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.