Why did you make them so delicious?

Do I regret it? Yes. And No. All I can say is I'm glad I never liked smoking, drugs or alcohol as much as those Thin Mint cookies. I might have ended up as a poster child on one of those flyers you see at the courthouse for why you shouldn't do meth.

I know I should just say no, but ... I probably won't.

Especially since I have four more boxes coming from my dealer at church next week.

We Need A Hero

Bonnie, Bonnie, Bonnie ... where have all the heroes gone?

Where have all the good men gone
and where are all the gods?
Where's the streetwise Hercules to fight the rising odds?
Isn't there a white knight upon a fiery steed?

Bonnie Tyler, I Need A Hero

This week the news has been full of Jeremy Lin. What a cool kid. He seems like just the sort of kid you hope your own kids can look up to and admire. A real hero. He's clean cut, educated, athletic and religious. What's not to like? He is the All-American kid.

 But then we have thought lots of other people were good role models too, and look how they turned out. Think Lindsay Lohan, Tiger Woods and Bill Clinton. People will disappoint us. We are all human. I have a few skeletons in my own closet, I hope never come out. Just another reason I won't be running for public office anytime soon. That and a complete political apathy.

It's easy to think that it's the media that drives the ascension and fall our heroes but none of us is infallible. Luckily for most of us, our biggest screw ups won't likely end up on the front page of the newspaper or across a CNN ticker. Thank God.

Even biblical heroes had their failings. Sure David struck down Goliath, but then he became a king and took another man's wife. I'm sure lots of little kids looked up to him when he killed that giant with a rock. Maybe not so much when they grew up and found out he was an adulterer.

That's the bitch of free will. We exercise it. Often. We act on our impulses both good and bad and then clean up the wreckage. Me included. Maybe that's why when a kid like Jeremy Lin comes along, he just seems a little too good to be true. You know that even now, some reporter is digging to besmirch his squeaky clean image.

Maybe we should all take a page out of the bible and not even cast that stone.

Maybe for a little while anyway, we can just enjoy having a hero.

On Being Regular

There's something to be said about being regular.

Don't worry, I'm not about to launch into an Activia commercial. I'm talking about being a regular, which also strangely enough makes you feel sort of good inside.

Most of the time, I would just as soon be anonymous in my eating and shopping. I like to just go about my day and not necessarily see people I know. Strangers become a part of the scenery and background noise. Most of the day, I am content to just stay inside my head and listen to the internal chatter. Trust me, it's plenty noisy and entertaining in there.

One time in particular that I most wished to be anonymous was when I was teaching school at Fair Play. The closest Walmart was in Bolivar so that was the shopping mecca for everyone who didn't want to travel to Springfield. I used to have this really funny t-shirt of a cartoon dog humping a fire hydrant. It said, "Safe Sex" on it. I found it hilarious. I wore it often.

One day I wore it to Walmart. That day, I saw three different student parents. I strategically crossed my arms over the tag line and humping dog. No one said anything, but if I could have slipped into invisibility from embarrassment, I would have.  Sometimes, it's best if you are anonymous. Or if you at least turn your inappropriately funny shirt inside out.

There are a couple of places I visit often enough that I have become a 'regular'.

One is Hebrews in Springfield. Hebrews is the coolest most laid back of coffee houses. Local art gallery offerings bedazzle the wall, cool Indie music croons from the sound system, and I see lots of other familiar faces when I am there. Like Norm at Cheers, they know my name. If only I could remember theirs.

The other place where my entire family has become regulars over the years is Freda's Uptown Cafe in Marshfield. You can find one of us there (mostly Grandpa) nearly any given day of the week. Grandpa has become such a regular they call him Hoppy because he hops from table to table visiting and socializing most weekday mornings.

When he missed several days this past couple of weeks for sickness, Freda was trying to find out where he lived so she could take him is senior breakfast order of biscuits and gravy. Bryon represents the Medley clan a day or so during the week as well since he's been working three twelve hour days. I like to go every Saturday and Sunday.

We are so regular at Freda's that we exchanged Christmas cards. Grace's still hangs behind the register even now, halfway through February.

One of my teenage Facebook friends posted in his status that one of his life goals is to become a regular somewhere. There are many definite benefits and really only a one disadvantages to being a regular.

Disadvantages: 
1. You can NOT read a book. People will greet you, engage you, quiz you and if you are alone ... join you, because obviously you do not WANT to be alone. Otherwise you would not have come to the restaurant. That's crazy talk.

Advantages:
1. The waitress' know what you want and orders for you. Every time. They are correct.
2. You get to see the same other regulars who have now, over the course of many years, become your real and actual friends. You don't see them usually outside of the restaurant. It's a special club.
3. The owner gives your kid special holiday gifts.
4. The owner hangs your father-in-law's art on her walls.
5. People buy that art.
6. You are pretty sure your seven going-on-sixteen year old daughter has a secure part-time job prospect hinging solely upon getting a drivers license at some point.
7. A famous person occasionally stops by to schmooze with the locals.
8. You can catch up on all of the town happenings on the bulletin board in the breezeway. It's better than the local paper.
9. Cream cheese stuffed strawberry French toast.
10. Breakfast all day no matter how late you sleep in.

Are you regular?

This Is Not An Emergency. This Is Only A Test.

-

I saw this sign the other day during my travels and it got me to thinking.

I am very interested in preparedness. I like the idea of being ready for what may come. I like collecting things, organizing them and planning ahead for 'just in case'. A friend once told me we were the most self-sustaining people he knew. If that's true, then we are all in trouble because for all the planning ahead and preparing for the worst that we do here in the Big Cedars, it's still not nearly enough.

The ice storm of 2007 was proof enough of that. Twelve days without electricity was brutal for me.

We prepare for the worst in all sorts of ways. We buy insurance. We save money. We plant gardens. We raise animals. We go to church. All of these things we do in an effort to hedge against the worst-case scenarios. That's probably why I like the Worst-Case Scenario books so much. It's good to know exactly how to survive a falling elevator, jump from a building into a dumpster or stop a runaway passenger train if need be.

The chances of those things happening are low for sure. I don't spend a lot of time dwelling on them. I do often think about what I would do if the world went to hell, and I was in Rolla or Osage Beach when it happened. I figure that's how it will go. Then I'll have to make my way home and fight off the angry hordes of zombies.

The good news is, there's a manual for that too. The Worst-Case Scenario Survival Handbook: Paranormal. I was a little disappointed that there wasn't an app for it. There were two Worst Case Scenerio apps but one was for work. The best way to avoid those scenarios is to stay out of the office.

At least if I'm in Rolla when it happens, I know where NOT to start my trek to safety. Right here, at the "Incident By-Pass Route" because we all know that following the advice of the government or in this case MoDot in the event of a catastrophic emergency will solve all of our problems.


Rule Number One in the event of a zombie apocalypse is this:

Do not follow the "Incident By-Pass Route". They may be the Government, but they are NOT here to help.

Some Assembly Required

Bryon's drift boat project is taking shape. Bryon, Matt and Steve got it partially put together over the weekend.

I can never envision what most projects will look like completed. I need to see pictures. Without pictures to use for reference, bad things happen. Like, you might paint your entire kitchen trim hot pink because it seemed like a good idea, and that hot pink looked like a nice mauve on the paint chip. You might have had some indications early on in the painting that it was not looking so good, but you just kept going thinking it would dry differently or look better when it was ALL painted. It does not. Not that I've done that, just saying it's a possibility when you don't have big picture vision.

To complete a project like this takes lots of attention to detail, lots of patience and the ability to follow directions. Very complicated directions. I used to think I was good at following directions. I preached and preached it to my students. I gathered up lots of job applications from all around town and made them fill them out to perfection. I created other little direction following tasks from recipes to more complicated projects in an effort to reinforce how important following direction is in a person's daily life.

For all of that preaching, I have discovered that I actually hate following directions. Much like editing, no matter how many times I read over those directions, I usually miss something vital. I try reading through for the overall feel and plan of the project. I gather my materials. I start with step one, but then, inevitably somewhere I go awry. The best laid plans and all that.

Most of the time it's not unrecoverable. Sometimes it is. I spent about three hours putting together this bookcase by myself. The directions were perfect. Each piece was carefully labeled. The hardware was impeccably labeled and separated by step. Seriously, it was the best I had ever seen. Still, I finished with a key piece on the top and back of the case and another on the front bottom facing trim that were backward. I also managed to drill holes into them both trying to make them fit.

I took the thing back apart and then covered up my mistakes with a black Sharpie. You probably couldn't even tell now. My brain is just not analytical that way. I want to skip a head. Get into the middle of the action. See some progress. I can't watch the pot boil; I just want to eat the stew.

I think that's a pretty good lesson to learn about yourself and life in general. Sometimes things work out okay. Sometimes they don't. Either way, you can usually salvage something good and workable from the experience. That's just life I guess.

Some assembly required.

Ay, There's The Rub

I didn't get my first massage until I was thirty. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Massages are wonderful. I'd get one a week if I could afford it. When I win the lottery one day, and I will, that's the first thing I'm signing up for.

What I would really like is for the therapist to come to my home. Sure, they tell you to lie there and relax for a while after it's all over. Really, though, they want you up and out asap. If you dozed off and tried to take a two hour nap like you really wanedt to, they'd rip those tiny but toasty blankets off your naked body in a heart beat.

I have one girlfriend who refuses to have a massage because she has nakedness issues. I do not have nakedness issues. I figure they have seen lots fatter, cellulitier and hairier bodies than mine. If not, well, they are getting paid.

I like everything about the experience of having a massage. I like the smells of eucalyptus and tea tree oils. I like the soft clean feel of the sheets on the massage table and the comforting weight of the massage blankets. I like the dim light and the new agey music that you never can find anywhere else. If someone would put a massage table in the middle of a book store, that would just about be Nirvana.

After having dozens of massages myself, I finally talked Bryon into having one several years ago. We had them at the same time but in different rooms. There was a guy therapist and a girl therapist. He was torn as to which to choose. Ultimately, he chose the dude. He enjoyed it, but I think it sort of creeped him out a bit. Not me. I swing both ways when it comes to massage therapists. I'm unbiased, unbigoted and rearing to go.

Having a massage from a trained therapist is just so wonderful. First of all, you can rub and rub your own hands and feet and it will NEVER feel that good. When my girl hits this one spot near the pad of my thumb, it almost brings me to tears of ecstasy. TMI? Probably, but you get the idea.

Another massage mystery is exactly why when you touch your own extremely ticklish and sensitive feet, it doesn't tickle at all. When the therapist lays hands on those puppies, I have to resist the urge to pull them back and kick her in the face. I certainly wouldn't be welcomed back if that ever happened despite my generous tipping.

I used to get one hour massages but the entire time I was lying there getting scrubbed and rubbed, I'd be thinking, "It's almost over. It's almost over. It's almost over." Now I get hour and a half massages. I don't worry about when it's going to be over. I'm fortunate to have a very reasonable massage therapist within a twenty minute drive of my house. In fact, she had a special before Christmas, and I bought four one and a half our massages for $50 each. Those same massages would have been around $90-$120 in Springfield or (shudder) Eureka Springs.

One thing about massage therapists is they can sense a knot before you even know you have one. They are like dogs and fear. Let them know they've hit tender spot, and they'll bore a hole through that sucker.  The trick is to go all floppy and let them think you like it when they try to separate your muscles from the bone. Of course the second they are on to the next spot, your body immediately regrets any grousing your weak mind was doing and begs for her to go back to that spot. Meanwhile, the other side is jealous of what's going on, and you can't wait for her to make the circuit.

Another trick to procuring the absolute best massage is to speak up. If the pressure is too light or too hard, you have a voice. Use it. They don't read minds.

You could pick out the freshly massaged from a lineup no problem. They are the ones with the fluffed out, slightly shiny hair and that sleepy eyed, smirk on their faces. There are only a few things that are that relaxing and satisfying.

I'd suggest only actually paying for one of them.

Join The Club

It's always a nice feeling to fit in. It's good when you can find a group of people that are like you. It's good when you can find your tribe and say, "These are my people". Sometimes you have to kiss a lot of frogs before that happens.

For instance, let's just say you are an odd sort of fellow. And you are walking around and thinking, this is not my beautiful house. This is not my beautiful wife. Where is my tribe? Suddenly as you are pondering this predicament, you run into another fellow who is also seeming a bit off. A bit odd even. Realization slaps you in the forehead, and you invite him to the pub for a pint.

As you are getting to know each other over pints, you notice another fellow is listening to your conversation. He's getting to know you both as well through his eaves dropping. You figure, if you can't beat 'em, join 'em and invite him on over because, well, he seems a bit odd as also. The more the merrier. The next thing you know you three are meeting several times a week at this same little pub for pints and chats. You odd three.

One of you suggests you should start a club. Well, you practically already are a club. Why not make it official! Ah, but what to name this new club, filled with odd fellows. One bold chap finally suggests the obvious and blurts out, "What about the Odd Fellows?"

The other two stare at you as if you've suddenly spurted a new and totally additional head directly to the left of your current head. They are silent. They blink. Their pints grows warm. Then, as if they have been hit with a cosmic epiphany, they both clap you on the back and congratulate you for your ingenious insight. Of course you should call the club the Odd Fellows Club. After all, you are a group of odd fellows.

You settle on the Independent Order of Odd Fellows because you are beholden to no one.

Later, you decide this little club of yours would be a lot better with one thing ... girls. You call the girls Rebekahs. It's easier that way, because really, who can remember their names anyway. They have breasts. That's all that really matters.

And that my friend is how the IOOF came to be. The end.

Okay, so that is totally not what the brochure said I found online. But it seems pretty likely considering the name. I've driven by one sign in Salem dozens of times and did stop to take a picture. The sign above was in Columbia and actually had NEON. Much cooler. I finally took the time to look them up.

Their mission is this: "Visit the sick, relieve the distress, bury the dead and educate the orphans."


Maybe they weren't just a bunch of 17th century nerds looking to get lucky.


Then again...

Conversation Hearts

With Valentine's Day just around the corner, I think I have candy on the brain. Today, I was thinking about those little conversation hearts. In elementary school, conversation hearts were the Magic 8 Ball of candy, dispensing secretly coded messages of love or disdain.

Remember getting those little valentines stuffed into your homemade boxes, with a little conversation heart tucked inside. You had to give one to every kid even though you really only wanted to give them to your friends. So when it came time to choose from the various messages, it got downright overwhelming.

The truth was, yes I really DID want to give the Kiss Me heart to Rick Lowry, but if I did THAT then he might show it to someone and make fun of me. Better give him the Be Good heart instead. The So Fine should definitely go to Alex Rios, but if I give Alex that one, then who should I give the Love Me? I have THREE of the Love Me hearts. It never hurts to hedge your bets by playing all three hearts. That way it might not look so obvious that I suffered in my decision making.

Be Kind, Do Good and Chill Out are all safe bets for those kids you don't really like, but couldn't leave out. Or you can give those to the girls. Sweet Talk, For You and Yes Dear are also nicely ambiguous for either sex. Marry Me definitely sends the wrong message unless you are at least twenty five and cheesy enough to use the old candy heart proposal cliche' on Valentine's Day.

The Blanks were Necco's way of allowing you to include candy for the stinky kid without sending a mixed message. I'll bet all of his hearts were blank. That's sort of sad really. He was probably reading his tarot candy messages equally as closely as the rest of us. Blank just says, I didn't think enough of you to even bother sending a message.

I don't know if anyone else was really analyzing the meaning behind every valentine that was received along with the enclosed candy heart, but I sure was. I remember getting a Be Mine from Greg Goetzinger and pondering it for days later, looking for signs that he wanted to be my boyfriend in the fourth grade.

I didn't end up procuring any lasting relationships from those candies despite the massive amount of forethought and consideration I put into each and every one. I'm just glad we don't have to give our coworkers Valentine's Day treats. If we did, we'd have to come up with a whole new set of sayings to relay our passive aggressive feelings.

In case you are wondering, I do have a few in mind...

You're Lame
Stop Talking
Kick Me
Bite Me
You Stink
Go Home
Weird Hair
Bossy
Nosy

Any wise elementary school kid would think carefully before sending the wrong message. I suppose coworkers should too and that is why none of these are in my box of conversation hearts this year.

Valentine's Day Candy Box

First off Russell Stover, I just want to say "You suck". The way you tempt us chocolate lovers with those tiny box hearts of chocolate pieces each Valentine's Day is a worst than misleading ... it's a lie. Here is the problem, those little boxes are totally comprised of your leftovers. Don't try to deny it.

I won the box above as a prize Saturday night. I would never have actually paid for that box, because I've been fooled before ... a few times. The worst pieces are the coconut ones. I'm sorry but no amount of chocolate is going to make a glob of coconut goo taste better to me. I can usually sniff those out through their chocolate casing and avoid them.

Saturday night in the car on the way home, I busted into the box. I fumbled around in the dark trying to discern the tastiest piece by feel. I finally fished out a piece and sniffed it. Confident it was coconut free, I munched it in half. You guessed it, coconut. I all but spewed it over my dashboard. I rolled down the window and tossed the chewed and unchewed bits out.

You can see in the box above, I didn't take a chance on the other pieces. I smooshed them all to reveal their gooey innards. Really, RS, I only need the raspberry and the mint. And that creamy white goo that looks like mint, but isn't ... just leave that out. Same with the fake chocolate goo covered in good chocolate. That's the equivalent of putting lipstick on a pig. Just don't.

You can occasionally throw in an orange. I don't hate the orange. And those knock off Butterfinger bits are tolerable. The caramels are basically the dental industry's secret plot to cheat insurance companies by making sure your last few metal fillings get pulled out and replaced as soon into the new insurance year as possible. Leave those out too.

In fact, just don't make ANY boxes with chocolates in them if you are going to be too cheap to include a map. Without a map, it's like negotiating a field of chocolate landmines.

No one likes landmines.

Here There Be Slow Dragons

If you have ever wondered where the internet ends, it's three and a half miles outside of Niangua.

Our house is in the Niangua suburbs, and we are exactly three and a half miles from two switch stations. Apparently, three and a half miles is the absolute limit of speedy internet.

When you live in the country, 'speedy' is a loosely defined term. We haven't lived within range of pizza delivery or fast internet in twenty two years. Of course twenty two years ago, Al Gore hadn't even invented the internet yet. It was still a crazy regulated pipe dream, not the indispensable tool of work and entertainment it is now.

My first computer was purchased in 1990, and it was a Magnavox with 1 mg of ram. It would only run Windows in safe mode. To upgrade my ram to the next level would have cost $400. I made do with my glorified word processor.

At the school where I taught, I had a Mac SE. It was already a discontinued model by time I got it. Again, a glorified word processor and dial-up wasn't even on my radar yet. I can only imagine how much easier teaching would be with the easy and immediate access to information of all kinds. Still doesn't raise it up the list of things I want to do again.

After I quit teaching, we moved to Highlandville and joined the online world with smoking fast internet speeds hovering around 28k. We paid for 56k. It was painful, but thankfully I didn't really know much better yet. Next came Niangua, still the edge of the technological universe. We didn't have even have access to dial-up without paying for unlimited long distance first because everything in the world, EXCEPT Niangua, was long distance.

We settled on satellite internet which cost $500 to install and $89 a month for the privilege of 1.5 mbps. We never saw a speed faster than 350k despite lots of dish jiggling by so called professionals.

When DSL finally made it to our little corner, we happily cancelled the satellite for the promise of 1.5 mbps once again. Alas it is not meant to be. We are lucky to ever see 700 kbps and usually more like 350-500 kbps. You can't stream a YouTube video or Netflix on that my friend.

There are lots and lots of great benefits to living in the country but speedy internet is not one of them.

Here there be slow internet.

Primary Voting

Next week is the primary vote for Missouri. Honestly, I don't think I'll bother. Apparently, it doesn't even really count, and I don't feel passionate about any of the candidates including our current President. In President Obama's defense, he, like most new presidents, inherited the leftovers of the previous administration.

You know what it's like to step into the shoes of the guy who got fired. His files are a mess; his office is a mess. He left lots of loose ends and twisted paperclips and weird pills in the desk drawer that you hope are antacids. That and you are expected to work miracles. You're either the hero or the zero.

In 2008, I was probably the most interested I've ever been in politics. I listened to hours of Fox News Radio and tried hard to be a Republican. Until then, I had voted for a democrat in every election.For Clinton twice. Granted, I had no real horse in any of those races or even much knowledge of politics. My vote was really based on personality. I suppose folks have voted for people for worse reasons.

I always thought the Republican Party was for old people - like our parents - who cared about things like taxes. I also thought the Democratic Party was for the underdog, the little guy. I liked that.
Now I know there is a lot more to consider. Now I'm a parent too. Now I care about taxes. I guess that is part of the reason I felt compelled to vote Republican. It seemed like the grown up thing to do.

I even  went to a Sarah Palin rally. Boy, am I glad that she didn't get elected. She drives me crazy now. She seems to have become a caricature, and she has some really annoying habits - like speaking to reporters.

This year I can't get excited about Newt or Romney or any of them. So I'm thinking about sitting out and not voting at all. If I don't vote, it will be the first time since I was eligible to vote that I don't take advantage of it. I just don't see the point in placing a vote for someone I don't believe in. I don't even dislike any of them enough to vote against them.

As for political affiliations, I think I'll just stick to being an independent. That way I can vote for the best man. Or maybe someday, the best woman. Grace asked me recently why there wasn't ever a girl president. Good question. Maybe she'll finally get to vote for one someday.

#*&%$#^ Curse Words

I've been thinking about cursing lately.

I have to say I sort of like it. I know that's not what you expected to hear. I've heard Bryon tell people before that I don't curse very much. He is not, however, inside my head. I curse. A lot.

Often, I set those curses free upon the atmosphere in a blue cloud. I try to keep them low so no one actually hears them but occasionally, they just demand to be freed.  I do try to refrain from cursing inappropriately at work, or church or in front of Grace, but Man, there are times when I'd just like to let loose a tirade like Yosemite Sam only bluer.



If feels good to curse and purge out whatever frustration is poisoning my mind or troubling me at the moment. I know a lot of words and yes, I could substitute more socially acceptable synonyms. They just wouldn't and do not provide the same level of satisfaction as a good F-bomb.

Dang and Gee Whiz just don't cut the mustard.

Bryon and I told all our friends and family that the first person to teach Grace a curse word had to pay for her college education. I blame it on our previously demonic and untamable dog Ruger. One day out in the yard Bryon was supremely frustrated with Ruger and threatened to beat his ass. Grace asked him what "beat his ass" meant.

Just this past week Bryon was at Walmart with Grace shopping, and Grace pointed at something on the shelf and asked "What the hell is that?" Bryon said it was so funny he had to laugh but then explained that hell was in fact a curse word. Guess we are on the hook for the college education. I was really hoping that it would be Grandpa Rice.

My go to curse when I'm at the absolute end of my rope is GD. You know what it is. Of course that is probably even less socially acceptable than the F-bomb. I await annihilation from a lightening strike every time I utter it. That particular curse is completely automatic. I blame that one on my dad.

My dad didn't curse very often at all as I remember, but when he did, that was his go to curse. I haven't heard him use it in a long time. Of course, I've been out of the house for twenty five years now so he may not have as much occasion to NEED to use it. Kids are infuriating.

I don't remember my mom cursing. Ever.

So where did this habit emerge from? I guess, I'll never know.

It is a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.

Fuck it.