After a brief discussion with DH about buying a new car (well, not NEW, but new to me) he decided that I was indeed an emotional buyer who was easily pressured. That meant he had to come along to be the voice of reason, perhaps the only one in my head, when making such a major purchase.
I had my heart set on a Toyota Sequoia, the BIG SUV. I was ready to be king of the road, and if laying down 15 or 20 grand was what it took, sobeit. I searched, found two, and test drove one. It was 20 grand. The other one I found was 38 grand. No way I can afford that, no matter what the salesman assures me the payments will be. NO FREAKING WAY am I EVER going to spend that much of my hard-earned dinero on anything!!!
The voice of reason chimed in, saying "Why don't we look at the Chevys?" We have always owned Chevys. They are mid-line American vehicles. I wanted something foreign and flashy for once. To humor him, more than anything, I said "why not" and off to Kolar we went.
The first car we looked at was a Tahoe. It was red. The doors were open. The mileage was decent. The front seat was a bench seat. Upon further inspection, this Tahoe seated nine people, got better mileage than our faithful Suburbans, and was pretty slick. It was red, after all. I was sold when I counted the seatbelts and there were indeed 9 of them. We could all feasibly ride in one vehicle, albeit crammed in like sardines. It was totally legal.
DH did all the wheeling and dealing, which really didn't entail much. We asked the salesman what they wanted for the truck and he told us. The price was far better than I expected it to be. Then DH offered him $600 less, just on principle. The guy checked with his sales manager, who okayed the deal. All we had to do was sign.
And now we have a pimped out ride that we all fit in. It may look like a clown car with all of us Ericksons weighing it down, but its red. How could it be wrong?
Sunday, July 31, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Mistakes first-time parents make
The other night, I was chatting over margaritas with my friend Lacey. Lacey is young and has no children. She is not married, and she and her boyfriend of four years are "thinking about" getting engaged. She is one of those girls that girls like me used to love to hate. She does everything in the right order: college, a job, a boyfriend, an apartment, a ring, an engagement party, a wedding, and THEN a baby. I have since relegated my hatred for those girls as envy, one of those seven deadlies. I love Lacey. She is smart and sassy and unpretentious in so many ways, and very realistic about the demands of my life compared to hers. I think that is mostly why I can still call her my friend: she gets that I can't meet her on ten minutes notice for a drink or even a cup of coffee. She gets that having more than a ten minute conversation with an adult is a cherished and scarce happening in my life. So having drinks and conversation the other night was amazing.
Fortunately, we got on a topic I love. Helicopter parents. The swooping, meddling PTA parents who have nothing better to do than try to make their kids' lives unrealisticly easy. The dads who call their sons "Buddy" and "Sport" and do things like coach their soccer teams and then have all the little shits over after the game to swim in their pools, the moms who share clothes with their daughters and think that "quality time" is looking for new eye-shadows and designer jeans on sale. Someone wise once said to me "I will be my kids' friend when they are 25. For now, I'm Mom, and don't you forget it!" (Thanks, Mom~Love you!)
I cannot agree more. Kids need to understand that parents are not always going to bail them out. If they act like shits, they will be treated accordingly. Parents who makes excuses for their children are fostering this new breed of child who has no respect or fear of authority. I call them "Shits." The parents AND the children.
The best compliment a mother can get is that she has well-behaved children, as far as I am concerned. And when my kids come home from places like sleep-away camp and their grandparents' houses and people tell me how well-behaved, respectful of adults, and polite they are, my heart swells with pride. I feel like I really am teaching them something. All the yelling is really working!!!!
Fortunately, we got on a topic I love. Helicopter parents. The swooping, meddling PTA parents who have nothing better to do than try to make their kids' lives unrealisticly easy. The dads who call their sons "Buddy" and "Sport" and do things like coach their soccer teams and then have all the little shits over after the game to swim in their pools, the moms who share clothes with their daughters and think that "quality time" is looking for new eye-shadows and designer jeans on sale. Someone wise once said to me "I will be my kids' friend when they are 25. For now, I'm Mom, and don't you forget it!" (Thanks, Mom~Love you!)
I cannot agree more. Kids need to understand that parents are not always going to bail them out. If they act like shits, they will be treated accordingly. Parents who makes excuses for their children are fostering this new breed of child who has no respect or fear of authority. I call them "Shits." The parents AND the children.
The best compliment a mother can get is that she has well-behaved children, as far as I am concerned. And when my kids come home from places like sleep-away camp and their grandparents' houses and people tell me how well-behaved, respectful of adults, and polite they are, my heart swells with pride. I feel like I really am teaching them something. All the yelling is really working!!!!
Friday, July 22, 2011
Not-so-happy Campers
The three middle kids (Rudy, Ava, and Casey--12,10, and 11 respectively) have been gone this past week at sleepover camps. I would have given my eye-teeth to go to summer camp in the long, boring days that ran together in my summer vacation.
I did get to go, a couple times, when I was older. (14 & 15) Then I was unappreciative because 1) I was a sullen teenager 2) I wanted to stay home and hang with my friends, all of whom could drive me to the mall 3)the camp I went to was more like a work-camp than anything else, and the "work" was waterskiing. I look back now, and it was a good way for my folks to keep me out of their hair and out of mischief. They could rely on someone else to keep vigil and make sure I wasn't sneaking out to meet boys. They could breathe a little easier.
That aside, I like sending my kids to camp. They get to do fun shit that would otherwise be foregone for XBOX360 or iCarly and other mindless television blather. The girls are going to YMCA camp at Camp Miller, which is my idea of a great time! Horseback riding AND swimming AND rock climbing AND arts and crafts? I almost wish I could pass for 13 or 14 and spend the $380 and send myself. Rudy's camp is more focussed. He plays hockey, trains for hockey, and does all kinds of hockey-related crap. Which is great if you love hockey like he does. That camp sounds like torture to me.
So today when they get home, I better hear some "thank-you"s and see some smiling faces. I want to hear about all the fun you had, you little ingrates! I want to live vicariously through you! I want to forget my week trapped with a rambunctious 3 year old, a barely potty-trained 2 year old, and a clingy infant in the high humidity 90s. I want to forget that I had no day-care for this week. I want to GO to CAMP, DAMMIT!!!!
I did get to go, a couple times, when I was older. (14 & 15) Then I was unappreciative because 1) I was a sullen teenager 2) I wanted to stay home and hang with my friends, all of whom could drive me to the mall 3)the camp I went to was more like a work-camp than anything else, and the "work" was waterskiing. I look back now, and it was a good way for my folks to keep me out of their hair and out of mischief. They could rely on someone else to keep vigil and make sure I wasn't sneaking out to meet boys. They could breathe a little easier.
That aside, I like sending my kids to camp. They get to do fun shit that would otherwise be foregone for XBOX360 or iCarly and other mindless television blather. The girls are going to YMCA camp at Camp Miller, which is my idea of a great time! Horseback riding AND swimming AND rock climbing AND arts and crafts? I almost wish I could pass for 13 or 14 and spend the $380 and send myself. Rudy's camp is more focussed. He plays hockey, trains for hockey, and does all kinds of hockey-related crap. Which is great if you love hockey like he does. That camp sounds like torture to me.
So today when they get home, I better hear some "thank-you"s and see some smiling faces. I want to hear about all the fun you had, you little ingrates! I want to live vicariously through you! I want to forget my week trapped with a rambunctious 3 year old, a barely potty-trained 2 year old, and a clingy infant in the high humidity 90s. I want to forget that I had no day-care for this week. I want to GO to CAMP, DAMMIT!!!!
PSYCH!!!
Did I almost get you? You really thought I could shut up about my life and my kids for THAT LONG??? Wow, I am impressed with your impression of me. I do not have that much self control, nor will I ever.
Today I am on the potty-training bandwagon. Nora will pee in the pot, but not shit. She only shit in the pot for the first couple days of this endeavor--granted its been less than a week--but I am already damn sick of swishing shitty underpants in the toilet. I know some of you childless folks out there, or those of you with kids too little to go in the pot yet, you're cringing at the thought. The other option is to wad up perfectly good underpants and throw them in the garbage. That is my husband's solution, but since I am currently on a limited budget, and am now realizing that landfill space too is just as limited, I'm a swisher.
There is nothing more joyous though, than early this morning, about 5, to hear her little cartoon-character voice from the bathroom upstairs say "Mommy, I made a poop-snake in the potty! Like a big girl!" I want to hug her, squoosh her into bed with me, from the relief of this exclamation. I will not be swishing little girl panties this morning! The turds made it into the pot! VICTORY!!!
And now to tackle the After-Lunch Poopie.
Today I am on the potty-training bandwagon. Nora will pee in the pot, but not shit. She only shit in the pot for the first couple days of this endeavor--granted its been less than a week--but I am already damn sick of swishing shitty underpants in the toilet. I know some of you childless folks out there, or those of you with kids too little to go in the pot yet, you're cringing at the thought. The other option is to wad up perfectly good underpants and throw them in the garbage. That is my husband's solution, but since I am currently on a limited budget, and am now realizing that landfill space too is just as limited, I'm a swisher.
There is nothing more joyous though, than early this morning, about 5, to hear her little cartoon-character voice from the bathroom upstairs say "Mommy, I made a poop-snake in the potty! Like a big girl!" I want to hug her, squoosh her into bed with me, from the relief of this exclamation. I will not be swishing little girl panties this morning! The turds made it into the pot! VICTORY!!!
And now to tackle the After-Lunch Poopie.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Hiatus
I'm officially back to work on my MFA, so I'll be spending my time writing focussed craft essays and new poetry instead of spilling my guts on MOP. Please don't hate me. Please don't curse my name. Just understand that this is one of those things. I will be back (if only briefly) for a stint in December. Maybe before, if things go well. I hope that they go well.
My kids will be neglected. My house will fall into disrepair. Laundry will have to wait for the one day a week that I can devote to it. My concentration will be nil. I'll resort to quick dinners like spaghetti and hot dogs instead of chicken tetrazzini and handmade sausage and rice balls. I will be distracted at work. I will be distracted at home. I will miss school performances. I will NOT miss school conferences, as much as I would like to.
But it will be done. I will finish a terminal degree. I will be the best writer I can for it. I will hopefully get emails from agents and publishers and maybe even fans. I would like to acquire a job in an English department at one of the local colleges. I would like my kids' education to be paid for, since that was one of those things I was kind of counting on, what with all the money I have dumped into my own education.
Say a prayer for me, for my family, and for our sanity and happiness. Ciao until further notice, y'all!
My kids will be neglected. My house will fall into disrepair. Laundry will have to wait for the one day a week that I can devote to it. My concentration will be nil. I'll resort to quick dinners like spaghetti and hot dogs instead of chicken tetrazzini and handmade sausage and rice balls. I will be distracted at work. I will be distracted at home. I will miss school performances. I will NOT miss school conferences, as much as I would like to.
But it will be done. I will finish a terminal degree. I will be the best writer I can for it. I will hopefully get emails from agents and publishers and maybe even fans. I would like to acquire a job in an English department at one of the local colleges. I would like my kids' education to be paid for, since that was one of those things I was kind of counting on, what with all the money I have dumped into my own education.
Say a prayer for me, for my family, and for our sanity and happiness. Ciao until further notice, y'all!
Monday, July 18, 2011
Back to Brunetter
I tried my hand at being a blonde. I felt like how black girls look with platinum hair: totally unnatural. It wasn't even an unruly shade of blonde, kinda strawberry with some lemon colored highlights. It just wasn't me.
I couldn't write as a blonde. I couldn't yell at my kids. I couldn't even roll my eyes. They all felt wrong. I bought a Cosmo and let the magazine decide. I made a deal with myself that I would open the mag and if the model was a blonde, I'd keep it for at least another week. If the model was a brunette, I'd buy a box of dye to get me through til my sister-in-law could weedle me back into her schedule at the salon.
Commence opening....aaaaand......Kim Kardashian. Not really fair, since she is on just about every page of every mag, but I'll take it. So me and Miss Clairol are conspiring right now (Or "processing" for you hair folks out there). I sure hope I can write after this is all said and done, cuz if my momentary lapse into blonde-dom zapped that, I am gonna be PISSED!
I couldn't write as a blonde. I couldn't yell at my kids. I couldn't even roll my eyes. They all felt wrong. I bought a Cosmo and let the magazine decide. I made a deal with myself that I would open the mag and if the model was a blonde, I'd keep it for at least another week. If the model was a brunette, I'd buy a box of dye to get me through til my sister-in-law could weedle me back into her schedule at the salon.
Commence opening....aaaaand......Kim Kardashian. Not really fair, since she is on just about every page of every mag, but I'll take it. So me and Miss Clairol are conspiring right now (Or "processing" for you hair folks out there). I sure hope I can write after this is all said and done, cuz if my momentary lapse into blonde-dom zapped that, I am gonna be PISSED!
Hiding out
Its hot. Its wet. Sounds like the inside of someone else's mouth? Nope, its Duluth the past couple days. Horrid humidity and heat that even central air works hard to combat.
Yesterday when I went out to my truck to get something,I had to turn it on, just to see the numbers. 95 degrees! Disgusting. It doesn't help, either, that this is the week I should be in CT at my residency for school (makes me kinda angry and resentful), the kids' daycare is closed (I guess my daycare lady likes to go on vacation too), and I have PMS.
We are currently hunkered down in the a/c, watching the goonies, trying to think of things for supper that don't need to be cooked much. And certainly not in the OVEN.
Days like these are the reason I hate summer. If I could get 75 and dry every day, like what this summer has given us so far, it'd be fine. But this sucks.
Yesterday when I went out to my truck to get something,I had to turn it on, just to see the numbers. 95 degrees! Disgusting. It doesn't help, either, that this is the week I should be in CT at my residency for school (makes me kinda angry and resentful), the kids' daycare is closed (I guess my daycare lady likes to go on vacation too), and I have PMS.
We are currently hunkered down in the a/c, watching the goonies, trying to think of things for supper that don't need to be cooked much. And certainly not in the OVEN.
Days like these are the reason I hate summer. If I could get 75 and dry every day, like what this summer has given us so far, it'd be fine. But this sucks.
Friday, July 15, 2011
Girl Day
Girl Day began as me asking who wanted to come with me to the post office. Nora, who always wants to go everywhere, shrieked in delight. Luna, who has to go everywhere, pretty much, slept in her carseat. Ava asked to come with.
Well the post office quickly became a trip to Wal-Mart for more underpants for Ms. I Pee On the Potty Now, and a trip to Wal-Mart is never complete unless I spend $50. But all three of those little ladies got new swimsuits, and Ava used the "I won't need a new one for Florida this way" tool. Ah, well. I'm a sucker for a girl in a swimsuit.
Upon arriving home, there was some discussion of my nail polish, which I purchased yesterday. Both girls (10 & 11) decided that it looked awesome, and I had to agree. Then they wanted theirs done. Ok, fine. Then they wanted pizza for lunch. Can do. Then they wanted to "help" me make cookies for their trip to Camp Miller on Sunday. Apparently, starvation is likely without cookies on an hour long bus ride. Cookies it is.
Now they are both passed out upstairs, newly painted nails dragging on the floor. Nora's napping, Luna's napping and I think Zane passed out downstairs watching Sponge Bob. The older boys went on an "adventure" down to Lakeside to get some donuts from the bakery. (I have to make up these dumb little adventures for them to get them out of the house so they don't drive me bonkers with their boyness) And I'm still cranking out these fucking cookies. If I see one more chocolate chip, I think I am going to lose it!!!
Well the post office quickly became a trip to Wal-Mart for more underpants for Ms. I Pee On the Potty Now, and a trip to Wal-Mart is never complete unless I spend $50. But all three of those little ladies got new swimsuits, and Ava used the "I won't need a new one for Florida this way" tool. Ah, well. I'm a sucker for a girl in a swimsuit.
Upon arriving home, there was some discussion of my nail polish, which I purchased yesterday. Both girls (10 & 11) decided that it looked awesome, and I had to agree. Then they wanted theirs done. Ok, fine. Then they wanted pizza for lunch. Can do. Then they wanted to "help" me make cookies for their trip to Camp Miller on Sunday. Apparently, starvation is likely without cookies on an hour long bus ride. Cookies it is.
Now they are both passed out upstairs, newly painted nails dragging on the floor. Nora's napping, Luna's napping and I think Zane passed out downstairs watching Sponge Bob. The older boys went on an "adventure" down to Lakeside to get some donuts from the bakery. (I have to make up these dumb little adventures for them to get them out of the house so they don't drive me bonkers with their boyness) And I'm still cranking out these fucking cookies. If I see one more chocolate chip, I think I am going to lose it!!!
Reading List
I am a self-proclaimed bookslut. I love the library. I love bookstores. love AMAZON.COM. I really I even love garage sales that have lots of books. Possibly the only things I love as much as books are purses, and they are frivolous and impractical.
From time to time I will read a book that really sticks to my ribs. The latest on is called High Before Homeroom. I thought it would be a flaky YA novel, and on one level it was. But it went so much beyond that, I nearly forgot that layer of it. Maya Sloan is the author, and she hits the nail on the proverbial head with her depiction of mediocrity, those of us who are bored with our own mediocrity, and the responses to it. Its almost like she has lived it.
This novel is wonderfully written, wonderfully executed, and suprisingly not as far-fetched as one might expect. (A lot of YA novels are.) Bravo, Ms. Sloan. You rocked my world, and nobody has done that for a while.
From time to time I will read a book that really sticks to my ribs. The latest on is called High Before Homeroom. I thought it would be a flaky YA novel, and on one level it was. But it went so much beyond that, I nearly forgot that layer of it. Maya Sloan is the author, and she hits the nail on the proverbial head with her depiction of mediocrity, those of us who are bored with our own mediocrity, and the responses to it. Its almost like she has lived it.
This novel is wonderfully written, wonderfully executed, and suprisingly not as far-fetched as one might expect. (A lot of YA novels are.) Bravo, Ms. Sloan. You rocked my world, and nobody has done that for a while.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Hypocrite
So not long ago, I posted something somewhere about quitting dying my hair. After today, I take it all back. All of it. Every syllable.
I can't say how long it has been since my hair was blonde. A LONG TIME. I went to my sister-in-law's salon Avenue 45 in Lakeside today with something drastic in mind. The poor girl must think I am bi-polar. Everyone must, for that matter.
My hair was au naturel. No dye since before my pixie cut last November. No product. Nothing. Brown. Scratch that. MOUSE brown. And ugly. Drab. Not in tune with my sparkling personality at all. I went a little nute, though, and fear I may have overdone it.
My tresses are now dark blonde with VERY light highlights. There is really no telling how long it will stay that way, but it will be at least until the summer is done. Oddly, I feel younger. I can't walk past a mirror without making sure its really me. It looks strange, but truth, as they say, is stranger than fiction.
I'm trying to grow this disaster out, so I think once it hits my shoulders it will go back to being dark. But in the meantime, I am enjoying life on the lighter side of things. Its a little weird, but I don't mind. I'll be back to my dark side soon enough. I'm trying to enjoy being a blonde, and you'll excuse me if I'm a bit more flaky than usual.
I can't say how long it has been since my hair was blonde. A LONG TIME. I went to my sister-in-law's salon Avenue 45 in Lakeside today with something drastic in mind. The poor girl must think I am bi-polar. Everyone must, for that matter.
My hair was au naturel. No dye since before my pixie cut last November. No product. Nothing. Brown. Scratch that. MOUSE brown. And ugly. Drab. Not in tune with my sparkling personality at all. I went a little nute, though, and fear I may have overdone it.
My tresses are now dark blonde with VERY light highlights. There is really no telling how long it will stay that way, but it will be at least until the summer is done. Oddly, I feel younger. I can't walk past a mirror without making sure its really me. It looks strange, but truth, as they say, is stranger than fiction.
I'm trying to grow this disaster out, so I think once it hits my shoulders it will go back to being dark. But in the meantime, I am enjoying life on the lighter side of things. Its a little weird, but I don't mind. I'll be back to my dark side soon enough. I'm trying to enjoy being a blonde, and you'll excuse me if I'm a bit more flaky than usual.
The Threat
In preparation for the next week, which is predicted to be sweltering 85-90 degree weather and high humidity (ok, maybe not sweltering for you southerners, but in Duluth? C'mon, that's what I came here to get away from!) Mother Nature has granted us with 4 days of jeans-and-sweatshirt weather. 60's. Ok, maybe not really sweatshirt weather, but I can fake it.
This has been an all around decent summer as far as the weather goes. I can't really complain, since the average temperature has been something like 67 since the official "start of summer." But I was hoping to make it over to the Head o Lakes fair in Superior this weekend. If its 100 degrees, I am going to be crabby and miserable. I am not going to want to smell manure and pet animals whose hair will then stick to my sweaty places (all my places, would be my guess with temps like that!) I am not going to want to stand in line to ride shitty rides that are held together with cotter pins and duct tape. I am MOST DEFINITELY not going to want to have to take my newly potty-trained 2 1/2 year old into a port-a-jon over and over, with my 4 month old in tow. I am not going to want to smell greasy carnies or greasy food (right, who am I kidding?! Being on a diet sucks when there are corn dogs and cotton candy and real dairy ice cream to be had.)
I already mentioned it to the kids, so I can't really reneg on it either. Those little fuckers have memories like elephants, but I can only hope with the lingering excitement of packing for hockey camp and Camp Miller, they will forget! I doubt Zane will let them, though, since he already made sure he was tall enough to ride the big kid rides with the tape measure, like 8 times.
This has been an all around decent summer as far as the weather goes. I can't really complain, since the average temperature has been something like 67 since the official "start of summer." But I was hoping to make it over to the Head o Lakes fair in Superior this weekend. If its 100 degrees, I am going to be crabby and miserable. I am not going to want to smell manure and pet animals whose hair will then stick to my sweaty places (all my places, would be my guess with temps like that!) I am not going to want to stand in line to ride shitty rides that are held together with cotter pins and duct tape. I am MOST DEFINITELY not going to want to have to take my newly potty-trained 2 1/2 year old into a port-a-jon over and over, with my 4 month old in tow. I am not going to want to smell greasy carnies or greasy food (right, who am I kidding?! Being on a diet sucks when there are corn dogs and cotton candy and real dairy ice cream to be had.)
I already mentioned it to the kids, so I can't really reneg on it either. Those little fuckers have memories like elephants, but I can only hope with the lingering excitement of packing for hockey camp and Camp Miller, they will forget! I doubt Zane will let them, though, since he already made sure he was tall enough to ride the big kid rides with the tape measure, like 8 times.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Early mornings
Luna woke me this morning at 2:36. Little devil-child must be growing because she used to never wake up during the night. Now all she does is eat and go back to sleep. Wish I could!
No, once I am up, I am up. I listened to my neighbor come home at three. (What 55 year old Native woman comes home at 3AM? I'll tell you, the one who lives next door to me, Linda does!) I listened to her empty her recycle bin, which must contain solely bottles. I listened to the paperboy come at 5, the quick THAWCK of the paper landing on her stoop.
As the morning progressed, it got light way before the sun came up. And now I am ready for bed again. Too bad I can't sleep on Luna's schedule, which is pretty much any time she wants for as long as she wants. (It usually amounts to about 20 hours a day.)
No, just as I was drifting off, THUMP. The sound of 40 pounds hitting the floor above me. One of the terrors was up, which meant the other would be soon too. Resigned to the idea of getting out of bed at 6, I groan. This wakes DH, who leaps out of bed on a mission to make his coffee.
WHY DOES EVERYONE BUT ME HAVE TO BE SO GODDAM CHEERFUL IN THE MORNING????
I give up. I'm making pancakes and sausage for the beasts. I'm drinking coffee. Maybe I will find some motivation at the bottom of this cup. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.
It might be a nap day, that being said.
No, once I am up, I am up. I listened to my neighbor come home at three. (What 55 year old Native woman comes home at 3AM? I'll tell you, the one who lives next door to me, Linda does!) I listened to her empty her recycle bin, which must contain solely bottles. I listened to the paperboy come at 5, the quick THAWCK of the paper landing on her stoop.
As the morning progressed, it got light way before the sun came up. And now I am ready for bed again. Too bad I can't sleep on Luna's schedule, which is pretty much any time she wants for as long as she wants. (It usually amounts to about 20 hours a day.)
No, just as I was drifting off, THUMP. The sound of 40 pounds hitting the floor above me. One of the terrors was up, which meant the other would be soon too. Resigned to the idea of getting out of bed at 6, I groan. This wakes DH, who leaps out of bed on a mission to make his coffee.
WHY DOES EVERYONE BUT ME HAVE TO BE SO GODDAM CHEERFUL IN THE MORNING????
I give up. I'm making pancakes and sausage for the beasts. I'm drinking coffee. Maybe I will find some motivation at the bottom of this cup. Or the one after that. Or the one after that.
It might be a nap day, that being said.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Sounds of Summer in Woodland
Tonight the a/c is off. The windows are open. No thunderstorm is approaching. The humidity is a pleasant 24%. All the noises of the neighborhood seem amplified, since they are no longer muffled by our sealed-up tomb of a house.
The crows are cawing in the pine tops across the street, no doubt circling in on the dentist's garbage. What a dentist throws away that crows and other varmint find so appealling is beyond me, but it seems like every week someone is out picking shreds of his garbage up after the Tuesday pick-up.
Some redneck is racing his engine at the stop sign by the Piggly Wiggly. I wonder who for, but only briefly, as the roar of the engine is cut short by the squeal of his tires. Somewhere in the distance, a siren blips.
My littlest baby is snoring ever-so-quietly beside my bed. Our tv is on, but its on low enough so I can only hear the underhum through a closed bedroom door. The dog is panting. The big kids are downstairs playing XBOX360.
Life is good. Summer is wonderful, and I wish it would last a little longer than it does up here in the North. The winters get long and brutal, but I guess that is the only reason I can appreciate nights like this, nights with the windows open, no sweatshirt required.
The crows are cawing in the pine tops across the street, no doubt circling in on the dentist's garbage. What a dentist throws away that crows and other varmint find so appealling is beyond me, but it seems like every week someone is out picking shreds of his garbage up after the Tuesday pick-up.
Some redneck is racing his engine at the stop sign by the Piggly Wiggly. I wonder who for, but only briefly, as the roar of the engine is cut short by the squeal of his tires. Somewhere in the distance, a siren blips.
My littlest baby is snoring ever-so-quietly beside my bed. Our tv is on, but its on low enough so I can only hear the underhum through a closed bedroom door. The dog is panting. The big kids are downstairs playing XBOX360.
Life is good. Summer is wonderful, and I wish it would last a little longer than it does up here in the North. The winters get long and brutal, but I guess that is the only reason I can appreciate nights like this, nights with the windows open, no sweatshirt required.
Photoshopped....
On Wednesday, my little Luna Tuna is getting her pictures taken professionally. So am I, for book jacket purposes, since it seems like everyone who publishes my stuff wants a picture. For some reason, they don't appreciate cartoons, even if they're funny.
How do I want to look in this picture? Artsy, badass, sensitive, caring and smart. I hope they can work in my tatoos somehow. Maybe they have photoshop and can shave a few pounds off here and there, or everywhere. "Enhanced" I think they call that.
How do I want my sweet baby to look? Sweet, sparkly, alert, smiley. All the things she is. She doesn't need a cartoon, but if she were one, she would be Maggie Simpson, minus the pacifier. Luna prefers her thumb.
How do I want to look in this picture? Artsy, badass, sensitive, caring and smart. I hope they can work in my tatoos somehow. Maybe they have photoshop and can shave a few pounds off here and there, or everywhere. "Enhanced" I think they call that.
How do I want my sweet baby to look? Sweet, sparkly, alert, smiley. All the things she is. She doesn't need a cartoon, but if she were one, she would be Maggie Simpson, minus the pacifier. Luna prefers her thumb.
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Insomnia
I don't think I did enough today. I am usually in bed asleep by 9, and now here it is 1120 and I'm up and attem. I finished my book (Phantom Prey--John Sanford. 6 out of 10) and did all the laundry, which included the pairing of all the socks. God, how I hate the socks. I'm thinking about starting a new book (Soul Catcher by Michael White) but I'm frightened I won't like it and will, in turn, lose respect for the author who is also my grad school program director.
I've thought about writing some poetry, but nothing stirs my emotions these days. I feel shitty about myself, for the most part. I always do when I eat a bunch of crap. I know it before I do it, while I'm doing it, and yet I still do it. Goodbye large movie theatre popcorn. Goodbye Culver's chicken tenders and large iced tea. Fuck, maybe its the tea keeping me up, not the big greasy glop in my gut. Tea has caffeine, right?
Maybe its because this state shutdown seems to be going on longer than it should and I don't know if I am going to get unemployment or not. Maybe there is just too much shit going on in my head!
Any way you look at it, I can't sleep. I'm not doing anything productive. I ate a bunch of crap and feel shitty for it. I really have to work on this...so I'm going to turn to my stack of library books and pick one and hope its dull enough to put me to sleep. Wish me luck and only a few sheep in my counting lineup.
I've thought about writing some poetry, but nothing stirs my emotions these days. I feel shitty about myself, for the most part. I always do when I eat a bunch of crap. I know it before I do it, while I'm doing it, and yet I still do it. Goodbye large movie theatre popcorn. Goodbye Culver's chicken tenders and large iced tea. Fuck, maybe its the tea keeping me up, not the big greasy glop in my gut. Tea has caffeine, right?
Maybe its because this state shutdown seems to be going on longer than it should and I don't know if I am going to get unemployment or not. Maybe there is just too much shit going on in my head!
Any way you look at it, I can't sleep. I'm not doing anything productive. I ate a bunch of crap and feel shitty for it. I really have to work on this...so I'm going to turn to my stack of library books and pick one and hope its dull enough to put me to sleep. Wish me luck and only a few sheep in my counting lineup.
What were we thinking?
Taking Nora to a movie: a lesson in futility. No 2 1/2 year old can behave in someplace dark and quiet after eating 11 servings of chewy sweet tarts and a half gallon of soda. She screams, she climbs, she cries! Maybe in another year? Big maybe. My apologies to everyone else who was trying to view Cars 2 this afternoon.
Middle finger project
So there are lots of things in life that deserve the ole "Fuck You!" Let me begin then, my "Middle Finger Project." Perhaps it will be deemed worthy of its own web site someday. (I'm thinking big, here!)
What pisses you off? What, in your opinions (and I know you have 'em, otherwise you wouldn't read this blog) deserves the Middle Finger? Let me begin:
1. Bad drivers, on any day of the week, not just Sunday. Duluth is full of them. Folks sit at 4-way stops waving each other through, ignoring right-of-way left and right, and while it might seem like a courteous thing to do, it grows ever-annoying.
2. Shitty bosses. The kind who act like they are on your side and then do things to make your job infinitely less pleasant and far more unbearable. Its bad enough we gotta go to work anyway, but a little support would be nice.
3. Humidity. On a 90 degree day. Need I say more?
4. Bad customer service. Like when the cashier at the grocery store can't even speak to you to tell you the total of your purchases, but instead expects you to look at the display. That's just fucking rude.
I'm sure the list goes on. And on. And on. I am going to start passing out the middle finger like candy. Because I can and should. You should too. Forget this Minnesota-nice crap, where we act like these things are no big deal and then bitch about them later. That's known as Passive-Aggressive, and its the reason folks have high blood pressure and strokes. Let's all start flipping these folks the bird, maybe that will alter the way they act and treat other people.
I'm certain they will act all offended, as if they had done nothing wrong. And maybe they don't realize they did. But if you give them the ole "courtesy wave" maybe eventually they will get it.
Sadly, I think my finger's gonna get a workout!
What pisses you off? What, in your opinions (and I know you have 'em, otherwise you wouldn't read this blog) deserves the Middle Finger? Let me begin:
1. Bad drivers, on any day of the week, not just Sunday. Duluth is full of them. Folks sit at 4-way stops waving each other through, ignoring right-of-way left and right, and while it might seem like a courteous thing to do, it grows ever-annoying.
2. Shitty bosses. The kind who act like they are on your side and then do things to make your job infinitely less pleasant and far more unbearable. Its bad enough we gotta go to work anyway, but a little support would be nice.
3. Humidity. On a 90 degree day. Need I say more?
4. Bad customer service. Like when the cashier at the grocery store can't even speak to you to tell you the total of your purchases, but instead expects you to look at the display. That's just fucking rude.
I'm sure the list goes on. And on. And on. I am going to start passing out the middle finger like candy. Because I can and should. You should too. Forget this Minnesota-nice crap, where we act like these things are no big deal and then bitch about them later. That's known as Passive-Aggressive, and its the reason folks have high blood pressure and strokes. Let's all start flipping these folks the bird, maybe that will alter the way they act and treat other people.
I'm certain they will act all offended, as if they had done nothing wrong. And maybe they don't realize they did. But if you give them the ole "courtesy wave" maybe eventually they will get it.
Sadly, I think my finger's gonna get a workout!
Bookslut
I confess. I am a bookslut. Books are my boyfriends. When I get wrapped up in a good one, it takes precedence over my kids, my home, and my marriage. It will sleep in bed with me, often open, because I will pass out with it on my chest like a lover. They often take over my husband's pillow, and he is forced to sleep on the couch.
So, yeah. I read a lot. I am a book nerd. I have a BA in English from College of St Scholastica and am currently working on my terminal degree at Fairfield University. I write almost as much as I read, though often not as well. I have two books published, one that comes out in August of this year.
Holler at me if you would like a copy of either. They are poetry, horribly un-funny poetry, and priced cheaply. And who knows, they may be worth something someday, if this bookslut ever goes national!
So, yeah. I read a lot. I am a book nerd. I have a BA in English from College of St Scholastica and am currently working on my terminal degree at Fairfield University. I write almost as much as I read, though often not as well. I have two books published, one that comes out in August of this year.
Holler at me if you would like a copy of either. They are poetry, horribly un-funny poetry, and priced cheaply. And who knows, they may be worth something someday, if this bookslut ever goes national!
Ahh, memories
This morning, when I was waiting for the little people to arise, I was laying in bed with my husband reminiscing about when we lived in West Duluth. It's where we met, where we fell in love, and started this insane family. We have only lived on the east side for 4 years.
My husband started out as my neighbor. He didn't know it. He just thought he was my kid's hockey coach. I was married to someone else. He was recently divorced. We both had small children. I saw him one day, and knew he was the guy for me. I began going the long way home to drive past his house and look in the window (which I now know was fruitless because it was Rudy's room I was trying to sneak a peek into.) I walked my dog past his house 5 or 6 times a day. Soon, we were shacking up, and there was a pathworn in the grass between our 2 houses.
Eventually, I was divorced. I was living with Brian in his house in West Duluth. We were the big fish in a little pond. We were the only people in a 6 block radius that made over 60K apiece. We did things like buy new motorcycles on a whim, and our neighbors marvelled at us. Weird, huh? But we both worked hard and often.
We used to shoot our neighbor across the street. He was often freaked out on meth, yelling at nothing and throwing things in his driveway. He was the only 48 year old I have ever known who regularly hung out with 19 and 20-year-olds, smoked dope in his driveway, and had a bumpin' system in his 1989 Nissan Sentra. He was awesome, and we liked to shoot him. We called him Captain Dipshit, because that's what he was. We had a perfect shot from our bedroom window, where I had cut a flap just big enough for the barrel of the BB gun. He'd be out in his driveway, working on his car late at night, with the stereo blasting. Nevermind all the little kids in the neighborhood trying to sleep. Captain Dipshit would be freaking out, doing his Dipshitty things like randomly yelling and throwing tools. So, for fun, we would position the BB gun, let fly, and then watch as he freaked out even more.
I don't think we ever hit him. But the sound of BBs bouncing off the non-running cars in his driveway drove him batty, and set off new rounds of freakouts. It was hysterical.
Captain Dipshit also built a fountain in his yard. For the longest time, it was just a hole he was digging. We thought it was a grave, and we were waiting for some of the neighborhood kids to come up missing. Eventually though, it had a liner in it, some plastic swans, and multi-colored underwater lights. Just what every crackhead needs.
After we talked to him several times about barrelling out of his driveway when the little kids were rollerblading and riding their bikes on the sidewalks, and he still continued to speed in and out of his drive like a bat out of hell, I collected a good bag full of dogshit and launched it into his fountain. Wonder what those colored lights did to the flotilla of dog turds?
Soon after that, we moved to Woodland. We behave here. Its a nice place to live and we are no longer the big fish. We are middle of the road. We keep quiet and the kids play nicely. But sometimes I miss the chaos and noise of West Duluth, and even Captain Dipshit.
My husband started out as my neighbor. He didn't know it. He just thought he was my kid's hockey coach. I was married to someone else. He was recently divorced. We both had small children. I saw him one day, and knew he was the guy for me. I began going the long way home to drive past his house and look in the window (which I now know was fruitless because it was Rudy's room I was trying to sneak a peek into.) I walked my dog past his house 5 or 6 times a day. Soon, we were shacking up, and there was a pathworn in the grass between our 2 houses.
Eventually, I was divorced. I was living with Brian in his house in West Duluth. We were the big fish in a little pond. We were the only people in a 6 block radius that made over 60K apiece. We did things like buy new motorcycles on a whim, and our neighbors marvelled at us. Weird, huh? But we both worked hard and often.
We used to shoot our neighbor across the street. He was often freaked out on meth, yelling at nothing and throwing things in his driveway. He was the only 48 year old I have ever known who regularly hung out with 19 and 20-year-olds, smoked dope in his driveway, and had a bumpin' system in his 1989 Nissan Sentra. He was awesome, and we liked to shoot him. We called him Captain Dipshit, because that's what he was. We had a perfect shot from our bedroom window, where I had cut a flap just big enough for the barrel of the BB gun. He'd be out in his driveway, working on his car late at night, with the stereo blasting. Nevermind all the little kids in the neighborhood trying to sleep. Captain Dipshit would be freaking out, doing his Dipshitty things like randomly yelling and throwing tools. So, for fun, we would position the BB gun, let fly, and then watch as he freaked out even more.
I don't think we ever hit him. But the sound of BBs bouncing off the non-running cars in his driveway drove him batty, and set off new rounds of freakouts. It was hysterical.
Captain Dipshit also built a fountain in his yard. For the longest time, it was just a hole he was digging. We thought it was a grave, and we were waiting for some of the neighborhood kids to come up missing. Eventually though, it had a liner in it, some plastic swans, and multi-colored underwater lights. Just what every crackhead needs.
After we talked to him several times about barrelling out of his driveway when the little kids were rollerblading and riding their bikes on the sidewalks, and he still continued to speed in and out of his drive like a bat out of hell, I collected a good bag full of dogshit and launched it into his fountain. Wonder what those colored lights did to the flotilla of dog turds?
Soon after that, we moved to Woodland. We behave here. Its a nice place to live and we are no longer the big fish. We are middle of the road. We keep quiet and the kids play nicely. But sometimes I miss the chaos and noise of West Duluth, and even Captain Dipshit.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Something's Stinky on Austin Street
The dog, who is the bane of my existence as far as cleaning the house goes, gets let out at 4AM. Much like a scene from Mutual of Omaha's Wild Kingdom, animals scatter from the summer street beside our house, which I affectionately refer to as the "pothole" as he carouses through the woods. Today though, the bastard found a nest of skunks. DH was smart enough to let him in to eat his breakfast, which means everything inside my house reeks like skunk too.
Nice way to wake up at 5AM, coughing and snotting all over the place because the reek is so thick in my bedroom that I can't breathe.
Fortunately for me, the oldest boy begged 60$ from me just yesterday for a weekend trip to Minneapolis with his youth group. I think I've got a couple bottles of peroxide and some Dawn dishsoap that says he will earn that money. Meanwhile, I plan to sit on the porch and drink margaritas all day and then fry fish for DH for supper.
Skunk and fish...maybe I should think about an air freshener? So then at least it will be flowery skunk and fish.
Nice way to wake up at 5AM, coughing and snotting all over the place because the reek is so thick in my bedroom that I can't breathe.
Fortunately for me, the oldest boy begged 60$ from me just yesterday for a weekend trip to Minneapolis with his youth group. I think I've got a couple bottles of peroxide and some Dawn dishsoap that says he will earn that money. Meanwhile, I plan to sit on the porch and drink margaritas all day and then fry fish for DH for supper.
Skunk and fish...maybe I should think about an air freshener? So then at least it will be flowery skunk and fish.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
Does fat make you Fry?
Yesterday I ventured to the beach. This is a first since the last 3 kids were born, since I no longer had anything resembling a bathing suit body. Not that anyone cares what a mommy of 7 looks like in a swimsuit except for me, but it was a real bash on the shiny little ego. So, yeah. I went to the beach and watched the little whippersnappers play in the water and the sand at Park Point. I think we were the only native Duluthians there, everyone else was a tourist. How does that happen?!
At the beach, I relished in peace and quiet for an entire hour and a half. I sat in the sand and read a book. I went in the water when I got hot or had to pee. I watched the little kids to make sure they weren't facedown in the surf too long.
And then we went home and I discovered that my back was the color of the sunset. It was also the same temperature. I have never had a sunburn in my life, and I was wondering if it was some hormonal change brought about by 3 pregnancies in the past 4 years. Or was it just that the additional 25 pounds I have gained and kept over those pregnancies fries a little easier. Bacon wouldn't be bacon without the fat, right? Would it fry as easily? Either way, its time for me to quit making excuses and ditch that weight. Because I don't want to ever fry like this again.
It feels like someone ripped a thousand bandaids off my skin fast, that prickly, tingly, ouchie feeling. I couldn't sleep with it. I can't shower with it. I soaked in a cool tub for an hour and it still stings. So fat begone, I don't want to hurt no more!
At the beach, I relished in peace and quiet for an entire hour and a half. I sat in the sand and read a book. I went in the water when I got hot or had to pee. I watched the little kids to make sure they weren't facedown in the surf too long.
And then we went home and I discovered that my back was the color of the sunset. It was also the same temperature. I have never had a sunburn in my life, and I was wondering if it was some hormonal change brought about by 3 pregnancies in the past 4 years. Or was it just that the additional 25 pounds I have gained and kept over those pregnancies fries a little easier. Bacon wouldn't be bacon without the fat, right? Would it fry as easily? Either way, its time for me to quit making excuses and ditch that weight. Because I don't want to ever fry like this again.
It feels like someone ripped a thousand bandaids off my skin fast, that prickly, tingly, ouchie feeling. I couldn't sleep with it. I can't shower with it. I soaked in a cool tub for an hour and it still stings. So fat begone, I don't want to hurt no more!
Monday, July 4, 2011
The idea
So I've had sucess as a poet. I am a semester into my MFA, I've won a couple contests and had two chapbooks published. Ever after a new challenge, I have this idea brewing for a novel.
Its suspenseful. Its got a good heroine. Its got a semi-believable plot. I don't know if it will ever manifest itself as a novel, or even a story, but I feel like I owe it to the characters to give it a shot. But writing fiction is scary. The line between fiction and reality is so blurry, that sometimes I forget what's real and what's not. Is this character me? Is she someone I want to be? Is her situation one I long for, on some other plane?
Fiction is scary territory, especially for someone used to writing poetry. Poetry is easy. You take a situation and make it universal, or at least relatable, for other people. There is an emotional connection between a poet and her readers. Fiction is less personal. Its made up, after all.
But I think I'm going to write this. I scribbled some nonsense down while I was on vacation one morning while Brian took the kids fishing and the baby was asleep. It sounds like something you read on the back of one of the grocery-store novels, the ones the best-selling authors write. The ones desperate housewives pay 9.99 for at the checkout counter.
And tonight as I listen to the fireworks, I feel this character calling to me, telling me to write it down. I know what she wants to do. I just have to let her do it.
Its suspenseful. Its got a good heroine. Its got a semi-believable plot. I don't know if it will ever manifest itself as a novel, or even a story, but I feel like I owe it to the characters to give it a shot. But writing fiction is scary. The line between fiction and reality is so blurry, that sometimes I forget what's real and what's not. Is this character me? Is she someone I want to be? Is her situation one I long for, on some other plane?
Fiction is scary territory, especially for someone used to writing poetry. Poetry is easy. You take a situation and make it universal, or at least relatable, for other people. There is an emotional connection between a poet and her readers. Fiction is less personal. Its made up, after all.
But I think I'm going to write this. I scribbled some nonsense down while I was on vacation one morning while Brian took the kids fishing and the baby was asleep. It sounds like something you read on the back of one of the grocery-store novels, the ones the best-selling authors write. The ones desperate housewives pay 9.99 for at the checkout counter.
And tonight as I listen to the fireworks, I feel this character calling to me, telling me to write it down. I know what she wants to do. I just have to let her do it.
keeping Nora dry
Keeping Nora out of the lake while we were on vacation was like keeping flies off a big, fresh, stinky pile of shit. We went so far as to hook the screen door when we were going somewhere to keep her from venturing outdoors.
It was fine when she was wearing her suitie and someone was watching her. Even if we weren't going anywhere. I personally think Lake Vermillion is down a couple inches for all the water she sucked up, both via her mouth and into her diapers. Super-absorbency at its finest is a Huggie that weighs more than my child, yet refuses to leak. I was impressed.
Yep, we were going to dinner one night, and then, on my head-count, I was one short. Guess where she was, in her only "nice" clothes? Waist deep in the water, sand gritting in her crack. Loveley.
The best, though, was after twenty four hours of heavy rains, there were flash flood type situations. Nora, gone again. Where ever could she be? She couldn't make it to the lake, for the current. But yes, there she is. Sitting in the 4 inch deep puddle in the front yard, six ducks swimming around her. She's happy and laughing, so what do I care? Until I see her bend over and drink directly out of the puddle that these same six ducks keep shitting in. Real nice, girl. It will be a horror story to tell her future suitors, for sure.
It was fine when she was wearing her suitie and someone was watching her. Even if we weren't going anywhere. I personally think Lake Vermillion is down a couple inches for all the water she sucked up, both via her mouth and into her diapers. Super-absorbency at its finest is a Huggie that weighs more than my child, yet refuses to leak. I was impressed.
Yep, we were going to dinner one night, and then, on my head-count, I was one short. Guess where she was, in her only "nice" clothes? Waist deep in the water, sand gritting in her crack. Loveley.
The best, though, was after twenty four hours of heavy rains, there were flash flood type situations. Nora, gone again. Where ever could she be? She couldn't make it to the lake, for the current. But yes, there she is. Sitting in the 4 inch deep puddle in the front yard, six ducks swimming around her. She's happy and laughing, so what do I care? Until I see her bend over and drink directly out of the puddle that these same six ducks keep shitting in. Real nice, girl. It will be a horror story to tell her future suitors, for sure.
Sunday, July 3, 2011
Living half a block from a liquor store has its disadvantages...like realizing its Sunday, and they are not open on Sunday. Damn you, convenience, for making me so comfortable!
I like drinks with umbrellas in them. Some folks call them girl drinks, but I prefer to call them "summer drinks." So tough persona aside, I sip things that are pink and fruity during the hotter months. Margaritas are good, pina coladas are better. But liquor creeps up on me. I get drunk and ambitious. I do things like landscape the front yard, remodel the kitchen, and read my books from the library.
So, this is a bad thing? you say. Au contraire! Its awesome! Whoever said liquor was a bad thing didn't know about my friend Moderation. I don't drink til I am falling-down, slurring-words drunk. I just drink until I can't feel the grit of dog-hair under my feet. I drink until the shrieks of the children are muted: I can still hear them. I know they are near. I know that they are fighting. I just don't care.
So while the short months of summer wander through Minnesota, expect to find me tipsy and busy, just not usually on Sundays. After all, the liquor store is closed, and I don't have the foresight to plan my drunks. They just seem to happen.
I like drinks with umbrellas in them. Some folks call them girl drinks, but I prefer to call them "summer drinks." So tough persona aside, I sip things that are pink and fruity during the hotter months. Margaritas are good, pina coladas are better. But liquor creeps up on me. I get drunk and ambitious. I do things like landscape the front yard, remodel the kitchen, and read my books from the library.
So, this is a bad thing? you say. Au contraire! Its awesome! Whoever said liquor was a bad thing didn't know about my friend Moderation. I don't drink til I am falling-down, slurring-words drunk. I just drink until I can't feel the grit of dog-hair under my feet. I drink until the shrieks of the children are muted: I can still hear them. I know they are near. I know that they are fighting. I just don't care.
So while the short months of summer wander through Minnesota, expect to find me tipsy and busy, just not usually on Sundays. After all, the liquor store is closed, and I don't have the foresight to plan my drunks. They just seem to happen.
Saturday, July 2, 2011
vacation overload
Is there such a thing as vacation overload? It looks like I am going to find out!
My professional license lapsed as of midnight on the 30th and my boss informed me I won't be allowed to come back to work without it. Which would be ok if they would keep the paychecks coming, but alas...I am without!
The funny thing about this whole thing is that ITS NOT MY FAULT. I'm jacked, and I didn't do anything wrong for once. See, about six weeks ago, I got a little blue card in the mail, and this little blue card states EXPLICITLY that I will be able to renew my license until midnight on the 30th of June. So when, on the 30th of June, I went online to renew my license at 12:15 in the AFTERNOON, with nearly 12 hours remaining, I was astounded to find out that the cutoff for this renewal was NOON.
I call bullshit. I called my boss, who informed me that I was Out of Luck Chuck, that without a valid license I would be unable to return to work. Bullshit abounds, especially when she says I will be subject to disciplinary actions. HA! Lawyer on speed dial, I say. But who can I take down?
The state of MN for shutting down their government in hopes of getting a budget approval? SMDC/Essentia for giving their employees the ole middle finger yet again? Who has the deeper pockets? Who wants to pay for my lost wages, the undue stress of punitive action?
Somebody's going down, and it ain't gonna be me. I will be patient, I will lay in wait, and when the throat is exposed, I will strike!
Who likes bad press???
My professional license lapsed as of midnight on the 30th and my boss informed me I won't be allowed to come back to work without it. Which would be ok if they would keep the paychecks coming, but alas...I am without!
The funny thing about this whole thing is that ITS NOT MY FAULT. I'm jacked, and I didn't do anything wrong for once. See, about six weeks ago, I got a little blue card in the mail, and this little blue card states EXPLICITLY that I will be able to renew my license until midnight on the 30th of June. So when, on the 30th of June, I went online to renew my license at 12:15 in the AFTERNOON, with nearly 12 hours remaining, I was astounded to find out that the cutoff for this renewal was NOON.
I call bullshit. I called my boss, who informed me that I was Out of Luck Chuck, that without a valid license I would be unable to return to work. Bullshit abounds, especially when she says I will be subject to disciplinary actions. HA! Lawyer on speed dial, I say. But who can I take down?
The state of MN for shutting down their government in hopes of getting a budget approval? SMDC/Essentia for giving their employees the ole middle finger yet again? Who has the deeper pockets? Who wants to pay for my lost wages, the undue stress of punitive action?
Somebody's going down, and it ain't gonna be me. I will be patient, I will lay in wait, and when the throat is exposed, I will strike!
Who likes bad press???
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