Month: March 2005 (Page 2 of 5)

I’ve told this story so many times, I was sure I’d done it on here….. but a search of my archives says I didn’t, so here we go. I’ve already given away the punch line, but the story’s still funny. If I’ve told it & just can’t find it? Apologies from me, BlameShift onto Blogger. Poor Blogger, such an easy patsy these days….

I spent a lot of time with my Dad, hanging out in his shop, “dusting.” Looking back, dusting in a room where loads of sanding and cutting and general woodworking was taking place was rather -how do you say – FUTILE? But it was more an excuse to just hang out with him. The sun the moon and the stars were hung by my father, and while I know he’s a mere mortal and I’ve grown up a lot, he is still an influence in/on my life and I love him totally. In our times together, he would teach me all sorts of interesting things, about philosophy and Latin and ethics and anything else I could fit into my growing brain. One of those little gems was “Ex post facto” (“after the fact” as Dad taught me, a more detailed, legal version is here).

Fast forward. I was a covert gum smuggler in 5th grade. We would walk up to Bob’s IGA at recess (one whole block away), and I would stock up on Bubble Yum and Bubblicious. Sweet sugary forbidden goodness, people. We were NOT allowed to chew gum in class, and did that ever stop me? Well, no. I tried to be covert, but did get caught. After one aggregious transgression, Mrs. Urlaub, the science teacher, made a new rule. Any student caught chewing gum THREE TIMES would be sent to the principal’s office. Duly Noted. My gum chewing became more underground, less present in her class, and the smuggling via pencil case continued. I was caught again. DAMN. Then, shockingly, I know, I was caught AGAIN! But dudes, dudettes, it is not curtains! It is only catch number two! So I was oblivious as she told me to come out into the hallway. DOop de doo. My fogbanks persona had no idea what was up.
“Where’re we going?” I inquired.
“To the PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE,” Mrs. Urlaub grouched at me, peering over her glasses.
Amazed, agape, I say, “But why?”
More peering and a big frown. “For chewing gum, that’s why! This is the third time I’ve caught you, and I said that on the third time you’d go to the principal’s office!! So, come on!”
Momentary pause, mind racing.
“But wait!”
She turned and looked at me.
“Ex post facto, Mrs. Urlaub! You made that rule AFTER you caught me the first time. This is only the second time you caught me with gum after you made that rule. You can’t count the first time. Ex. Post. Facto.”
Holy Shit. I could have knocked her down & stolen her glasses. She was dumbfounded. I was not trying to look smug, but I know I was giving her the “I AM RIGHT” look, complete with skyward-bound eyebrows.
She collected herself and tried to recover.
“Well. NEXT TIME, NEXT TIME I catch you. You are going to the principal’s office.”
I nodded. “That’s fine.”

And she never caught me again. Thanks, Dad. I’m sure you never meant for me to use Latin to evade punishment, but, hey – when in Rome…….

I like to categorize the different parts of me inside as being run by gnomes. It makes for a fun visualization, and well, I like gnomes. I have very stringent rules about gnomes, for example, their hats must be POINTY. They cannot be CHEERFUL or GAY in the CHEERFUL sense. What they do behind closed doors is their bidness. This does not mean they must have a dour look at all times, but the true gnomes have a seriousness about them, as serious as a 5th grader telling her science teacher, “Ex Post Facto, Mrs. Urlaub, you did NOT catch me with gum a third time, it’s only been two times since you made that new rule.”

Right now, the gnomes that run the Fun Center, which is where my emotions funnel through, and usually get some semblance of humor or at least a twinge of sarcasm, those gnomes seem to be pissed off and annoyed. They don’t fling Happy Powder into the Emotional Stream, as assigned. I imagine they’re just standing around, grumbling & grimacing, discussing the possibility of starting a GnomeUnion (the Gnomesters! Who will be their Jimmy Hoffa?). Maybe it’s got something to do with the fact that I started the day filled with joyous hope and a newfound appreciation for Springtime, and now?

NOW?

NOW IT’S SNOWING.

All I can say is, “Goddamn.”
But you know what? I could be this lady with bad hair wearing a CAT SWEATER on The Wheel. So I can still find that shiny fucking silver lining. And my gnomes had better not unionize. I can plant more than tulip bulbs, y’hear? Y’HEAR?

So, my bunny pal Leah out in NY was quick-like-a-bunny and sent me a package HOPPITTY SPLIT, and made me promise not to open the box until my package to her went out. I finally got it mailed yesterday so, Leah, keep your eyes peeled & don’t let the dogs open it for you! :) I opened everything last night & got the CUTEST Easter stuff, I will take a pic tonight & post with more thank yous and adulations. Kudos to Tammy at polkadotmittens, too, for such a cute, clever exchange!

I have said earlier my fondness for Fall, rather than Spring. I love all the seasons, and I enjoy cooler weather more than hot, sticky, humid badness. But this Spring feels a little different. Maybe it’s seeing allllll the tulips I planted (with some hole-diggin’ help from my hubby) springing up through the mulch. Did you know I never really got to plant my own stuff as a kid? It was all things my parents wanted – I was the extra pair of hands. Maybe if I’d had my own garden, I would have learned this lesson a little quicker, about patience, and planting months out and how things spring up after snow and ice and rain to flourish and flower. Maybe it’s the promise of learning more about gardening & getting more pretty flowers in the ground this Spring, and anticipating all the bountiful goodness that comes out of my husband’s vegetable garden. I still marvel that plants actually grow from SEED. I guess I got too used to buying plants, already started for me!

Maybe it’s that there are many things growing, budding, brewing and that this Spring will contain new things, new changes, new growth. The one thing I did get from my mother that I’m proud to own is an undefeatable optimism, that manages to live deep inside me alongside the darker, sadder, more critical part of me. That optimistic part refuses to lose hope, not so much in things or situations or stupid stuff, because I recognize the limitations of what I can control or influence. That optimism refuses to lose hope in ME. I feel like the tulip bulb, spreading out my roots, and I can’t wait to burst forth in a glorious rage of color and shout out, “I AM HERE”. Good things happen, and hope springs eternal. I wish for all my friends, here & in blogworld, a change-filled spring that gives you growth, opportunity and a joy inside of you that illuminates and shines so the world can see how wonderful you really are.

I tell ya, I totally dodged a bullet in third grade, when Mrs. Parker noticed she had TWO Jennifers in her class now, and so we’ll call one Jenny, and she assigned the other Jennifer with her new name. I even remember thinking “I hope she doesn’t make me the Jenny,” because I was SO GRATEFUL that I got to stay Jennifer. I even remember looking up the definition of my name & being horrified that the shortened version was a name for a female donkey – who wants a nickname that means ass!?!?!

Even now-a-day, being called Jenny by people makes my skin crawl. It’s just not ME. It feels diminutive, and it feels like a liberty that can only be granted by me. (Now, don’t think I spend days in a rage over this. This is just one of those peeves.) What’s really difficult is when people I know do it, because I have yet to develop a tactful way to tell them, KNOCK IT THE HELL OFF. I try to lightheartedly say that Jenny drives me crazy, and they can always call me Jen if they want to shorten my name, but sometimes it’s one of those things in passing on the phone, like my friend’s wife this morning said, “Oh hey Jenny how are you” right before handing the phone off – there was no way to say “NOOOOOoooooo” but I still felt the internal shudder. Often when I’ve corrected people, they end up feeling bad or apologizing – for all the people who ASK if they can call me something different, I love you, and thank you.

The worst offender was my art professor in college – he was my advisor & I tried repeatedly to emphasize calling me Jen or Jennifer – to no avail. FOUR years, of cringing in every conversation & class with the man. He ended up getting a sex change operation a few years after I graduated, and instead of being “Bob”, he’s now “Bobbi”…… guess he trumps me for ch-ch-ch-changes…….

According to my husband, I got snarky in St.Louis. I think he was just jealous because I had (cue music!) MEM’RIES and there were landmarks and reminders and new things, too, and I didn’t shut up the entire time I was driving us towards, around and through Clayton, where I used to work.

Back up a second, though, because I almost skimmed right by the banquet, where I did NOT wear a duck-bill tiara, or anything hunting-related, but it was a night containing a mixture of regret and relief. For at every major banquet like this, there are auction items. Like carved & painted decoys, wildlife prints, all sorts of guided hunts, and – drum roll – a pedigreed BLACK LAB PUPPY who was 14 weeks old, male, the stockiest, beefiest, CUTEST DAMNED THING with HUGE FEET and the sunniest, sweetest disposition and granted, I had had a number of beers, but I told James we had to pick the dog if his ticket for “pick of the auction” was drawn. He agreed completely. And then we didn’t win pick of the auction, and some dude chose a wildlife print. (?????ookay….) But then the dog came up for bids. And nobody was bidding. And it dropped down to $100. And there we were, bidding ON THE DOG. At $500, I thought our lives were going to change forever, because the bidding had stopped, we were the high bidders & two roads hung in the balance, while that sing-song cadence of the auctioneer’s voice swirled around me and all I could think was “HOLY SHIT” in both a good and bad way, because puppyworld is as wonderful as it is hellatious, and there’s so much work and we hadn’t even been THINKING about getting another dog and then with a crack, the path of New Puppy Ownership broke and fell away as the bidding suddenly surged forward, and we had said “no higher” with big eyes to each other, and someone went home with a gorgeous dog ($675 was the winning bid, and the winner DID get a month’s worth of free training.) So. Maybe in a few years we’ll do it at one of these things. Technically, the dog was Polly’s half-brother, out of the same sire. I should point out as soon as James stopped bidding, the dog stopped and peed all over the floor, which was funny & a good reminder to us about allllll the cleanup puppies entail.

So, Sunday was a day for nostalgia as well as seeing all the new stuff that’s sprung up – we went to Trader Joe’s, where you can get wine for $3, and we also got snicky-snacks and then we went to PetSmart (ok, duh, we have those in Kansas City, but we were feeling sorry for the dogs kenneled up at home, imagining them talking to each other & saying how they were SURE we’d be out any minute to play and feed them s’more.) We had fun laughing with all the toys and picked out “Dirty Rotten Kitty” for Polly, and then two jumbo bones – which are being devoured right now. Then we were off to Crate & Barrel, where I waxed nostalgic about working at one in Minneapolis, and we left with three bags o’ fun purchases. THEN, no, it doesn’t stop, the fun keeps going! We went to Imo’s for pizza and salads and it was SO yummers, even though I accidentally got some of James’ anchovy on my last piece and I was kinda ooked out by it – I can eat anchovies by the truckload in caesar salad, but not so much on pizza. We drove home, and now another work week is going to begin, already!

I wrote a blog on Saturday afternoon about our road trip out (which was more fun than the drive home, you know how you just get tired & irritated & READY to get home.) – I’ll post that sometime later this week when I’m short on things to talk about! I have to get to reading all YOUR blogs and get caught up on everyone!

James just realized Michael Bolton was crooning, droning, whining about this time when a man loves a woman, and I’m grateful, because he changed the Music Choice channel and saved me from throwing the television out the window. Blessedly, he changed channels on Whitney Houston five minutes ago, but then was so engrossed in his computer he didn’t notice what was on and what was on was MICHAEL F’N BOLTON. I am reeeeally good at finding a “happy place” where I can tune stuff out for at least a few minutes when I’m on the computer, a skill honed when James would try to get my goat by tuning in to “The Man Show”. But much like the inexorable mosquito in your ear after you’ve zipped your tent up, even Michael Bolton can break through my tuned-out zone. And break through he does. I usually start recognizing my irritation by looking over at the television, in disbelief, much like one might look at a five-year-old standing up on a vinyl bench seat in a diner, banging a spoon on the window and screaming about Mister Pibbles and shrieking, hitting notes so high you marvel that your water glass is still intact. Usually this look is shifted into “amazed mode” and on to the parent, who has found their own Happy Place by ignoring everything but their soup and is seemingly unaware that the aforementioned child has sterilized all small mammals in a 50-yard radius with their keening, unfathomable scream while drumming out a GNR solo on the window. That astonishment and fear is contained in the second look at the television as my brain starts to comprehend that yes, indeed, we are sitting here listening to Michael Bolton. MY GOD WHAT HAS HAPPENED TO US!? And then James surfaces from his Tuned Out Place and goes, “Oh my GOD!” and flips channels. We have now landed on a Prince Sexology series and, as always, I am astonished at how many Prince songs my husband knows. It always makes for some entertaining road trip time, playing Prince in the car. JWo can hit the squeaks and squeals with amazing ease. Thank God he sings Prince and not Michael Bolton, we’d be in big trouble.

Speaking of road trips, we’re off to St.Louis tomorrow, where I will sit in honor as the First Lady of Waterfowl at the East Siders’ banquet tomorrow night. I’m guessing I will get to wear a tiara fashioned from duck bills and feathers? Who knows. (Hubby is the Board Chairman for the Missouri Waterfowlers’ Association. I’m royalty by marriage, I guess.) The big event part of this trip for me? Going to the new Crate & Barrel store in Brentwood. Yippee ki yay, mo-fo, I got my retail therapy ON, and I plan to come back Sunday cured of EVERYTHIN’ that ails me. See ya Sunday when I return with Packages of Happiness – and a duck bill tiara.

I saw on my Yahoo news that Lil’ Kim was convicted of lying about some lil’ ol’ thing like a shootout to something as inconsequential as a lil’ ol’ grand jury….. and that she could actually be sent to PRISON! I tell ya, I’m pretty sure that girl could get scrappy in a prison yard scuffle, and she might prove to be very inventive when it comes to fashioning her own stylish line of shanks, but I have YET to see a prison uniform that allows you to WEAR PASTIES. I’m thinking prison could give her the opportunity to wear the most amount of clothing she’s, like, ever worn in her LIFE.

And then, when she gets released, and she wears bright orange pasties & a g-string that one of the other inmates crocheted for her? Alllll of the knitting & yarn companies will scramble to make their own versions available to the public. Maybe she will even go on Martha’s new show and they can have a “prison segment” with knitting, gardening, and smuggling how-to tips. Lil’ Kim reportin’ from the Pokey, with Pasties in Prison and Shower Takedown Strategies.

Let’s see. James was still living in Clinton. I was living on the 8th floor. I still had ClancyMan the Cat, despite our allergies, and as one step to contain those allergies, Clancy did not sleep in my bedroom. (Clancy now lives with my best friend Shelley, where he is allowed to sleep on her HEAD.)

I got into bed, and had pulled the covers up. I hadn’t turned the light off yet, when I heard this soft “thump thump thump” at my bedroom door. Usually, that would mean Clancy was doing his Uber-Cute reach-under-the-door-with-a-paw thing. I rolled over to look at the door. Miliseconds later, all of a sudden a BAT was flopping around my bedroom. I did what any normal person might do in that situation, I shrieked & immediately got under the covers, completely. Peeking out, I could see the bat FLYING LOW, all around the bedroom. HOLY SHITBUCKET. The phone was right by the bed. I snatched it. Called James. Who was living an hour away.
(He was asleep, of course.)

“hullo?”
“JAMES! THERE’S A BAT IN THE APARTMENT!”
“wull….. what’s it doing?”
“IT’S FLYING AROUND AND AROUND AND IT’S DIVING AND SWOOPING! WHAT DO I DO?”
“open a window…..it will fly out. If it doesn’t, open your door and get it out of the bedroom, then stuff towels under the doors and that will keep it out.”
“I’M NOT DRESSED! WHAT DO I DO????”
(more repeating of the same directive.)

So we hang up. I slid out of bed and hit the floor like covert secret agent Sydney Bristow. I scrambled towards the bathroom and ultimately came around to the living room in my Bat Fighting Gear. Just use your inner eye to imagine this get-up. A royal blue cotton dress. A straw hat. A broom. And the piece de resistance, the scoop shovel my father gave me long ago in Minneapolis. (Remember, I’m in an apartment, all these things are readily available in my Fibber McGee closets.) I burst into the bedroom, poised to fight & using my scoop shovel as a giant HeadShield. I dash to the window, open it, and then look for the bat. It is happily perched up on the crown molding in the corner. Hesitantly, I get closer. I can not hit a bat with a broom, because I need to keep the scoop shovel in play as my defensive force field, and that impairs my vision, along with my giant straw hat. OH, I should also point out that before preparing for battle, I put Clancy Man into his crate in the bathroom, because I was convinced he would eat the bat if he caught it and then he could get rabies. Clancy was PISSED, because, after all, he had flushed the bat into the bedroom!
I am stymied and freaked out. I make another call. This time to an acquaintance, Shawn, who only lives 30 minutes away. “Hullo.”
“SHAWN! I HAVE A BAT IN MY APARTMENT! I’M TRYING TO GET IT TO GO OUT A WINDOW AND IT WON’T GO!”

We run through my arsenal. I can tell he’s amused. But he’s now my BatFightin’ Coach. “Jennifer. Just go in there, swat at the bat and get him flying. He’ll go out the window. Set the phone down and give it a try. You are a modern woman, just channel your inner fighter, you can do this.”

I set the phone down. Because I can’t hold the phone, my broom AND the defense squadron scoop shovel. I proceed to repeat my process and I’m barely poking this bat, and it’s annoyed, so it starts flying. Apparently, and because the phone is right there, I am (unaware that I am) yelling “FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK” the entire time I am ducking, poking, SHIELDING, and otherwise NOT getting the bat out of the room. The bat just does a few courtesy flights around the room, every time returning to the same corner, I’m sure he was panting right along with me.

Back to the phone. Shawn is dying, because all the laughter is not allowing any oxygen into his body.
“SHAWN! IT’S NOT GOING ANYWHERE! IT KEEPS FLYING AROUND AND LANDING IN THE CORNER!”
“Try it again.”

I did this three times. It’s now 11:30 p.m. The bat got tired, I got tired, because it’s an upper body workout, maneuvering a broom and scoop shovel. Finally, I said it. “Shawn. Will you please come over and help me?”
“Yes. I’ll be there soon.”
SO, thirty minutes later, Shawn calls up, comes up, within 15 seconds the bat has been thwacked down from the ceiling & tossed out the window. He said it was dead, my pollyanna self wanted to believe it just flopped off, stunned. Shawn declined the protective use of my scoop shovel through all of it. I think my outfit also made a statement, one that said, “This woman is CAH-RAY-ZAY. Back away, slowly.” So we went outside and I breathed in some air and we talked about him moving away, which he eventually did, and then I went back upstairs. WHUPS. Clancy man. In his crate. Crapped his cat pants in all the excitement and being confined. Mmmm! Poopy kitty in an enclosed space. So I got to finish off an awesomely exciting evening of FIGHTING A BAT with BATHING A CAT, the cat that fights the whole time and tries to climb the shower curtain to escape.

This really was the “Big Bat Story”. There were two more bats after this one, of course neither of those stories holds a candle to this one, but I’ll tell them all the same – when you’ve had time to rest & perhaps unburn the image of me & a scoop shovel shield……

In the spirit of continuing to tell people about my only-interesting-to-me dreams, despite my father’s admonishment otherwise, I will share with you last night’s dreama: I was in line at a very cool restaurant, that was a to-go sort of place. This restaurant does not exist in real life. But I placed an order, because I was going to bring food home for James & I, and the cashier rang it up. $26.58. Or something close on the cents, I know it was $26 dollars & change. I handed over my debit card. They ran it through and THEN?! and THEN?! The cashier wrote in on the tip line, $13.42! And handed it over to me to sign. I said, “What are you doing?” to which he casually replied, “We automatically calculated the tip for you!”
I was all “What the HELL? That is half the bill! I’m not signing that.” And, just like I would in real life, I got the manager.

The manager re-rings my order, and then takes my card, and when the printout comes up, WRITES IN THE EXACT SAME TIP AMOUNT, $13.42!!!! I was so angry, there was lots of blathering and spluttering on my part, and eventually, I left without signing anything or getting any food. On my way home, a second restaurant, just like the first, appeared, and I went in and told them what happened, because there were Great Wrongs taking place and I thought the NuPlace manager could perhaps call corporate or something – and it turns out? They knew there was a restaurant doing this scam, under the same name as them, and they told me the other place was totally shady and trying to rip people off and most people don’t catch it when they sign for their meal.

But not me, even in my sleep. I get all UP in the manager’s ass, and make a scene. Poor JWo. He would have moved to the guest bedroom if he’d had any idea the ruckus I was creating in dreamland – he always sidles away when I get my I-Demand-Customer-Service-NOW hat on……