Job Search- or I Don't Care Where I Go As Long As It Is Somewhere Else.

Work has finally pissed me off to no end. Of course it is entirely my fault and I dutifully fessed up to my f-up. Unfortunately after 30 minutes in the bosses office I was still apparently unable to convince her that I 'get it' and am now apparently expected to snap my fingers and make everything all peaches and cream for the individual that I offended.

I however 'get it' and know in no uncertain terms that the 'offended' individual has no intention in this lifetime or any other to try to 'get me' or my culture (which has a lot to do with living in the early years of the 'New South and seven years of active duty in the Navy) and will probably spend the rest of our collective careers in this institution glaring at me behind my back. Fine. I'm cool with that. I just hope that said 'offended' individual at some point figures out that if they want to try to play -'F*** with me' games that they will learn a very hard lesson, which is 'don't F*** with me after I made a point to fess up and leave them the hell alone for all eternity.

So in a fit of productivity I have since applied for three other jobs in other institutions and have informed my illustrious supervisor of my actions and have at this point received an invitation to interview for one of said three different jobs- none of which are located anywhere in the current shit hole of a town I currently reside in.

So the trailer will finally be cleaned of all it's detritus over the next few weeks in the hope that soon I can sing the immortal words of David Allen Coe as performed by Johnny Paycheck.

Lyrics

Lutefisk and Meatballs- or you think Southern Cooking is Strange?

Wednesday 11/11/2009.  As I make coffee and consider the wisdom of going to work today- I fired up my trusty laptop to get my Facebook fix.  I was confronted with the following post from Sister.

World's scariest foods1 /16Lutefisk What it is: Dried fish (usually cod or haddock) cured with lye and then rehydrated by boiling or steaming Where it's served: Norway, Finland, Sweden ... and Minnesota Want a bite?:
Vikings ate lutefisk, although it has not yet been proven that the consumption of this revolting stuff is... why they went forth and attacked and pillaged everybody who might have had better food. While this time-consuming, hideously smelly, gelatinous fish preparation has its roots in Scandinavia, lutefisk is now one of those old-world delicacies that's primarily consumed by second-generation Americans, mostly in Wisconsin and Minnesota, at lutefisk suppers that run from October to January. What draws all these otherwise sensible Mid-westerners together year after year? Fish soaked in lye until it practically turns into soap—the residue is caustic enough to dissolve the finish on silverware and plates. File under "stuff to eat before it eats you," we suppose. 

My reply- 
On Saturday 11/7 I was kidnapped by a Mad Swede and taken to their lair in Blair Wisconsin and subjected to the annual ritual of the Lutefisk and Meat Ball Supper at a Lutheran Church. I suppose it was an attempt to exact revenge for my professed affinity for grits, collard greens and black-eye peas which was given birth by my Confederate heritage. I'm a Norwegian by ancestry but can honestly say that I'll take sushi and raw oysters over fish-soap jello for dinner til my dying day. Guess that means I can't run for Ms Westby during Syttende Mai. Hopefully other lovers of the gelatinous ancestral comfort food will give me a grudging nod to my pride in my Norwegian roots due to the fact that I do adore lefse.

Sister-
I guess that since we are only part Norwegian, that makes it ok to not like fish jello, but Lefse is definitely DA BOMB! It also leaves room for the grit lover in all of us...(and black eyed peas, corn bread shaped like corn, greens etc...) Sounds like a good cut and paste to the blog....ahem!

My reply-
Found this quote-Lutefisk is cod that has been dried in a lye solution. It looks like the desiccated cadavers of squirrels run over by trucks, but after it is soaked and reconstituted and the lye is washed out and it’s cooked, it looks more fish-related, though with lutefisk, the window of success is small. It can be tasty, but the statistics aren’t on your side. It is the hereditary delicacy of Swedes and Norwegians who serve it around the holidays, in memory of their ancestors, who ate it because they were poor. Most lutefisk is not edible by normal people. It is reminiscent of the afterbirth of a dog or the world’s largest chunk of phlegm."Thanks to- Garrison Keillor's book Pontoon.
Even Funnier- The Wisconsin Employees' Right to Know Act specifically EXEMPTS lutefisk in defining "toxic substances". BWAHHHHHHHAHAHAHAHAH!

Sister-
MMMMM I think I will take a pound of desiccated squirrel cadaver, with a side of dog afterbirth, and the worlds largest chunk of phlegm for desert...Do this in memory of me...an ode to lutefisk.
Sister-
sorry, dessert...I hate it when people misspell words.

Me-
God takes care of drunks, children and old maids (Thank you, Miss Julia) as well as wayward confused children of Southerners and German-Norwegians (my addendum) and did hear my prayer, "Lord, protect us from what we are about to consume." God's mercy enabled me to thus live up to my upbringing to be polite. Mom subsequently asked me how the "fish jello" was. I related the above and told her that the meatballs were good but that Grandma would have been disappointed in the mashed potatoes which were kinda lumpy. (Yes, I have lived among second and third and fourth generation Norwegian-Americans for far too long which explains the word 'kinda' along with phrases such as 'ya fer shur' and 'ya betcha'.  However when I visit the south I quickly revert to 'Y'all', much to the amusement of any Yankee friends that may be in attendance.)  Gramma Schorch didn't stand for lumpy mashed potatoes.  60 plus years of beating potatoes into creamy smooth goodness with a hand masher made her the hand's down authority on what should be expected in a pile of mashed potatoes. Gramma's obsession with smooth texture when it came to annihilating the humble spud resulted in eventually beating a hole in the pot that said spuds were boiled and subsequently mashed in. Mom still has the pot which is stored in the ancestral steamer trunk which contains other mementos of Scandanavian family history.

The Swallows Need to Leave Capistrano- or The F*****ing Blizzard Can't Hit Fast Enough

The famous cliff swallows of San Juan Capistrano, that leave town every year in a swirling mass near the Day of San Juan (October 23) should be getting ready to head for their winter vacation in Argentina.  I wish my Mom would head to Argentina.

My mother must be tuned to the swallows.  Every year since I've moved into the shithole I call home- which is conveniently located a few thousand feet away from the abode my mother calls home- she has followed the movement of the seasons.  Once the snow hits- she limits her contact with me to the telephone. Once the melting of the icepack that covers the streets in our decidedly low-rent neighborhood occurs she increases her ability to irritate me by walking up to my house and banging on the side of the house until I arrive in disheveled condition at the door.  My theory on all of this is that she has been desperate to know if I have some guy hanging out with me.  For several years she has been disappointed in my lack of male guests.  Now however since the end of July there has been one regular companion- which now gives her even more motivation to arrive at the most inopportune moments.

The final straw in her cyclical- seasonal migrations to and from my house happened on the anniversary of my late fiance's death.

I had just woken up and dragged myself away from the comfort of my bed and a very warm body and had just made myself my version of breakfast ( leftovers from the previous night's dinner) and had barely sat down to try to consume said leftover when the sound of pounding assaulted my reverie.

She enters the house and promptly begins to question the presence of cardboard in my living room.

I lose it.

I had hoped four days earlier to have at least  three of the four days to myself so that I could sort through some of the detritus of my life and make some attempt to live with less shit cluttering up my house.  Mom made sure that didn't happen.  Each and every day of my four days away from my job were consumed with errands revolving around Mom.

My companion proceeded to take the glass of milk that had been freshly decanted from it's bag in the fridge and park himself on the couch.  Discretion was the better part of valor in his mind.

I screamed assorted obscenities at her as I related to her that if I had at least one day to myself- maybe the place wouldn't look like the disaster area it is.

She then looked toward my companion and asked if I yelled at him the way I had just yelled at her.  He replied in the negative. ( He later told me he agreed with me- but decided to stay the hell out of the drama that was unfolding inches away from his spot on the couch.)

I decided that it was time to swallow some of my little friends- (Zanax) in an effort to forget that I now have serious homicidal/matricidal tendencies toward my mother and apologized at which time she decided it was time to head for her house.

The Blizzard can't come soon enough- and I really hate winter.

September Musings and Updates.

It is now approaching the end of September.  The past month has been more like summer than August was.  Global Warming my hind end.  I'm beginning to think that what is really going on is that the poles are shifting and our weather is going to be more like Australia with summer in December and Winter in June.  Which is OK I suppose, considering that if that is the case, then I am just going to have to adjust as there is absolutely nothing I can do about it.

The city is getting ready for it's annual week long celebration of beer consumption, which is funny considering the city council has spent much time and money passing various ordinances to discourage consumption of alcoholic beverages.  I love hypocrisy.

Mom is still trucking along..and has found out that so far the medication treatment of her cancer seems to be having some positive effect..as the breast tumor has shrunk by almost half, however she complains about the side effects of said medication- it makes her dizzy and tired.

I am tired too.  Tired of my job, tired of my house, tired of my health problems and tired of being tired- guess that the winter depression is beginning to kick in now that the days are getting shorter.  However- there are bright spots that I hope will make some difference in my life this next winter.  God- after all, doesn't give you a burden that you can't handle on your own. 

Music is creeping back into my life once again- but it is harder due to the past efforts of a certain individual who worked tirelessly to suppress that part of my life.  I hope my theory of the Mountain coming to Mohamed is correct- I have been sent a gentle soul - blessed with extraordinary talent and ability who is gently dredging up all that music buried inside me.  So maybe silver threads and golden needles can mend this heart of mine. (OK- pithy but its the best I can do considering it's Friday and I'm beginning to dread going into work today.)

So the mantra for today- Hope.

Wisconsin /Scandanavian GPS. or..Is It Any Wonder Why We Are Too Stupid to Move to A Warmer Climate?

Welcome to Wisconsin. Buffalo County

My Summer Serenity Launch pad...

Went down to Riverside park to shoot some local scenery for a friend and realized that I needed a spot to chill when the going gets weird...

Sister gave me a new camera to replace the one that was 'lost' (or stolen) while I was on vacation and it has quite a few neat features one of them being video...so here goes...my first digital video upload!!!

Funeral Plans or How Long Do You Keep the Voice of the Recently Departed on the Answering Machine?

I was born on a Wednesday. Perhaps, that is why when it comes to death, I tend to not be that emotional about it, except when it directly, and I do mean directly concerns me. (More on that in another post.) I look at the rituals of funerals in a very matter of fact way. My family has an odd preoccupation with death. Well... maybe not a preoccupation, but a certain familiarity with the rituals of death so far as United States/American culture is concerned. Putting it simply, Mom and Dad managed a small cemetery in town. It was not unusual for me to find the cremated remains of someone's 'Dearly Departed' in a small brown packing carton on the front porch, recently delivered by UPS on any given day of the week. My significant others did find my parents line of work a bit disconcerting, but over time, eventually came to realize that my parents were pretty normal, at least until they discovered where the flowers on the dining room table originated from. (More on that in another post too.) If they hung around long enough, they did eventually get over it, and realized that we weren't related to the Addams Family.

Having given that teaser of an introduction..

Mom turned up at my door this afternoon. I had just woken up and thought I heard her pound on the side of my house. I threw a long nightgown on and went to the porch where we proceed to smoke cigs and have our usual chat that ensues upon my bleary eyed entrance to the porch shortly after her arrival and shouted epithets regarding my inability to get out of bed at a 'decent hour'. (She seems to conveniently forget that I work til 1am.) ok..I exaggerate there, but you get the idea. You don't ignore my Mom when she shows up at the door.

The conversation starts with her visit to the Medical Oncologist. The visit with the Dr went ok...but she wonders after getting her medication, why people 'just wont let her die in peace.' ok...I know she doesn't really mean that just yet...but there is a grain of truth in that statement. She is after all, 79 yrs old.

She then relates a story about my sister and a cemetery marker and what to do with said cemetery marker, which then morphs into her own desires for her final resting place.

She seems to at this particular moment to desire to not be buried next to my father. OK...I can understand that-as he did have a tendency to get on her last nerve and considering what he had engraved on the marker (more on that in another post). I can see her point. But- hey, from my point of view- they did produce my sister and me. So even after death do us part those two are going to be together. But, I see my mom's sense of humor and postulate the following for her funeral.

She wants to be cremated. Ok, that in and of itself makes all the following possible. And since I think that death is a natural part of life.. and ones' life should be celebrated by those left in this life I suggest that those of us left should celebrate my mother's life by doing the following for her funeral....

We start at the cemetery where Dad is buried...we sprinkle a bit of Mom on Dad's grave, we then relocate to the bar down the road from the cemetery and have a beer. We then move to another bar and have another 'restorative cocktail' with Mom's ashes in attendance at the bar, and then relocate to another bar where a bloody mary is consumed. After that we relocate to the cemetery where Mom's parents are buried and sprinkle some more of Mom on her parent's grave and then drive towards the Norwegian ancestral home where halfway there we stop at a tavern known as the Golden Frog..(Mom collected frogs, and we shall bring Phreddy the light up frog from her porch for this to sit on the bar with her ashes) to have another restorative cocktail and a burger. After lunch, we continue the drive to Nelson, a town eerily reminiscent of Lake Woebegon and stop at yet another tavern and drink, and then move on to the ancestral burial grounds where we have the worlds best coffee, jello salad, cookies and bars and give ourselves diabetes. After checking our blood sugar we then move on to the church cemetery where we plant Mom, and pour some of the worlds best coffee and a couple of martinis over her grave and call it good. We then retire to the bar in Urne ( pronounced Ernie) and proceed to drink ourselves silly and hope for the best.

While I play this out for her....she found it decidedly workable, as she didn't want to be buried next to her own parents, thinking she would have to listen to an eternity of "Red, are you mad at me?" followed by "God Damn it Selma....I'm not mad at you!" (More on that story too in another post.) She giggled and laughed and stories got told and I got to get to know my mother just a little bit better than I thought I knew her..Sad that it takes the Specter of Death to do that, but also wonderful in a Wednesday's child is full of woe kind of way.

Which brings us to the explanation of the rest of the title to this post.
After Mom and Dad got out of the cemetery business...they changed their phone number but Dad never bothered to change the greeting message on the answering machine and it wasn't until Mom spent a short time in a nursing home recuperating from a serious illness that the nursing home called the house to get in touch with me and never left a message- because the number given in the greeting message didn't match the number in their records- that we realized that the greeting on the answering machine was Dad's voice on the machine and ... well, guess you had to be there to see just how funny it was, and Mom has never recorded a new message for the new phone after I managed to annihilate the old message in an attempt to clean the old phone. I think I shall have her record a message for the new phone, just to see how long her voice lasts after she goes on to the Great Beyond.

Payday Poverty- And Mom Has A CT Scan....6-24

Ok- Monday was payday. Monday, thank God, was when the overdraft fees would quit accumulating.

Wed was when I finally sat down and did a bit of math and figured out that the car payment was going to be late this month and the only two bills that were going to see any money was my Visa and Kohls charge.

Those two are the two on the top of my list to get paid off ASAP. The car people will forgive me I hope as that payment will be off to them shortly after the 1st of the month, along with my rent, and other utilities effectively rendering me broke for another two weeks when the cycle starts itself all over again, and the next X-cel energy bill isn't going to be as nice as the last two due to the fact that for the last two days Wisconsin decided to have a crisis of identity and produce temperatures more in line with Memphis TN in July and August instead of a pleasant, sunny, 80 degree day with moderate (read below 50 percent) humidity.

No, we get the upper 80 low 90 degree with high humidity. Which means that the window air conditioner must be turned on if I expect to be able to sleep. Remember, I live in a tin box- not a house. So much for a respite from my housing needs causing my checking account to hemorrhage any cash available.

Wed the 24 completely sucked on numerous levels. One week before- Mom found out she had breast cancer. So today- I spent most of the morning with her at the clinic getting more pictures taken of her innards in an effort to provide her Dr with as much information as possible to better diagnose, and create a plan of attack to destroy those malcontent, and possibly malignant cells.

And while my mother is doing her damnedest to keep a stiff upper lip about all of this- I know just by seeing how cranky she is- that she is scared. So having accomplished the medical appointments followed by a restorative cocktail- I returned home to hopefully get some rest, which didn't happen because I realized that if I went to sleep then, I would be waking up in the wee hours of the morning and my next two days would be just as screwed up as today. So I put the tooth picks under my eyelids and muddled through the day accomplishing little other than sending off the above mentioned payments to creditors.

Add to all of this an on again off again boyfriend who steadfastly refuses to communicate anything without turning it into some kind of guilt trip, one hour of sleep, and you get the picture. I'm not a happy camper.

Published in The Tapestry Magazine- March 2005- Lansing IA

Click on each section to read.....

My Past Comes Back to Haunt Me- UPDATE

Sorry this took so long to post- but many thanks to you Beth for your amazing memory :) HI, Ever since reading the blog post I've been meaning to send you the story behind the "Hiss" name. Here 'tis, in all its grammar-school scatalogical silliness: On a field trip to the Memphis Zoo in 1973 or thereabouts, our class stopped in the gift shop. (Funny how I hadn't even KNOWN there was a gift shop before that . . . clever Mom!) There I spotted a ceramic piece that was a pot (ashtray, perhaps?) with a snake coiled around it and the words "Remember when you didn't have a pot to hiss into?" I didn't know it was an allusion to the old saw about "we were so poor we didn't have a pot to piss into", but I sensed it was slightly risque (in a 3rd-grade sort of way) and therefore it held immense appeal to me. You saw the objet d'art too, and that is how the Hiss Club came to be. The piece was probably a few dollars, certainly out of my 3rd-grade price range, and I really didn't care for snakes anyway. I ended up buying a zoo coloring book instead. I don't believe this is the exact item, but the snake and message are the same. http://cgi.ebay.com.my/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=160294372436#ebayphotohosting . . . and there you have it, the HISStory revealed. Your old pal, Beth

The Battle of Roland the Rodent, or Why I Should Reconsider Getting Another Cat

I don't have a fear of wildlife. I like wildlife. I just don't want them in my house. Now mind you, my house isn't Biltmore, or even Taliesin. My house is 1967 Rollohome trailer-trash with Victoriana delusions. It's affordable (until the latest energy price spikes which made my heating bill look more like the national debt when I first saw the bill for January. This is the Upper Midwest remember, it gets COLD here.)

My first indication that the outside was trying to move into my abode was a dark flash of movement that I saw out of the corner of my eye while watching TV late one night. Followed by a rustling sound in the vicinity of my recycling bags and since that side of my abode is completely devoid of duct work I know it isn't the furnace. So I make a mental note to stop at Wal-mart to purchase rodent bait. We (yes, sometimes I refer to myself in the third person- hazards of living alone) are going to nip this in the bud. I like to personalize my challenges so I name the bugger Roland.

Next day I purchase a box of rodent food (read POISON) which is conveniently packaged in neat little bags that the little critters are supposed to eat their way through to get to the goodies inside, and place them strategically ( I was trying to be Patton, Rommel, Grant and Lee) around the house where I think the little shits are running. I figure that with in a couple of days I should see shredded paper and then begin to look for corpses. At least that's what the package said.

Well, stuff happens, Mom, Sister, exhaustion, work --- basically life and some two weeks or more, I'm a bit fuzzy with how much time had passed but it was more than a couple of days, and I notice that one of the bags of bait seems to be unmolested. So I go check the others. They are also unmolested. Shit. But I'm not hearing Roland and his buds running around so I'm thinking maybe they got the hint and decided that I had made them an offer they couldn't refuse, basically, leave -or come for dinner and get whacked.

I had told Mom about Operation Kill Roland and she, having little else besides AMC channel movies to entertain her, regularly asked about Roland's welfare. I think she was secretly was rooting for Roland and his buds, but was more than willing to supply boxes of D-con.

About a month later I hear a rustling under a bookshelf and go looking and find shredded paper. Ok- seems to be working. A week or so later check some other spots and find more shredded paper and empty bait bags. Ok- good- took a little longer than the box said but hey- we should be finding corpses now. I go on a forensic body search and find nothing. Ok- it had warmed up outside- maybe I won't have to start sniffing for the ---well you get the idea.

I find no evidence of bodies and I'm not hearing the little shits so I'm thinking sweet, until 530 am one morning and I am rudely awakened from my peaceful slumber by the sound of scratching and running from right behind my headboard. I make a mental note to buy more D-con. The next night at 530 am again I am awakened from my slumber by the same cacophony from the previous night. I make a mental note to find the missing nuclear missiles from The Former Soviet Union to make a preemptive strike, fallout be damned.

Informing Mom of this latest setback in Operation Kill Roland- she suggests that I should ask her next door neighbor if I could borrow his cat for a couple of weeks in the hopes that Mother Nature can accomplish what the chemistry geniuses at Reckitt Benckiser can't. I do inquire of my neighbor about his feline's rodent hunting abilities and am laughingly informed that his cat wouldn't know what to do about a mouse if one came up and wiggled its tail in the cat's face. But he sympathises with me and I wonder if he would save cat hair that he vacuums up that I could possibly place in strategic places as a deterrent. (Once again trying to think like Caesar, Alexander, and Genghis Khan, or possibly Hadrian and his wall.)

I have since decided that the Hadrian strategy is to be implemented next. I will have to find some kind of trap or bait system that will work outside, under the trailer in the hopes that I can get Roland before he gets in. This strategy will be easier to implement now that there is not 14 inches of snow in the way of the access panels of my skirting.

So at this time Operation Kill Roland is beginning to look like it's going to be a long and protracted affair much like the search for Osama bin Laden. I however, have decided to adopt an attitude like Churchill in WW2- We shall fight Roland on the land, in the kitchen, and in the cupboards and this trailer will never surrender.

Teeth, Lunch With Mom, and Visions of Dumpster Diving

Once again it is my day off and Mom has a list longer than Al Capone's rap sheet of stuff to do. Ok- maybe not that long, but it reads like City Confidential. (Loved that show's over use of strained simile) Pick up her taxes, have lunch and go grocery shopping and shop the local Shopko. ( discount store chain like Target and Wal-mart).

So once again get her and the 'Caddy' into the Cruiser and head downtown to the accountant. Tax paperwork is retrieved without incident. Time for lunch. Being Friday, Wisconsin and my mother a good Norwegian Lutheran, and its Lent- she says she has a hankering for fish. Up here when you say you want to go out for fish- we are talking beer battered deep fried cod. Ok- no problem- I suggest a place we hadn't been to in a while and the Cruiser with me at the helm begins to make its way to the place. Its 12;30 and its busy, but we get seated at a table where smoking is still allowed-(more on Wisconsin's insane anti-smoking crusade in another post). Mom orders her fish- and I decide since I need to watch my weight will just do the soup and salad bar. This place has chicken dumpling soup to DIE for. Lunch is served, and consumed without incident. Check is paid- thanks Mom- and we depart for the grocery.

It was actually a nice day for March in Wisconsin. The sun was shining, and it was above 40!!!!

I was thinking- hey- lets snag ourselves the 20min combat power snooze while Mom gets her stuff- (chocolate ice cream, bread, milk, blueberry muffins, strawberries and 3 12pks of Diet Rite) and then we will be ready for the next adventure- Shopko.

I get Mom's Caddy out of the back of the Cruiser and bring it around to her. As she gets out of the car- she begins to rummage through her purse for the essentials. Check book, list and of course the coupons. She stops all of this and looks up at me with all the innocence a 79 year old woman can muster and says,

"I left my teeth at the restaurant."

My anticipation of some shut eye was now flying away with the speed of a C5 Galaxy with JTO assistance. A vision of some acne ravaged, over-eager 16 year old busboy clearing the table and depositing the detritus into the garbage now filled my head. Point her and the Caddy in the direction of the doors to the grocery and I jump back into the Cruiser and head for the restaurant. And no, I didn't violate numerous traffic laws while on my rescue mission.

I arrive, and find the place devoid of the crowd that had been in attendence earlier save for two gentlemen sitting at the bar. After what seemed an eternity- the barmaid comes into view and ever so happily asks,

"And what can I get for you?" She's beaming with happiness and joy at me.

"Mom's teeth." I deadpan back.

Her face falls, and the two gentlemen at the bar somehow manage to refrain from, a) spitting their drinks out and, b) choking. They do however, turn to look hard at me to see if this is a joke.

She immediately goes to the register and retrieves a small to-go box from the counter. Written in ball point pen ink all over it- DO NOT THROW- CUSTOMERS DENTURES-DO NOT THROW!

I open the box and ascertain that the teeth are indeed accounted for- which causes the two guys at the bar to quickly look away from me. (I work in the medical industry- gore and such are a normal part of my day- I have a strong stomach- guess those guys didn't.)

"Glad we found them-thats a lot of money to end up in the dumpster." She says to me apologetically.

"Thanks- you got that right. When I get these back to Mom I think the next order of business is to begin drinking heavily." I smile back at her.

"We'll be here." she beams back at me, all smiles once again.

I return to retrieve Mom, hand her the box. She removes said dental appliances and places them in her purse.

"Here, you can throw this away when you get home." She hands me the box.

I pull out of the parking lot and tell her that I need a drink- my day is shot.

She giggles and says, "I just knew I was gonna forget them you know."

We head to the bar and she buys me a beer. Thanks Mom. I love you. :)

My Past Comes Back to Haunt Me

A blast from the past. Me and my best friend from kindergarten- she sent this to me the other day. The sign was for our club that we created- I forget if the name was an acronym for something- I'll have to ask her and see if she remembers. What's scarier is that some 15 years later I was stationed with VP-60 who's squadron insignia was a coiled Cobra...

Maybe we were unconsciously seeing into the future-Note: style of clothing from 1973- is once again back in style lol.

Cruisin' the Conservative Blogs

Strange days in Wisconsin. This above pic was taken at a rally in Green Bay. Wonder what would have happened if it had been in Madison (84.7 square miles surrounded by reality).

Which then brings us to the Santelli Rant on 2/19 and shortly thereafter the accusations that said rant was a carefully scripted hoax. right. I'm with Santelli.

http://business.theatlantic.com/2009/03/playboy_dips_a_toe_into_investigative_journalism.php


The above will help explain some of the wacky hoopla.

I realize that all of this happened some weeks ago- but hey, I work weird hours and have to catch my news as I can.

More Music

No- I didn't get the house completely cleaned up---(there is a lot of crap stuffed in and around my small abode) but I did make some progress- vacuuming the living room- hallway, finding the suitable chemicals to get the hard water stains out of the American Standard Throne, and getting laundry done- of course- I still need to fold and hang said laundry- which would be easier if I had a real closet in my bedroom. The reason I don't have a closet in my bedroom is because my ex decided to tear it out in the interest of making more room for the bed- which meant that the bathroom needs to be completely redone in order to make a closet for the bedroom, which since he left- means none of the above has been done and I don't have the major fundage in the bank to hire a design team to come in and do what needs to be done. Of course finding someone to do what needs to be done to a 1967 Rollohome and be willing to do it-is going to be neither easy nor reasonably priced. So the day wasn't a total loss- there may be hope for me yet. And no- I didn't toss all the food in the house to the local Salvation Army food pantry. I did however, make what could be a major GI clean-out pot of beans, which are warming on the stove even as I write this drivel. But I digress.

By 9pm my choices were- clean the TV screen or get the hell out of the house. I decided that the latter was in order so I went to another- (Yes- my town has many purveyors of adult beverages- we did make the Guinness Book of World Records once for that.) downtown gin mill in the hope of finding musical entertainment. So- for the low price of 5 bucks to get in the door- I got to see a darn good band. Yes, they played covers- but at least they knew what they were doing- and best of all, they were NOT FROM HERE!!!!! I crave diversity when it comes to that now- I've seen the same local guys, the good, the mediocre, and the really bad, too many times to consider it entertainment- especially if I'm getting dinged for a cover charge plus the cost of my libational medication (beer).

Upon walking in- I hear bluegrass with a punch being played. Ok- not quite what I'm used to on a Sunday night downtown- but hey- maybe it might motivate me to go to church. The set they were finishing had a lot of songs that sounded reminiscent of hill country gospel (although- the lyrics were far short of singing the praises of the Glory of God.) But before you know it, my feet- they -were- a -tappin', even after only two pulls from my cold beer bottle. The last set was more rock oriented- but sounded definitely like some of the influences of the group had to have been The Band, and Little Feat, along with Skynyrd, and the Allman Bros. I finished out the night at the bar and even asked permission to take the poster advertising them so that I could get a signature or two. Prior to grabbing the poster- the lead singer was busy playing an encore of impromptu requests and having a sing along with some of the diehards, Grateful Dead- Friend of the Devil and Uncle John's Band. Finding out if my ears were right was the main reason for grabbing the poster (I needed props to help give me the courage to walk up and butt into the fan club). Yep- first band the guy named was The Band, and mentioned a few others I had heard of and some I didn't- and then proceeds to tell me that Yep- they had played with Little Feat down in Jamaica!

So if you like The Band, Little Feat, Beau Soleil etc- this band is worth a listen. And since I do have one album of Beau Soleil, I'm going to be playing that for my bedtime music lullaby tonight :)

http://www.myspace.com/greatamericantaxi and http://greatamericantaxi.com/

Healthy vs Anorexia

So- today I get a message from my ex. The ex had been to the Dr. The ex informs me that 6 mo ago he weighed 149, three months later he weighed 135 and today he weighed 129. Oh yea- and BTW- his primary Dr is CONCERNED....... about his sudden drop in weight. I called and when he answers (a miracle in and of itself) I told him I hated him, that I wasn't going to speak to him ever again and hung up. Or rather, I told him the first two and stayed on the line-(guess I'm just really a masochist). He began whining that it wasn't his fault that I was pissed off and that I shouldn't take it out on him. I told him I KNEW DAMN WELL it wasn't his fault and that I was just jealous that all he had to do to lose weight was go to the VA and get his antidepressant meds changed. (apparently zoloft should be used with caution with people who have issues regarding weight loss..not that my ex ever had issues with weight loss- he was always of slender build- and now apparently he's getting even more skinny due to the zoloft) ME- I fight a losing battle with Drs for over 20 years trying to find out why my monthly friend shows up once a year, my hair is falling out, I grow a better mustache than most guys I know and I get- "you need to watch your weight and exercise more". Hey Doc! I scream -I watch my weight every fucking day on the scale and it just keeps going up!!!!! And exercise- I should get a pedometer and show them how much freaking walking I do every week at work!!!!

What really pisses me off about the whole thing is two weeks before he packed his shit and left to go live with the slut he was seeing behind my back- was that he wanted to make sure I was taking care of my health!!!- And wait-- it gets better-- he was not abandoning me- and that he would be there to help me get better. ( I had finally been diagnosed with Poly-cystic ovarian syndrome, and insulin resistance, a condition for which there is no cure- only symptomatic treatment, unless you are really into the idea of trying to get pregnant- which at 40 was not on my top ten list of things to do in my life.) So like a dumb ass- I give him the benefit of the doubt- help him move- because maybe we can be friends ,(yeah- I know- never works) research dietary stuff for PCOS and Insulin resistance and wait. And wait. And wait. Nope- he's too busy wallowing in his new independence- poverty- and depression (guess things with the slut didn't work out when she found out just how meagre his disability check was.) So not having the slut in his life anymore- he thinks he can make things work with me again. Not so fast bub- I trusted you once- you screwed me over and I'm just supposed to forget? Not in this millennium.

So at the end of last year I made the painful decision to cancel my health insurance, and make use of my own veterans benefits- namely health care because it was less expensive- (Thanks US congress for fucking up the economy for the next millennium)-and realize that I'm going to have to start the fight all over again with a new Dr who I will probably see only 2 times before they leave for a better paycheck and I get assigned a new Dr- who can't or won't read my records and will want to start all over again with new tests ( which means more trips to a phlebotomist who can't draw blood from me without me drawing my fist to within an inch of their face because they screwed up and didn't hit the vein the first time) for a couple of visits over the course of a year in which time they will leave for a better paycheck which means I get assigned a new Dr who won't read the records -etc and so on. Which means the fight goes on.....or I just say fuck it and accept the fact that I am doomed to be a fat bitch who can't get a date on Friday night.

So back to the phone conversation that initiated this rant- he asks me what I would like for food tomorrow- and said that he adored me-I told him I would call him back. I do remember telling him a long time ago when the diagnosis was new and I was really going to make an effort to run my life around my illness- that all carbs had to be "good" high fiber carbs and that meant no more processed flour, only fresh veggies and lots of lean protein- preferably fish, and some real exercise. Oh yeah- he was all for that- if his back wasn't killing him every fucking day.

So- I said goodbye and went back to work and threw stuff around in the pit which calmed me down long enough to finish the shift and head to the bar- (I know- beer doesn't qualify as a good carb...)

So my mission tomorrow- or rather later today is to begin cleaning this shit hole I call a home and remove every bit of edible foodstuff from the premises. If drugs, exercise and watching my weight won't work- maybe just not eating anything will.

A *Buick* Christening for the Chrysler Cruiser

My mother is elderly. She still has all of her marbles- but uses a walker to get around and hasn't driven an automobile in over a decade. Therefore- me being the dutiful and loving offspring -and the only one of my parent's progeny to live in town- I have the distinct privilege of being Mom's chauffeur and errand runner on a very regular basis. Now mind you- I'm not complaining. The job has it's perks- namely being that she buys lunch and a few drinks every now and again, and I get to spend some quality time hearing stories (although I've heard them all a thousand times) about the family and listen to her carry on about the latest news from the neighbors who live directly across from her. ( The neighbors don't miss a thing that happens in the 'hood....)

For the last 8 years or so I have been the proud, and occasionally frustrated, owner of several beater Ford Escorts. None of these cars were really comfortable for Mom and none of them had working air conditioning. So when the last Ford made it clear that it was reaching the end of its life this past August, I finally broke down and signed my life away for the next 5 years in order to purchase a used but much newer mode of transport- which happened to be a Chrysler PT Cruiser. I called Mom to inform her that she would be soon travelling in better style while the dealer was prepping the car and the first question out of her mouth was, "Does it have air conditioning?" Upon seeing the car when I brought it home she pronounced it suitable and comfy- and it was much easier car to stow her walker which she calls her "Cadillac".

So this last weekend- it was decided that I would pick her up to go grocery shopping. I was supposed to pick her up at noon. I rolled over in bed, looked at the clock, and realized that I was in deep doo. It was 3:30. Panic, throw clothes on, grab phone and call Mom. Mild obscenity but ok- get over to the house and and get her in the car, load Cadillac in the back, and head out to store- but first go downtown to drop off tax paperwork to accountant.

As we are driving down a major heavily traveled road, and I am still on something like auto-pilot, due to the fact I haven't had any kind of caffeine for over 12 hours, she starts this burp- gag thing that tells me that things aren't going to be real good in a few minutes. I look over at her and she is pulling her upper plate out of her mouth.
"Are you ok?" I ask.
"Burp, gag. Um huh." She says. She starts rummaging around for her purse to put the teeth in.
"There are some napkins in the glove box," I say, as I reach over her purse, and the stick shift and realize that this isn't going to work unless I want to become a permanent part of some vehicle in front of me. I straighten up and try concentrating on driving the car.
"What did you eat today?"
"Brup, burp burp, gag cough, egg salad."
"Do I need to pull over?"
"Nah, I don't think so. Gag, burp."
I decide that we need to pull over now. Now however isn't going to work because there isn't any place to pull over to.
"Burp, brup, gag choke, burp."
Visions of .... covering my dashboard, windshield, and my mother are not helping me concentrate on driving. I see a driveway on the right and pull in. Now I need to find a discrete place to let my mother lean out of the door to do what is becoming brilliantly apparent in its inevitability. I find a spot next to a delivery truck that shields her from the view of passing traffic, slap the transmission into neutral, pull the parking brake and am out of the car and at her door in less time than it takes to say General Motors. I open the door, unzip her coat, pull off her scarf (it was about 20 degrees above zero that fine afternoon) and wait.
"Burp, Gag.....BUICK. BUICK, BUUUUUUICK, GAG BUUUUUUUICK. COUGH, BUICK........" deep breath and , "BUP, Buick."

Luckily God has endowed me with a strong stomach. I look- (it was hard not to)- and find that the splatter isn't as bad as I thought and amazingly none of it hit me but some did hit the door. The next bit of amazing miracle is that none of it seemed to land on Mom either. I dig in the glove box and grab the last napkin in my stash so she can wipe her face, and later get the door wiped down so that we can get the ***** out of the parking lot- which I realize belongs to a local meat processor.
"You ok?"
"I think so." she says.
"You want to go home?"
"No. Lets get this stuff done today."

Great. This is Karma getting me back for all the times I ever got car sick as a kid.

We get the taxes dropped off and she decides that maybe she needs a sprite to settle her stomach so we head back toward home and the local neighborhood bar where I figure once she has her sprite I can grab some hot water and really wipe the door down so that this .... doesn't freeze and do other horrible things to the interior. At the bar, she's apologizing to me- I'm telling her it's no big deal- after all I used to get car sick as a kid. She then tells me the story I've heard for the 1001'th time about my up-chucking all over Dad. "You know," she said, "I told him you got carsick, and he told me that it was all in my head. I thought when you barfed all over him, good, serves him right."

I decided that instead of Karma getting me for being late and my youthful proclivity to car sickness- it was my Dad haunting the both of us from the other side- just like he swore he would do before he passed on. We finished our drinks and she decided she had had enough excitement for one day and I took her home. I went home and spent the next several hours wondering - am I going to have a member of the family who will be there when I need to Buick when I am her age? I finally drank a couple of brandy and cokes which managed to put the thought out of my head long enough to fall asleep.

Music

Ok- so I'm living in the past. I've been collecting stuff like Long John Baldry and other blues for several years as well as expanding my collection of psychedelic and classic rock and having just begun to figure out how to burn compilations cd's- *FOR PRIVATE AND PERSONAL USE IN MY CAR ONLY* (Gotta have that for the lawyers,--sharks and thieves that they and their corporate clients are..) so have been busy playing around with that. So tonight after getting bored with the computer I decide to go check out the local talent at another local gin mill and music venue just to see if lightning will strike and give me a reason to hope for some original and decent local music.

The gin mill in question has been a local institution for over 30 years. Generations of 20-somethings have graced it's bar stools, tables and dingy restrooms,and danced their way through at least two layers of ancient floor-tile and have begun to make serious headway on the third, much as an archaeologist would dig farther down to go back in time. The back room containing two warped and listing pool tables, electronic dart boards and access to the loos-(one each for the ladies and the gents) provides minimal auditory refuge from the cacophony emanating from the platform in the center of the building that passes as a stage for whatever group of alleged musicians/artists happen to have been booked for the night. The walls in this sanctuary are covered with a variety of playbills advertising upcoming acts, and permanent marker graffiti, which in any other place be considered vandalism.The same graffiti inspired decor is once again repeated in the loos- however with decidedly more vulgar content, which makes the condom machine hanging on the wall of the ladies loo appear decidedly upscale.

All that said- the drink prices are more than reasonable and T and D the regular bartenders late at night are more than competent at handling a bar full of overly happy intellectual wannabes who for some reason think that whatever band or musician playing is just the greatest ever at playing their interpretations of Grateful Dead covers. Now- don't get me wrong here- I like the Grateful Dead. I like Hendrix. I even like some head banging grunge a la Nirvana. Regrettably- in this town, this one bar is the Mecca for cheap cover charges to hear live music and the owners aren't too picky about the quality of said musicians. Which is OK if you are a musician trying to make your way to stardom. After all, ya gotta start somewhere. Unfortunately- originality tends to go out the window as the crowd wants to hear sets that more closely resemble the play list on their I-pod.

Tonight was billed as an open jam- ok- maybe someone would try to do some original material, and maybe I wouldn't have to sit through a 45 minute 'jam' of 'Red House', 'Little Wing',and 'Are You Experienced' with the 'The Star Spangled Banner' in the spirit of, yet generally, poorly executed, style of Jimi Hendrix as the grand finale. Having watched this weekly tableau and had my ears assaulted on a regular basis for a number of years I've come to recognise some of the regular players, and many of them have made considerable progress in their abilities. But in order to keep from going insane in the course of three hours one must, by necessity, consume one or more of the following: -adult beverages or alternatively, partake of controlled substances in the loo. Without the aforementioned medication the only other method of survival is to be completely tone deaf.

By now you are probably thinking- 'what a freaking snob' I must be. Au contraire, it is the reckless abandon and aura of happiness that fills the place on open jam nights that continues to draw me to the place, because no matter how bad my day has been I can always see or hear something that makes me smile. A perfect example of this is 4 guys who are all purportedly music majors do a cover of Britney Spears 'Hit Me Baby One More Time'. The scary part is it actually sounded pretty good in the thrash metal kinda way they did it. Considering what I think of Britney Spears music, I just had to smile.

March 2, 2009

So today I begin. The idea came to me some time ago when I wrote a few articles for a regional monthly magazine. I got burned out on it after my last piece- and have suffered writers block since. So 4 nights ago I was in my local gin mill and sometime blues music venue getting pleasantly inebriated and chatting with the bouncer who I discovered used to blog. I figured what the hell? It was time to do something besides get drunk, sing badly with the band on open jam nights or sit at home crocheting baby blankets for people I really didn't consider to be close to me or my life- (but it did give me something constructive to do so it isn't a total loss), and it might help keep me from obsessing over my latest disaster of a relationship.

40 something is when you realize on some level that life ain't what you thought it was gonna be like back when you were 18 and getting told you were lower than whale sperm at the bottom of the Mariana Trench in Navy boot camp. And while life hasn't been that low for me since that epiphany bright and early at o-dark-thirty some 20 plus years ago, it hasn't exactly achieved warp speed to the outer reaches of the Federation either. But I suspect that most of us are in the same boat and this blog is just my attempt to chronicle my small successes and fess up to the failures in the hope that I might learn something and maybe get a pass from the Almighty come judgement day, for simply trying to have a life and live that gift to its fullest- even if I don't get it right a lot of the time.

Spring comes hard to this area. Geologically known as the The Driftless Region of the Upper Mid-West, which covers parts of southern Minnesota and Wisconsin, Northwestern Illinois and Northeastern Iowa. This area derives its name from being unglaciated in a region that had many glacial episodes, going back nearly two million years to the Pleistocene Epoch. Having escaped the leveling effect of continental glaciers, the ancient land surface has been exposed to essentially continuous weathering and erosion. Several thousand feet of bedrock strata may have been removed during an overall span of some 243 million years. This erosion carved a series of deep valleys into the gently tilted bedrock formations with the Mississippi River Valley draining the entire region. * Thanks to http://www.jdcf.org/driftless.htm for that handy explanation :)

Which is why you will likely find pictures reminiscent of warmer temps, and colors other than white, gray and some color that can't be described which is created from a mix of snow, ice, sand, road tar, vulcanized rubber and other detritus that comes with winter around here, posted with my musings. Which isn't to say that there isn't something beautiful about freshly fallen snow and frost glistening on barren tree limbs- but only when viewed from behind a large window with a roaring fire or overly efficient central heating warming your body rather than twenty layers of clothing you must don in order to dig a path to the mail box in the hope that the SOS letter to your friend in Georgia will be picked up by our overly competent Postal Service, because the weight of the snow has caused a power outage so your computer is down and e-mails can't be sent. OK- maybe I exaggerate a bit there- but 20 below zero is still not my idea of comfort.