Sometimes, The Suitcase Has It Right

Chicago suburbs: Just so you know, you suck.


No really. You do. Now, I'm sure that there's lots of good things to be said about them and I'd be willing to bet they're filled with lots of lovely people and food and drinks and parks and what-not, but all that is cancelled out by the fact that each and every time you need to use a traffic ramp, to either enter or leave the freeway, you must pay a toll. And that's just so very wrong.


So, until you change this by, say, replacing it with a potato chip tax or a bottled water tax or a car tire tax, I'll continue to disparage your good name and assert that you do, indeed, suck.


Which leads us to how I spent my days off last week. No, it was not cleaning the house or reading a pleasant book or filling plastic eggs with Easter candy (all worthy things that I now need to do at the end of this week), it was spent in the glamorous Chicago suburb of Lisle, IL. (Motto: We're just an exit and another two tolls down from Naperville.)


I had my very first occupational medicine conference and, boy was I excited. Well, slightly excited. Somewhat.


The day I left, Wednesday, started rather dreadfully. In fact, if I believed in omens, I'd have faked appendicitis and never left the state. Being the anal soul I am, I had packed all I could the night before and made a list of all that still needed to be packed the next morning. As I'm ready to head out the door, I quite naturally go to zip the suitcase. It was full but not over packed. It had never been used, in fact I had to cut the tags off. It clearly had issues as within the space of 3 minutes, both of the zippers had broken off and I was cursing steadily under my breath as I jimmied the damn thing open, pulled my trusty duffel bag from the closet shelf and crammed what I could inside, adding a second small case for good measure. So, now we have me sweaty, cranky and leaving later than I wanted. And laden with an extra bag.


I staggered out to the minivan (because nothing says "cool" like a grey minivan) and heave the luggage in, pull out of the garage and reach for the remote to close the garage door. It's evaporated. What the hell? Who the hell drove the van last! Me. Being (all together, now) anal, I always return the remote to its place of repose, in the dash. Ah. Charles. Yes. He drove the little black Honda and must have taken MY remote to open the door as the Honda is missing its remote. OK, fine, I'll just take the one from the shameful SUV, that I hope we don't need to use until next November, when the snows start to lay deep. I hop out of the van with much vim and vigor and ......wait for it.......hit the solid sheet of ice that is the surface of the driveway. Slooooooooowly, I fall as a result of Somebody's law about a frictionless surface vs force and bodies in motion tending to stay in motion (damn Newton) and hit hard. During the approximately 5 hours it seemed to take to actually land, I was able to consider quite a lot of things:

• That this was going to hurt like hell.
  
• That it'd be a very good thing to avoid hitting my head.


• That this was a really stupid way to start the day.


• That this was a really stupid way to injure myself.


• That if I lost consciousness, I'd likely lie there until Sara left for school after lunch, as there'd be no reason for anyone to look for me.


• Oh! Wait! Work would probably miss me and I'd only lay here in sub-freezing temperatures for about 2 hours, and the cold would probably be a benefit to the head injury, slowing metabolism and retarding swelling (actually, they thought I was going to the conference that morning, like my partner, rather than working the morning, joke on me).


• That this is really taking a long time to hit the ground, lets just get it over with, already, and remember to watch the head, shall we?


• That this is really, really, really going to hurt.

There's something to be said for planning, as I did, indeed, not hit my head, just my wrist, back and butt, and nothing broke. So good. Oh, and the neck got a good whiplash-y sort of thing, but that's a small price to pay.

Got up, trotted (slid) gingerly to the house, where a large bottle of ibuprofen was sitting conveniently on the counter (Waiting for Colin, in the throes of the influenza, to need another dose.), swallowed 4 and poured a goodly amount in a sandwich baggie for later. I then drove like a nonagenarian, just waiting for the kamikaze deer to leap in front of the van to finish my day, but all was well.

After seeing the morning's patients, I hopped in the van and drove the 2 hours to where the conference was held, in a Hilton. Actually, that was harder than anticipated, as I kept taking every wrong turn possible (seems the area had grown up a bit since the directions were posted on the Hilton website), but after an additional hour and much paying of tolls for the use of the unavoidable on- and off-ramps (Chicago suburbs, you really suck), I did arrive, somewhat safely and more soundly than I deserved to be.

The good people at the Hilton were very welcoming and didn't even lose my reservation. And they keep a good bar (which my friend and colleague, J, and I availed ourselves of, for therapeutic reasons, of course; wine is a good muscle relaxant). And as I was feeling a bit shell-shocked, or freeway exit and ice shocked, we had no alternative but to avail ourselves of their rather good hotel restaurant. Salmon topped with crusted scallops has healing powers. As does chocolate-ginger creme brulee.

The conference itself had some good talks and a lot of meh talks. I am just not an occupational medicine doc at heart. I am an internist. I love my same day care clinic. But I know my job, as it currently exists, will be gone in a year or less, and I really love the people I work with. I had a group I loved once before and left them for my sanity. I don't want to do that, again. For me, the people I work with are even more important than the work I do. And it is still medicine. It's still doctoring. It's just from the work comp end, rather than the private end. And I am a good doc, I'll provide the best care I can, regardless.

I was also rather surprised to find that, if I wasn't the youngest one in the room of about 150, I wasn't far from it, at the ripe age of 42. Good lord, but we are a group of stodgy, old farts. I'll miss that about internal medicine conferences--the mix of ages and styles. I was one of the few not in a suit or at least a sport jacket (a suit? for a medical conference?), choosing to wear jeans and cotton shirts. Also annoying was that most of those in the audience who raised their hands were not actually asking questions or seeking clarification, but making statements trying to impress others with their methods. I hate that. Always makes me want to throw something squishy and smelly.

A few days later, I returned to home and hearth, husband and kids, laundry and dog hair, all in one piece, with a glimpse of my future and no closed head injury, so it's all pretty good, isn't it?

I'll take it.

Bathroom Humor

Does anyone else find the humor in the bottle of hand soap in our clinic bathroom plastered with the name, logo and prescribing information for the drug Cialis, or is it just me? I'm guessing there's an accompanying bottle of hand lotion somewhere, yes??

And do you think it was intentional or not on the part of the drug company?

(And, no, for those who remember my diatribe of two years ago, I didn't use it, preferring to wash with the soap from the dispenser on the wall, labelled instead with the name of the soap-dispenser manufacturer. I also tried to peel off the drug label, in an act of vandalism and defiance, but it wouldn't budge. Apparently, they're on to me.)

In Which I take Leave Of My Senses

I present living proof of my insanity:

Paper mache.

Really.


In my kitchen. Dripping on my table. Puddling on my floor (which, thank God, is a faux-marbled paper-mache colored ceramic). Coating each of us.


See, I'm home with the little angels for 2 whole weeks. Actually, what with the Labor Day weekend at the end and the fact that I only work the first 1/2 of each week, it's a day shy of 3 weeks. Our lovely summer sitter, C, had to selfishly get her little self off to college the middle of the month and modern society frowns upon 8 year olds and 4 year olds being taken care of by adolescent dogs, no matter how good their intentions are.


Desperate to find something for us to do to take up a rainy morning on a day that was not my time-honored favorite "Let's Clean The House For Money, Kids!" Day, I agreed to have us make pinatas.


Yes. I am agreeing to do crafts.


I am not in the least little bit craft-y. Nothing personal, I just never saw the point. Knitting, sure. There's a use for that sweater. But a Popsicle stick napkin holder? Not even as a kid did I see that as anything but crap. (I was a shitty Girl Scout.) I apparently lack the gene. It must be next to the one on the "X" chromosome that confers the desire for expensive designer bags, which I also lack.


So, we blew up the balloons, and then made a quart of flour-based glue, which we dredged strips of paper in and plastered all over balloons. Which then had to drip-dry, indoors, so they wouldn't become large fly strips.



Here they are, dangling over the kitchen table where only a few pet indoor flies were present (drip, drip, drippity-drip).


Then they were tissue papered and painted. And glued and glittered.


Actually, when he realized that we WOULDN'T be filling them full to bursting with bags and bags of candy and then whacking them open and then stuffing ourselves on the bags and bags of candy, Colin rather lost interest and decided his would be an "egg". An undecorated chicken egg. (I owe him a pony or a car for that.) His is, of course, on the right.

Sara, however, took full advantage and glued and painted and glittered hers extravagantly. I am still finding green sparkles in odd places on my person, despite having had more than one shower since then. I'm not sure what Sara's pinata is. Neither is she. But it sheds the carefully applied glitter nicely, so I'm thinking it's a kindergartner from the egg dimension. Or a grade-school art teacher, from the planet Ovoid.

Today, we used the morning splitting my psyche in two as I attempted to fulfill the school supply requirements of both kids' teachers simultaneously at the local Shopko.

For some reason Sara must have a box of 8 crayons that are not the 'jumbo size', but the 'regular size'.

As far as I can tell, they make the box of 'regular sized' crayons 16 or 32 or larger and the box of 8 crayons 'jumbo sized', but not what is required. I'm thinking they can take the box of 16 and lump it. She also needs a box of 'pipsqueak markers' as she is a girl. What the fuck? The boys have to bring paper plates.

Seems like the parents of daughters, who will be subjected to multiple bizarre fashion demands over the years, should be the ones to bring the simple paper plates and the parents of the boys, who for the next several years will be happily dressed in a uniform of jeans and t-shirts, get to find the 'pipsqueak markers'.

Or maybe the teachers figure that the parents of girls need the practice.

Oh. I also realized that all the pairs of jeans I bought Colin are the wrong size. But that's OK. I can use up another morning exchanging them.

I think I don't have enough beer in the house.

No.

I know I don't have enough beer in the house.

He Meant Well

"Good-bye! Thank you so much for coming out and fixing the water softener!"

"No problem. You should start to notice a big difference after 5-7 tanks of hot water through the water heater."

"Great!"

"I left the valve that had corroded and the other broken parts on top of the unit. Your husband will want to see them."


Yeah. Right. You bet he will. (Because he's so into that sort of thing.)

Right after I perform the autopsy. Just lemme get my toolbox.

And while I'm at it, I'll just fix that bathroom sink.

Life Lesson # 47,923

Say you happen to be getting into work earlier than expected and, noting the gas tank could use a topping off and that the exterior of the car, given all the road salt sprayed onto it over the past few weeks, is looking like that loaf of bread you found pushed to the back of the cupboard and left to turn dark gray and fuzzy, you decide to give the car a little love.

You fill the tank in the dark, single-digit-degrees-F, pre-dawn and request the slip for a car wash-with-purchase.

As you pull the car into the automatic washing bay, your only defense against your actually congratulating yourself for not having to wait in line for an hour for a wash, by doing it this dark and early, is that you have only had one cup of coffee and are diverted by listening to your Harry Potter CD (thanks, Cagey, for urging me to get these). Blissfully, you sit there, listening to the trials of poor Harry, while the machine pummels your car with alternating blasts of water and soap.

You have, need it be said, also forgotten that the exit of the carwash is at the bottom of an incline.

An incline, at the bottom of which is where all the gallons of water that have dripped off the hoards of cars that were washed last night, has instantly frozen into a solid sheet of thick ice?

Ice that has not been salted by the poor wretches that man the gas/wash/mini-mart at this hour of the morning?

The exit door of the carwash, of course, has closed, so you cannot retrace your route. Even if it were open, the entrance door had closed as soon as you had entered the bay.

Can you also have really forgotten to put the bag of kitty litter back in your trunk for the winter? The bag that you purchased a few years ago for just such an occasion, to provide traction on packed snow and ice?

Can you thank your lucky stars, guardian angel, all the saints, and the smiling of face of each of the 9 fates that a mere 10 minutes later you actually made it up the incline rather than down into the ditch at the back of the incline?

I'm thinking that qualifies for a Christmas miracle and I should be branded a dolt.

Ode to the Motorcycle Guy

Dude.

We watched you with avid interest,
in your dress shirt and khakis,
backward baseball cap and leather shoes.

Down the freeway you flew,
shirt bellowing in the wind,
eyes intent on the horizon,
late for work.

How else to explain it?
No coat, no change of clothes,
you mustn't have checked the weather radar,
too late to go back and get the car.

In our own warm, dry van,
we rooted for you as we all headed toward the low, black clouds.
"Maybe he'll make it. There's a small break in the clouds."
A slim window, down pour on either side.

But then, the tanker ahead of all of us stalled at the light.
No room to pass, the storm descends, 5 minutes is all you'd have needed;
We agree we've never seen raindrops this big.

Your face fixed in a grimace, shoulders above your ears,
you take the off ramp to your destination as a mall employee,
maybe at Sears.

Poor, drowned rat of a motorcycle guy.
It's going to be a long, long day for you at work.
Maybe they're having a shirt sale.



And finally, a correction:

I mistakenly reported that Charles was accepted into the #3 school in the nation for his program. I lied.

It's #1.

In your face, Harvard!

Lessons Learned

It's the end of a completely typical week. I feel compelled to put something out there as I am bored with seeing the same post for too many days running and the pressure to have something new up mounts. Initially, you feel that it is time to write. Sometimes you have an idea. Preferably a funny idea. Keep 'em laughing. Then your standards start to slip. And plummet. And now I'm in freefall.

See, nothing happened this week.

But that's not really true, is it? Life, by its very nature is things happening.

So, I will challenge myself to come up with something that was learned by each member of our little stuck-in-the-doldrums family.

Charles: Ah. Charles learned not to bite and chew a Snicker's bar when he is trying to keep a temporary crown on, until the permanent one is in. He also used up a packet of tooth-luck as the new crown came in early and was, in fact, on site when he went in bright and early on Monday morning. He also learned that, despite having had, now, 3 root canals and 3 crowns, that it does not get less unpleasant with experience.

Diana: Sigh. I learned that denial is a powerful thing. Even if you are 24 years old and have 3 children and have come in to see me for abdominal discomfort and flank pain and you are usually very regular with your "monthlies" and, well, it's been around 5 months since you last had your period and you don't have a partner now, but last did this fall and, well, you didn't use any protection... And when I come in to tell you that you not only have that rip-roaring bladder infection but are quite likely approaching your 3rd trimester of your 4th pregnancy, based on the size of your uterus on my very limited exam and your less-than-certain dates, and you sit there completely stunned, well, what is there to do but to hold your hand and pat your shoulder as it all finally sinks in. Sigh.

Colin: Hm. He learned, once again, that Mom means what she says. For instance, if, in a fit of pique, he was told that if he undid the straps of his snow pants so that I had to unknot and then re-feed them through the clips ever again (instead of just unzipping the damn thing and taking them off over his shoulders) he would lose computer privileges. If, once again, he did just that, well, he would, indeed, be off the computer, no matter how very sorry he was. Grrrr.

Sara: Sara learned that if the whole damn household has fallen to a virus, it is just a matter of time until she gets it. Fortunately, she has a great constitution and was completely better in a couple of days. She also has honed her nose-blowing skills nicely.

Molly: Nope. The dog-human has not really learned anything this week. Not to jump on the couch. Not to jump on the humans. Not to reliably come when called. Not to stop nipping. Nothing.

Madison: Now, the cat-dog has learned a couple of lessons. First, if you bite your person's nose in the pre-dawn while she is asleep, you will be batted across the bed and onto the floor. This is called a "reflex reaction". Second, if you jump on the edge of the tub right after splashy Sara has had a bubbly bath, you will slip. Given your trajectory, you will fall into the tub, still rather wet and full of mounds of bubbles. You will then have a very difficult time getting out, well, because of all the slipping and sliding and loss of purchase for ones feet. When your worthless person comes to see what the hell all the ruckus is about, she will be incapacitated by laughter as all she sees are flying paws and tail, leaving you to get yourself, finally, all bedraggled and bubble-splattered, out of the tub. Hiding out behind the toilet will not screen you from the laughing and pointing. Even the dog joins in the mirth at your expense.

Diana: I learned that I just should keep my camera looped over my arm as I never have it handy for the really good shots.

----------------------------
(edited)

Oh! I know! Molly did learn something this week: She learned that she no longer fits under the living room couches. Of course, this knowledge came after getting herself stuck under there several times, placing her at the mercy of Mad-kitty, who is still quite small and can scamper around the marooned puppy, batting her across the nose and chewing on her tail. Once, again, did we come to the rescue?

What a silly question.

Of course not.

What better way to learn than by facing your own consequences?

A Funny Thing Happened On The Way To The Courthouse

You know that dream? The one where you are desperately trying to get somewhere important, say a big exam or a crucial meeting, and everything seems to be going well, and you just can't believe you are making such good time and you just might get to stop and grab a cuppa at that really good coffee place? And in the back of your mind you just know that things are going to go terribly, terribly wrong and you find that you are on the wrong road and there are no signs and no way to turn around and it gets dark and your lights don't work and your car won't go faster than 2 MPH and, and, and, and just before the one-hooked escapee from the mental asylum slashes through your car's roof on this suddenly deserted road, you wake up?

Yeah. That one.

...........................................................

Cut to this morning. A big morning in our household. Marked on the calendar and etched in our brains. 10am. Courtroom 390. The Federal Courthouse in Milwaukee. Charles's summons to the swearing-in ceremony for new American citizens.

Yup, our boy was officially cashing in his green (pink, now yellow) card and becoming a dual American-Canadian citizen. We were a bit surprised that his citizenship application went through so quickly, as he is even more left than I am and I can't imagine the current administration will be thrilled to have one more of us liberal chuckleheads voting, but oversights can sometimes turn out in your favor.

For the past week or two, we debated whether or not to have Sara and I come, Colin being in school, getting his own civic education. His bus comes about 2 hours and 20 minutes before we needed to be there and we are about 2 hours out, driving the speed limit. Now, Charles is a master at (ahem) compressing the drive time, but what about road construction? And parking. This is downtown, for Pete's sake. Parking is sure to be a nightmare. There is almost certain to be a parking garage nearby, though. We decided that, worst case scenario, if we cut it too close, we could scream up to the entrance and he could leap out of the driver's side and I could scootch over and park the car, then worry about getting myself and Sara where we needed to be.

OK, then. We were going. Yes. Plans and back-up plans.

This morning, we were up in plenty of time, got ourselves all ready, including breakfast stuff in the car and change of clothes for Sara, in case she wiped out what she was wearing. All final paperwork in hand. Gas in the vehicle. Jumper cables and street maps (3 separate sets, yes, why?) and all, because you just never know. Colin's bus comes right on time and we pull out as planned. Traffic is great. The radio is playing good music. All is well. We take the I-94 out of Madison and I pull out the Gameboy, because, well, we are on target to get there 30 minutes early and all is going better than planned. We just have to head East until we hit Milwaukee and then take 1 exit and turn left twice. We toodle along blissfully for about 20 miles.

So why is the sun behind us? Well, sort of behind and over to the right? That would make our direction Westish. Well, Northwestish. Huh. Well, freeways sometimes curve one way and then back to where they are heading. Except why is the sign telling us how close we are to the fucking Wisconsin Dells?!?

Fuck! Fuckity fuck, fuck. Fuck!!

It is now 1 hour and 15 minutes until we have to have Charles in Milwaukee, some 90 miles away. Forget parking and traffic and road construction delays and courthouse security. There is just no way. NO. WAY.

Yeah. Getting to feel just like that dream.

Charles takes the pragmatic view and decides to throw in the towel and go back home, maybe by way of the liquor store. I take the completely unrealistic hopeful view that we should just go for it, because, where else do we have to be today? Who knows, maybe someone will take pity on a nice, clean-cut Canadian and his sweet, frazzled wife and absolutely adorable daughter and swear him in, in the hallway, if we slip them a $20. We turn off at the next exit, another mile or so down the freeway, gritting our teeth, deeply regretting my coming, because if I had stayed, he would have left at least an hour before, just to be there early and park and all, like he always does. I also realize that the bribing of the federal official will not work as this is Wisconsin, not Chicago, and we may even end up in jail, including Sara, if we attempt it.

I frantically search the documents for a phone number to call to see if there is any way we can rectify the situation. There is a sentence at the bottom of the summons that says to respond in writing if you are unable to make the ceremony. Somehow I don't see this as helpful at the moment.

We drive, um, quickly. Yes. Quickly. Speedily. Not implying that any laws of the road were broken. Nope. Not us. We are a completely law-abiding citizen and soon-to-be citizen, if we had only taken the right exit to get on the freeway.

We speak tersely. We grind our teeth. I feel very, very bad for coming. We look at the speedometer and the clock and the speedometer and back to the clock and my God! just stop looking at the control panel of the car because it just isn't helping the situation at all, is it?!

We also keep all our eyes that can be spared from the worthless watching of the dashboard peeled for anything that looks like a cop car. Not that we were speeding. Nope. Just out of interest.

The miles peel away. We reach Milwaukee at 9:50. I can not tell you how. 10 minutes to navigate the seemingly easy off-ramp to the 2 left turns. We raise the arm rests in preparation for our screech-and-swap-drivers plan. The ceremony is, after all, taking place in a government institution. Maybe they are running late. Maybe they schedule like anal medical clinics, telling people to be there early so if they are late, they will still have time to fill out their insurance information and medical histories and patient satisfaction surveys and all. Or so I've heard.

We just need the exit 310B. Not "A" or "C", but "B". It is one of those 3 way exits. "A" and "C" are labeled. "B" is not. "C" says that it is for I-794, which we are looking for but does not designate "East" or "West". We have 10 feet to decide. I yell, "left!" as the instructions say to bear left and it is the only exit to the left and is between "A" and "C".

I am, of course, wrong. We should have gone with door #C, to the right.

All hope is lost. We decide to turn around and go to the courthouse, anyway, to see who we can talk to to reschedule things. We rehearse our deep apologies. We practice summoning some discrete tears. Even I give up all hope.

Dispiritedly we head off in the right direction.

And the heavens part and the angels sing and we are magically transported to the front of the courthouse. It is 10:05.

And what the hell is that? The entire curb across from the main entrance of the Federal Courthouse is open and clear. Parking meters marching along empty spaces. The sign reads "No parking from 6pm to 10am."

Movie parking for us. Movie parking when we needed it most.

Now I really don't believe that the All-Being-Of-Time-And-Space micromanages in our piddly little lives, but if I did, I would call it a miracle and go on the 700 Club.

Charles pulls up and leaps across the street and into the courthouse.

I sit stunned for 5 seconds, stagger out and plunk 90 minutes of change in the meter (all the quarters in the parking-and-toll change-cup in the car), thinking that it would be a small good deed for who ever came after us.

I gather up toddler, books, purse, and sanity and scamper to the corner. Notice I did not jaywalk, despite my urge. Very law abiding.

The two polite security guards at the metal detector and x-ray thingie efficiently get us through and, after asking if we were here for the ceremony, direct us succinctly to the room. I notice they don't seem surprised that we are late.

We get to the room, an amazing, polished, carved and gleaming oak room. (Only the floor was not oak. Seriously. That and the 2 small busts of Lincoln and Kennedy.) There were about 50 others sitting in rows in front of the bar, where Charles was, waiting to be sworn in. The 30 or so friends and family members along to watch were seated on benches (oak, natch) in the back. We camped out on one and broke out the books. And then the crayons.

At 10:45, the clerk came in and announced that in 15 more minutes, the court would be called to order and hizonner would preside over the swearing in. We should feel free to roam about the halls.

Yup. It started an hour late.

And I could do nothing but giggle with glee.

And look at my watch rather frequently to make sure the parking meter was not going to run out before we were through as I had only put in 90 minutes of change in. Good deed and all.

So, the nice, friendly judge (a credit to Wisconsin, he was) came in a bit after 11am and swore in all those newly minted Yanks (or 1/2 Yank, in the case of Charles), even cracking a sly joke in the midst of his speech.

Sadly, there was no cake afterward, so we went out for lunch and bought a chocolate pie, which made Charles and I rather sick but the kids loved. (Note to self, if you ever go back to a Perkins, do not succumb to the French Silk pie. It has little chocolate flavor and about 3 times the amount of sweet it needs.)

So, there we are. Beforehand, I had thought this trip, aside from being a notable event for us as a family, might be worth a post. Heh.

All rise. This court is no longer in session. Thank you, God and all the sweet saints, micromanagers or not.

End Of Days

I think I have just seen a harbinger of the downfall of civilization.

Maybe I am over reacting, but you be the judge:

The Scene: Yesterday, early afternoon. Lunch over, Sara down for her nap, Colin playing. Peaceful. Our heroine cleaning up the kitchen, contemplating which choice of chocolate to accompany the hit of coffee to be taken before her run. The chocolate and coffee being for purely medicinal purposes, you realize. Never mind that if she didn't indulge in all the chocolate and other questionable foodstuffs, she could be contemplating a nice book-and-couch scenario.

But our heroine is getting off track, yet again.

Ring, ring!

Diana: "Damn phone."

Diana: (answering the phone) "Hello?"

Computerized monotone meant to sound pleasant and warm but failing to sound anything but creepy: "Hello please wait for the next available Scholastic telemarketer."

Diana: (click)

I am trying to decide what bothers me about this most, and I am not talking about the whole interrupt-your-personal-business-even-if-it-is-just-scratching-your-nose annoyance that is the telemarketer call. There are ways around that: The "do not call" list, the screening your calls with the machine approach, the making up of horrible, yet funny things to say back to the poor sap on the other end of the line ("Oh! I am so glad you called, I am just so lonely! Let me TELL you all about it. I haven't talked to anyone in DAYS!"). I personally answer our phone, as we really don't get that many sales calls. Our number is unlisted. If it is a telemarketer, I just hang up after saying a polite "no thank-you".

What bothers me is that a machine has interrupted my day and now is asking me to wait on hold. What bothers me is that this approach obviously works, or it wouldn't be being done. I have gotten these sorts of calls before, from time to time and I assume you have too. After reflexively hanging up, for a brief moment I regretted not holding for the next hapless telemarketer and giving them an ear-full.

Then, of course, I realized that it would really not change anything, possibly even perpetuate it, as it counted as a connection rather than a disconnection in the grand telemarketing computer tally. It certainly would not have been the first time someone told them off and obviously it has not stopped this practice. I also wondered how long I would have been on hold waiting for someone to come on the phone trying to sell me something I assuredly did not want.

Plus, I was on the kitchen phone, the new dinky-ass one that is too small to hold to your ear with your shoulder, not like the old one in the bedroom. The old bedroom phone has a handset that can double as a weapon, should anyone try to break in. Had I been on that phone, I could have pretended to bludgeon the telemarketer repeatedly with the receiver, which would have been good practice, in case I ever had to do it in reality.

Maybe I should just switch the phones around, so I am prepared. Lord knows, there will be a next time.

(PS: Yes, I could have just put it on speaker phone, I realize, but where is the funny in that, I ask you? Plus, I never remember to do that until afterward.)

Horror and Dismay

I am still reeling.

Two things happened at Sunday dinner tonight, a dinner, I might add that was tasty and left much in the way of leftovers. Good and efficient. We had grilled filet mignon, grilled chicken, fresh baked dill buttermilk bread, watermelon, and sauted garden zucchini with fresh herbs and red pepper. The wine? A nice pinot noir. Red wine makes me hum. Pinot noir makes me sing.

Within 5 minutes, my beloved son dumped catsup all over the lovely meat and my darling mother-in-law put Splenda in her glass of wine.

I wept silently.

Next Sunday, it will be Hamburger Helper and a bottle of cold duck.

3 Days Older, 3 Days Wiser?

Things I have learned over the past few days:

1) If you disturb a newly nesting house finch (that has made her home and hearth over your porch light) at night by opening the front door to let your guests out, she will fly into the light that is your living room. It will take a while for her to find her way out, but she will, being smarter than you are, with your waving of the arms and barking of the dog. All you need to do is just chill and close all the doors to the other rooms, keeping the outside doors open. Take a lesson.

2) If you do not periodically clear out your old e-mails containing all the pictures your friends are sending you of their lovely 6 months in California to make you jealous, you will not get to get the new lovely e-mails from your friends, as they will bounce. So, so sorry.

3) It can officially snow 8 months out of the year in Wisconsin, regardless of what your own definition of spring is. For instance, it snowed yesterday morning, last night and spit flurries as we drove in this morning. This May morning.

4) If tantrums were an Olympic sport, your darling daughter would be invited to compete in the trials. She gets bonus points for saving the worst and loudest of them for the restaurant and the grocery store. More apologies to the other patrons.

5) A bag of carrots makes a good makeshift thing for your 2-year-old to cuddle, as do a bag of craisins, and will prevent more tantrums. Until it is time to buy them. For some reason, grocery checkers look confused as you shove the bag of carrots at them and beg them to quickly ring it up. The look changes from confusion to horror as your adorable toddler winds up to scream bloody murder. Fortunately, they scan the carrots on the 1st pass over the dohicky and the scream is cut off quickly, to everyone's relief. (Note: We first gave her the bag after she had calmed down, not as a reward for the tantrum. Tantrums in the house o' Piffle are not tolerated. Similarly, the coloring book she got at the bookstore was not restored to her person until she calmed down and asked for it nicely. Fortunately, that took place in the car, much to the relief to all others on the planet, except her brother.)

6) If you fail completely in your task of getting the lid of your travel mug screwed on correctly, you will find this out as you try to take a sip while the car hits a large bump. Coffee will not be repelled by the zipper of your coat but will seep through, without your knowledge. The stains down the front of your shirt will be pointed out by your partner as soon as you step in the door. The dribbles will also completely fail to be concealed by the white coat you throw on. So very professional.

And how was your weekend?

Idiots, All

Idiotic credit card companies.

In the mail yesterday 2-yr-old Sara received a credit card application.

Now we are sadly used to getting these unwelcome offers to get sucked into more debt. I honestly can say that it has probably been years since the mail has come and there was no piece of junk mail credit card offer in it. Years. The current record in one day's mail was 6 separate credit card offers. We have reached 5 more than once. I assume we are no different than most. We have never taken them up on any of these offers. We shred them as soon as we get in the door. We are obviously on multiple "potential sucker" mailing lists, something that happens if you have any commerce with the outside world. It annoys me but not enough to take action. Again, I am supremely lazy.

But how in hell did they get Sara's name and address? She has no bank account. She is on no document aside from her birth certificate and social security number. The only thing I can think of is through the billing office for our health network and I can't imagine they would be selling patient info, given HIPAA confidentiality guidelines. I am perplexed. Maybe from someone nice sending her a gift mail-ordered with her name on the package. Maybe that would be us. Drat.

The big event tonight for us Piffles is Colin's 1st ever Holiday Concert. Eeeeep. Tonight he gets to put on his new navy blue pants and a clean (maybe red?) shirt and stand up with his classmates and sing 2 songs. "We are Santa's Elves" from that supreme piece of holiday tripe, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer (Well, yes, we do own a copy. Yes, it plays several times a week. What's your point?) and "Jolly Old Saint Nicholas". Complete with coordinated hand gestures. How ambitious is his school music teacher? So we are all in anticipation. And by "we" I mean Colin and I. I truly can't wait. I have picked out which Christmas-themed sweater I will wear. (Yeah, I have 2 Christmas-themed sweaters. I bought them, myself, with malice aforethought. I will hang my head in shame.) Colin has been practicing his songs and hand gestures for weeks. We do them together in the car. Poor Charles. You would think that, having actually chosen the career of educating children, Charles would be enthusiastically singing and making sleigh motions with his hands along with Colin and I. (He is looking forward to going, just not with quite the glee) . But, he just drives down the road with both hands on the wheel of el minivan, covertly singing along with Springsteen.

So, that is our evening. School children mangling treacly holiday songs. With hand gestures. And I am counting the hours.

How did I get here?

We have met the enemy and he is us

Most Saturdays we have a tradition of getting up, hopping in the vehicle and heading in to that mecca of Wisconsin, Madison. We go to the same bakery, order the same thing and then go run our errands, visiting the same stores. Grocery shopping is universally on the list. (Yeah, we drive 30 min to go grocery shopping. You'd do the same if that were the only place to get such haute cuisine items like shallots and turkey breast other than the pressed sort.) We usually frequent this one Sentry because, well, good food, and it is near the bookstore. There is a down side, though, and that is that it is frequented by huge numbers of the most atrocious band of shoppers imaginable. And by that I mean the worst breed of all, the Oblivious Aisle Blockers. You know the ones. Usually there are 1 or 2 in each store you go to, but they can be avoided by simply going to the part of the store furthest from them and proceding from there. This tact does not work, however, if every bleeding shopper is an OAB. What is it about that Sentry grocery that lead to so many complete dunderheads shopping there, especially at 9 am on a Saturday. I mean, why are they not in bed like the rest of the civilized world? Today, the answer became clear. Over and over again, of it's own volition, our cart kept blocking the aisle. There seemed nothing we could do to stop it.

That's when it came clear. It is not the shoppers but the store. Some malevolent, twisted entity turns these otherwise considerate people into rude monsters when there.

There remains just one question: Is the OAB transformation temporary or are we destined to be shopping assholes forever? I am nearly out of pressed turkey and iceberg lettuce. Guess I'll find out at the local Cub Foods Wednesday. Consider yourselves warned.