Intellect Protection Services

I’ve been reported to the Intellect Protection Services by my dusty reading list books. The complaint includes neglect and being held unlawfully on the dresser in my bedroom. Upon the IPS’s unscheduled home visit they found these:   

Call me paranoid but I think the blabbermouth Petrushka  doll has been the one ratting me out. The more I defend capitalism and the free market the bitchier she gets. Maybe I can appease her with some beluga caviar or a shot of Stoli. I would throw her in the next bonfire, but Pricess #1 brought her back from Russia, where she lived while studying abroad.

I explained to the Intellect Protection Service representative that I was still actually reading a lot, just more in short story form and that my Internet related activities really are expanding my knowledge base. Do they think mastering the world of blogging, twittering and facebooking is easy for a girl who went to college when computer hard drives took up a whole room in the lab and certainly didn’t fit on your lap?

I'll admit my rate of books read per month has decreased for the past year. If a book doesn't grab me right away it is far too easy to be distracted by the shiny object of stainless steel with the white apple on the cover. So what, I've went from being labeled a voracious reader to a computer slacker. I still have put in a respectable showing as far as books read recently.

One of my favorites this year was Quiver, by up and coming local author Peter Leonard. It packed in the trifecta for my soul: suspense, Michigan locations familiar to me and a sprinkling of NASCAR. I think they should make a movie of it along the lines of Get Shorty which was developed from a novel by Elmore Leonard (Peter’s famous daddy).

Bitter Is The New Black by Jen Lancaster is my bathtub reading buddy and I’m half way through it. But my blogging and twittering have also interfered with my bathtub time, leaning more towards quick showers these days. A book that should have taken me about 6 hours to read is taken me about 2 months so far.

I carry small books to keep me occupied while waiting for all the little things and people I wait for daily. I’m trying to expand my vocabulary with Diane Law’s Dictionary of Bullshit (lexicon of corporate speak) and a more appropriately titled book while waiting in public is David Sedaris’s Holidays On Ice, a cold weather favorite of mine.

I also bet that jealous Russian hussy didn’t produce any of my pictures from this year as I read my way through Charlaine Harris’s Sookie Stackhouse book series upon which the show True Blood are based on. There’s 9 in the series so far. What is more engaging than a story set in the deep South that includes vampires, shifters, werewolves and fairies? OK, so it’s not Tolstoy’s Anna Karina but it is highly entertaining and incredibly stimulating to the imagination.

My teenage daughters goaded me in to reading  Stephanie Myers books Twilight, New Moon and Breaking Dawn last year. I had resisted the whole movie craziness until I finished the first book. I was immediately drawn in by the vampire angle. Unlike the teenage fans I find Bella, the heroine of the saga quite annoying.

You had better believe I am counting down the days to the release of New Moon. I am captivated by the Quileute Indian legend that's featured so heavily in the sequels and I can't wait to see my favorite character Jacob shift into a powerful wolf mid stride.

Anyway I wore that pesky IPS lady out blathering on about wolves, Native Americans, rattlesnake hunting and the North Carolina connection of my family's Cherokee bloodline. Her eyes glazed over and she agreed to check her sources out more carefully in the future.

Along Came A Jogger

I'm not quite sure what he was so mad about that he felt compelled to smack my  car in the ass as he strode behind me. Maybe his thinking was so deluded by the endorphins  circulating in his bloodstream that he thought he was moving at the speed of light. He was a good 20 feet away from the intersection when I pulled up to wait to turn left out of my neighborhood.Clearly, even with advanced age, men don't lose their egotistical belief that they should have the right of way in every situation.

Maybe it's something in the Michigan air today. It was sunny, in the low 50's and I noticed a lot of people trying to fit in jogs, dog walks and bike rides today before the weather turns frightful. Through my open sunroof I heard him say, "Stop sign, blondie" as he huffed by and hit the back of my car. It was at that point I definitely felt a surge of road rage. What is this geezer thinking? Isn't it obvious I'm a NASCAR fan? I barely controlled my urge to pull over the curb and drive my car down the bike path behind him to give him a piece of my bumper.

Good thing for him I'm not still driving my 4 wheel drive Yukon, there's no way I can take the low rider I have now off road. The weird thing is that this is not the first time I've been accosted by a spindly leg over the hill wind bag while in my car. Now, that might lead me to think, it must be me.But it doesn't. I'm a confident, sensible driver with a clean driving record. Sometimes I have a need for speed but not in a neighborhood.

This is the view from behind the stop sign.There is no way to safely pull out unless you proceed to wait in front of the cross walk.

This is the same position my car was in, waiting to turn left out of my subdivision. Notice there is also a stop sign for the pedestrians?

Does being blond, short and driving a Ford Flex automatically equate with being as docile a bunny? An automatic target for bullies, even elderly ones? I'll warn you now that it wouldn't be wise to fall for stereotypes and underestimate me. While I am typically composed and controlled I have inherited quite a temper.Usually held tightly under lock and key, once sprung it is not a pretty thing.

And I'm not above using a weapon (you are going to want to see this). Years ago when I worked odd shifts and took call I often traveled with hammer under my seat and a baseball bat a quick reach away.Even now it's not unusual for me to have my handy 12 in 1 tool in my glove compartment that includes a small pocket knife sharp enough to perform a on the spot prostate biopsy (a little too much Dexter maybe).

Don't mess with The Mayor.

Warning Signs

Anybody else have these signs popping up all over your state? Doesn't it just warm your heart in these tough economic times that our government is hard at work for us, spending stimulus money like drunken sailors on leave, sparing no expense on our behalf? I mean if I could just ponder how special this makes me feel when I lay my head down at night I may not need that blasted little mind scrambling Ambien pill.

Here in our great state of Michigan unemployment has officially hit over 15%. Unofficially, who knows considering that number doesn't include those whose unemployment benefits have been depleted because we were in a "one state recession/depression" for a prolonged period of time before the rest of you lucky people joined us. This has been our state of being for years now and I would venture to say the population is feeling quite beat down by this.

During several interstate road trips the past few months I've noted a more frequent sighting of these road signs that are supposed to be my government's attempt at transparency and positive PR. They are suppose to leave us feeling all warm and fuzzy, reassuring us that some of that stimulus money is reaching the little guy. Well I am just tickled for the road workers who have been hired to work on these projects (at least until the money is all gone). God bless them. Most people in my state are happy to have a job (even if they used to complain nonstop about it).

Let's face it. These are not the jobs we envisioned for our children when we paid for their college educations. Young adults are taking their education and fleeing our state as swiftly as they can in search of gainful, career developing employment. The population of Michigan is shrinking faster than our politician's genitalia.

So I fired up Google in search of the truth about these highway signs that seem to be propagating at an alarming rate. And no, they do not warm my heart. It seems that various states are using part of the funds they receive through the 800 Billion dollar American Recovery and Reinvestment Act to order and install these signs at their discretion. Estimates as to the true costs vary per state (you know the whole union versus non worker thing, cost of living, etc) but installed these little beauties are running $1000 to a whopping $2500 each.

The question remains, are these really cleverly designed taxpayer funded re-election campaign signs? As the Mayor and the mother of practicality I have to give the administration some props for achieving a double purpose with these slogan inspired marketing tools. That's where the love ends, especially after spying these within walking distance of my doorstep (asking your forgiveness on the poor quality of this picture I braved a thunderstorm for):

These TWO (think $3000) separate signs at one obscure intersection near my home (upgrading drainage and filling pot holes) made me feel like I was getting a sharp stick in the eye. It's kind of like the government giving me the giant middle finger whether I turn north or east upon leaving my neighborhood. At the risk of sounding a wee bit schizophrenic it's as if they are saying, "not only are we over taxing you and creating an incredible debt load for your future grandbabies, we are going to spend the money however we want, because we can, and rub it in your face every stinking time you leave your subdivision".

Before I become a total Debbie Downer, let me share this little tidbit of hope and change with you all. Part of this smartly designed symbol includes a federal website that has just been updated to the tune of 18 million (can you say s-t-i-m-u-l-a-t-e?)  Can you believe this, they provide a pull down menu where they encourage us to report waste, fraud and abuse! The renowned information highway has arrived at our door and parked at our fingertips at www.recovery.gov. They must have been reading my mind.

So you know what I did? I got on that website directly and let them know about the fraud, waste and abuse that got my panties all in a twist. This is a summary of my complaint on the form that they supplied online and brilliantly named Complaint Form:

Was there any signage displayed to indicate the project is financed by ARRA funds? Yes, actually 2 of them on one single intersection of a tertiary road near my home.

Who committed the alleged misconduct/wrongdoing? My state and federal government as far as I can tell, abetted by those of us who voted them into office.

Victims and witnesses? My children and I

What exactly did the individuals do that was wrong? Wantonly wasted precious tax dollars in the manufacturing and installation of road signs that are unnecessary,egotistical and self congratulatory in nature.

When did the misconduct occur? I began noticing these signs in August 2009.

Where did the misconduct/wrongdoing occur? Here in my home town at the intersection 1/2 mile from my home. Also on I-75 in Ohio, also on I 90-94 in Chicago, also in highway 71 in North Carolina.

How was the misconduct committed? (ie. falsifying documents, etc.)I'm not sure what documentation was involved, but it certainly could be construed as offering the populous a FALSE sense of security, FALSE hope and a misguided view of job creation.

Do you have first hand knowledge of the misconduct/wrongdoing? Hell to the YES (excuse my French all my NASCAR watching has had a rudimentary affect on my word choice lately). I saw the signs with my own eyes and even took pictures of them. I'll attach them to the complaint if I can figure out how to.

Who else might be aware of this misconduct/wrongdoing? Oakland County residents, long haul truck drivers, tourists, car poolers, emergency vehicle drivers of various occupations.

If you are willing to be interviewed concerning this matter please provide your name, address, telephone number and email address: I am just letting you know, I am on the national do not call list. I'm sure you could easily send someone out to view signs in various parts of the country, or send a military drone or satellite to send you pictures directly. If there is anyone in this department really tech savvy they could probably use some kind of I-phone app to locate all the signs throughout the country.

There you have it, my civic duty in this case is done. The depressing part is although I think I have a valid complaint about the waste of money concerning these signs, I'm sure the amount is miniscule compared to larger scale fraud and waste that will undoubtably be found during the implementation of this program. To add to that dark cloud of thought I just read that on Sept. 16, 2009 the senate rejected a proposal to stop stimulus advertising.

Grocery Store Whore

Just the other day I was in a pretty manic state as I ran into the nearby grocery store for a few items we needed to complete dinner that night. Feeling smug that I had been able to snag a tiny cart on my way in, I was driving that thing like a NASCAR vehicle, zipping up the necessary isles. I hate to admit it but I almost ran over the same man twice, and he was a middle aged dawdler, and cranky at that. I might have been short tempered too if I was nearly clipped twice by some fanatical woman, even if she was damned good looking. If the powers that be knew what I was actually thinking while I’m at the grocery store, if they could see the visions and fantasies in my head they would put me out on the street and ban me from coming back.

Well, that may be an exaggeration because just today when I checked out at the local Kroger I didn’t have my keys with my little Kroger Card on it. Subsequently the cashier instructed me to punch my phone number in and the key pad said “Welcome back loyal Kroger customer”. Then when I discovered I had my purse (alias handbag or pocketbook depending on what region of the country you live in) but no wallet (with my credit cards). What to do now, after we rung up a whole bunch of groceries and I’ve got no ID, no credit card? It’s times like this that I’m lucky no one could telepathically read my mind or they really would exile me.   

Anyhow, I dug around the bottom of my purse and found a wrinkled up check. My score on my loyal customer card must be really good because they said, no problem Mayor, just go ahead and write us a check. Really? So I filled out the check and paid for my groceries and practically skipped out to the parking lot. I love walking out to the parking lot and loading my bags into my car when the weather is nice. It just makes me feel so good because I know soon enough here in Michigan I’ll have to trek out in freezing weather when winter arrives too soon.

The funny thing is that I am not really a loyal customer. Just don’t tell Kroger. I confess right here and now I am a shopping for the best price whore. Or shopping at a store because it’s on my route back home from where ever I’m coming from kind of gal. In reality I’m a very fickle hooker shopper. I shop where I feel like shopping, where it’s expedient for me that day or maybe because I happen to know an item I like is on sale. I know, it’s a kind of if you can’t be with the one you love, honey, love the one your with attitude that could be seen as slutty disloyal.

I’m sure all the grocery stores in a 2 mile radius of my home think I have an undying love for them because I buy a lot of food. If they only knew I possess frequent shopper cards from several other states (Chicago, North Carolina, Texas) because I tend to get around and I usually cook when I do. Above average sized family + kids friends + official foodies means we require an extraordinary amount of raw materials. Very simple. The problem I have with this task that eats up a lot of my time each week is that you find a lot of idiots at the store who tend to impede my progress.

There is such a thing as unspoken grocery store etiquette. In case you didn’t innately internalize this information while accompanying your parents shopping when you were young, I’ve compiled a few tips:

• Unless you are getting a large order, grab the smaller sized grocery cart. We call it tiny cart. they are much more maneuverable.

• While cruising the isles, stay to one side of the lane while making your choices. You don’t want to be known as a lane hog, your indecisiveness is precluding the passing of more competent customers.
• If you are an average or above average height person and you see some short stumpy individual stretching and straining to reach a desired item on the top shelf for God’s sake help them out and pluck the thing down for them.
• The elderly, avoid getting behind them at all costs if you’re in a hurry. They are probably going to be slowly counting out cash or writing the dreaded check. Yes, I realize that is an ageist and bitchy attitude, but I’m on a mission and I don’t need to make new friends in the checkout line.
• When unloading your cart onto the check out belt, use the divider if they have one. It prevents mix ups that can cost you a lot of time.
• Avoid getting in line behind someone with those coupon organizing filofax things, that’s a bad sign. That’s a problem in the making so just avoid the situation.
• If you are the person in line with coupons, fine, I respect that. But can we not argue with the cashier over the validity of the coupon or send the bagger running to the back end of the store because it says buy 2 get one free and you didn’t pick up the extra.
• When you enter the line when I’m at the keypad conducting my business don’t crowd me with your basket. Stay in your space. I really don’t like being hit with the cart and don’t pretend you don’t see me because I’m short.
• If it’s busy and there’s no bagger on your isle, get your big butt down there and start bagging your items. I actually like to do this because it really expedites things and I can move on to my next task more quickly.
• If you are one of the elderly, get with the program. Use a credit card or a debit card, swipe that thing and be done with it. Now I feel guilty because I realize in 20 years I’ll be the white haired lady with a hump counting out my change one coin at a time.
• When you’re done with your cart, if possible take it to the cart return. It saves a lot of dented cars and it’s part of responsible citizenship. There are exceptions to this rule: if you have a baby with you and the cart coral is a ways away or if you have to pee really, really bad.

Now you know how to competently get through a grocery shopping expedition properly, happy eating. If you happen to see me hunting and foraging (and I’m not pushing tiny cart at warp speed) don’t be afraid to wave or say hi. You’ll be able to tell right away if I’m in the mood to motor or chit chat because I don’t have a poker face. There are plenty of days when my approach is more laid back and not so...um, postal. So far, I’ve only lost control and terrorized other shoppers in my head (except the unfortunate dude I clipped with tiny cart) which is a good thing for the local economy.

Wet Leonard

True story. Walstrom Marina in Harbor Springs, MI. Summer 1997.

Several air bubbles rose to the top before the dome of this bald head broke the dark water’s surface. It reminded me of a wet stepping stone in a garden after a rain.

An old little diddy came to mind, “ plop plop fizz fizz, oh what a relief it is”. My sister in law was frantic beside me (she only had 2 children, so she’s a little more sensitive than I). I was calm, even giggling just a little. She looked at me like I had lost my mind.

I fantasized about just taking my dainty sandal clad foot and placing it ever so gently on the top of that dome. He tended to be a know it all. Control freak maximus. He could suck the fun out of the room in about ten seconds flat. Insecure and distrustful he was always compelled to boss everyone in the room around and didn’t even realize he was doing it (kind of Kate, from Jon & Kate plus 8, only crankier).

Are you horrified by my confession yet?

Get a grip, this particular fantasy/ thought process took about 5 seconds, one of those life flashing in front of your face at warp speed kind of moments. The furious splashing and gnarly tanned fingers gripping the rope that was mooring the boat to the dock snapped me out of it.. The responsible human in me sprung into action. My experience as a nurse and mother of 6 had turned me into a seasoned professional when it came to reacting to crisis.

With my sister in law holding on to a post with one hand (thank God she has always been a solid athletic kind of woman)and to me with the other, I reached down and pulled the victim closer to the dock and got his head above the water. Together we hefted him up and out he came coughing. sputtering and ashen from his panic. It was no small feat to retrieve a 71 year old man, fully dressed in water laden blue jeans, tennis shoes and a golf shirt out of the murky waters. Sadly, his ball cap gently floated beyond our reach.

It had began as a typical Leonard moment. We were enjoying a family reunion of my husband’s siblings up in Northern Michigan. All the ladies broke up in pairs to explore the quaint town and the fellows were resting themselves at the waterside bar, enjoying the marina activity. When my sister in law and I returned from our shopping, Leonard excitedly said, “come here, come with me I want to show you something real quick”. A knowing look passed between us as it only could because we were the two daughters in law of this man and we were used to his peculiar ways.

We followed him over to the marina adjacent to Dudley’s Dock where he was chattering away about the small yachts the men had toured earlier while we were shopping. He was determined to play yacht salesman, quickly reciting the particulars of each vessel we passed. We approached the 34 foot Tiara he was so excited about showing to us mere women.
It was docked in about 15 feet of very chilly water on a bay of Lake Michigan. We dutifully followed him as he confidently marched up the sturdy 3 foot wide plank connecting the boat to the dock. But, instead of turning to board the boat, good old Leonard marched straight off of the plank and sunk like a stone in the cold lake waters.

It might not have been so dramatic except the proud man who was my father in law could not swim a lick. Despite serving in the Navy during WWII, and himself living on a small lake outside of the Detroit area, he truly never learned to swim! Once we hauled him out of that water I could not stop laughing.

Sheepishly, he shuffled back to the table they had claimed at Dudley’s Dock, squishing all the way with every step he took. Of course, it was all a big hoopla when we arrived at the table and were barely able to recount the event due to our now hysterical braying over the whole thing. He didn’t think it was funny. What to do now? All of his children showed appropriate concern and insisted we go into one of the many shops in the town and purchase dry clothes for him. He insisted he would be fine, drying out on his own, no use to needlessly spend good money when he had a whole suitcase full of clothes 30 minutes away at the cottage.

They all pleaded with him as we had dinner reservations in an hour for the 12 of us. It was supposed to be our big “adult” evening out, having left about 12 children back at the cottage. If there was one thing my husband’s siblings never learned to do was to negotiate with their father. If he said no, there was no “let’s change the approach and ask him again”. Even if it was for his own good.

I snuck off to a nearby store and bought a dry t-shirt for the man, but I really needed him to cooperate if I were to buy him a dry pair of pants. Cooperate he did not! My sister in law and I manhandled him into changing into the dry shirt, and putting on his windbreaker he had thankfully left on his chair during our little excursion. From the waist down he was still wet Leonard. An hour in the sun had not done much in the way of drying out his stiff blue jeans and his tennis shoes still squeaked and squished with every step he took.

As you all know trying to order and get served with that big of a party can get a bit complicated. We did our best to place or orders and get the show on the road. At one end of the table my one of my husband’s brothers asked the waiter to please crank the AC up as he felt it was getting stuffy. Down at the other end wet Leonard (whose lips now had a slightly violet cast to them) asked the other waiter if he could perhaps turn down the AC. And so it went.

Leonard was a complicated piece of work. He could be as cantankerous as all get out but had a generous streak. He loved babies and toddlers but did not seem to know how to relate to children over the age of 5. He was always the first one to volunteer to help with a project, but the consequences were then he was in charge of said project. We had a pretty contentious relationship over the years but I think we eventually developed a healthy respect for each other.

He taught me most of the home improvement skills I know and being that I’m married to a man who travels, and is not very handy, this was a valuable part of my upbringing. I believe seeing the work I had to take responsibility for since his son traveled raised his esteem for me. He came to appreciate that I was a hard worker. He never directly told me that, but one day while working on a small project together he gave me a small red ball peen hammer which to this day is one of my favorite tools. He said it had been in his family a long time and he wanted me to have it.

It is funny how age matures your outlook on things. I now have 3 grown children and 3 still requiring an extreme amount of direction. I found out that I’m not the perfect parent after all. It would be nice if Leonard was still around so I could extend him a lot more grace than I did in the past. Of course , he would still drive me crazy but I think I could appreciate him even while he was.