A Stupid Story to Point Out an Annoying Truth Starring Coffee. Autobiographical

Hello, Fam!!!!!

It’s been a while, no?

Once again I learned a little about myself and decided to post about it 5 years after my last post.  Disclaimer: this is a dumb story. Read at the peril of your brain cells.

I don’t love coffee.  I wouldn’t choose it over other items in a café typically. I’ve been known to occasionally take a coffee with honey and milk if I know a tea is going to disappoint me. Generally the world doesn’t end, no big deal. 

This is going to sound like a story about coffee.  As usual, it’s not about the coffee J

Sunday morning I was going into work. I needed to do some confidential stuff in a room off of the sales floor, so I decided to use a gift card given to me very thoughtfully by a coworker for my birthday that had been sitting in my bag unused ever since.  Logically, since I hate coffee, I order tea or pink drinks or oatmeal at Starbucks (did you know Starbucks has oatmeal?  It’s steel cut…mmmmm).

Anywho, in this time of my life where budget is king, treating yourself is usually something from a gas station or getting ice at a fountain machine for your boring water, you know how it is.  This particular day I planned on a London fog latte (if you don’t know what that is, it’s Earl Grey tea with steamed milk and syrup, in my case oatmilk and brown sugar syrup or honey) and an oatmeal with agave syrup and fresh blueberries (so decadent, don’t you think?).

I ordered, I paid, I went to work.  I sat down for my task and took my first sip and it was...coffee.  A Coffee latte with regular dairy milk and 2 earl grey teabags.  I’m sure I’ve been more disappointed and appalled in my life, but I can’t think of an experience similar to the disgust that encroached on my morning.  Instantly I thought of baristas getting yelled at by patrons for not getting extremely specific orders perfect or taking too long and thought, “what’s the point? Maybe the tea will flavor the coffee (it didn’t).  I should drink this out of spite, since it is paid for (I didn’t even pay for it).  I’ve already left, there’s no point in going back…” on and on it went for over 3 hours where I took a sip, cringed, waited 10 minutes and repeated. I complained, loudly, to anyone who would listen, about my terrible luck.  People told me to go back, even after I got home, get a refund, get a credit, they will make it right.  Sorry, I work in customer service and…it wasn’t happening that day.  If you are unaware, this is a textbook first world problem, and also a Midwestern rule where you take your lumps and move on without inconveniencing anyone other than yourself and a few unlucky listeners with no intention of a solution.

I got home, agitated and jittery, never tasting the tea (perhaps you are aware of how aggressive Starbucks’ coffee is?  I haven’t had it in years).  The rest of the day I spent annoyed, tapping my fingers, trying to drink water and stay busy.  In short it was a loss.  A loss of time, joy, money (sorta), and trust in my favorite drink.  A total loss.  And 100% mine.  My spite resulted in a day I was forced to try and salvage (thanks to a generally pleasant disposition, given to me by...I dunno, Jane Austen?).  A LITERAL DAY.

Today (Tuesday) I went back to redeem my love of the London fog (it’s been 2 days. I figured I needed to do this sooner than later).  I still had $14 on my gift card, why not? I saddled up to the SAME Starbucks, even though there are 3 in the same ½ mile.  I ordered the latte.  I begged for it not to have coffee in it.  The intercom voice said, “there’s no coffee in a London Fog” and it was enough to undo all the gratitude I had previously conjured to talk myself into functioning for the whole day.  I said, somewhat snappily (there is a different scale of snappiness that all service people use, ask my niece), “Well there WAS on SUNDAY!” Now why did I do that? That voice wasn’t there on Sunday. It’s 6am on a Tuesday.  Does she need this energy?  I pulled myself together and pulled up to the window to pay.  My gift card had 0 balance.  The poor girl of maybe 16 had to tell me so.  How is this possible?  It’s not even Wednesday!  I argued; after all, I knew it was $25 and I only spent 11. She offered to show me the screen, but I had to believe her.  I huffily said, “that’s 2 screw ups on Sunday then” like she had any idea what I was talking about. I asked for the gift card back so I could reload it and paid, I went to work (it should be noted that for ME, this is a real explosion, but for her, it wasn’t really that bad on the service worker scale).  This does fall under Minnesota Nice, by the way.  Passive aggressive comments regarding a previous experience that has nothing to do with the current experience but not attacking someone outright.  Just quiet (sorta) judgment and displeasure because you couldn’t just move on. 

The drink was well made. It had oatmilk and brown sugar syrup.  The tea bag tags were even tucked under the cardboard cozy. All that stress over nothing.  Well not nothing, I had the gift card to deal with, but I had imagined a scenario where I was let down again when it was just a normal Tuesday at 6am.  Does this make sense?  What’s that saying?  Fear sees a threat, anxiety imagines one?  All anger comes from frustrated expectations, that kind of thing.

This story does continue, but it gets VERY Midwestern, so if you just want the lesson I learned it is this: Doing something out of spite only poisons YOU.  Nobody cares (remember that gem from old blogs?).  Nobody is affected but YOU, and you spend the rest of your time trying to climb out of the hole you made because you decided to “settle” for lack of a better word, and not waste something that was trash anyway.  I mean who puts tea in coffee (don’t come at me with a dirty chai, because that’s not tea, that’s just concentrate.  This whole thing has put me in a pedantic mood.  Side note for another blog, I can’t only do 1 space after periods; it’s wrong and my muscle memory won’t allow it, so I’m going to stop trying to be in this century, K?)?????  What gain could you get from putting tea bags in coffee?

I got to work and the first person I saw was the coworker who gave me the gift card. Stupidly (knowing this could lead to Midwestern etiquette problems) I asked him how much was on the card when he gave it to me, and he said $25.  Ok, I thought so, but I could only check the balance, not see the transactions (fail, Starbucks).  His had flew to his mouth and he said, “I know what happened.” Then he didn’t speak again for…I dunno, seconds.  Long enough that a Midwesterner would be tortured by the suspense, but wouldn’t ask what is wrong.  It gives no closure to the situation or the feelings, but doesn’t release one from the conversation. He pulled out a $20, and said, “I need you to take this.”  Well now I’ve got another problem, because I already spent $11 out of $25, and now I would be “netting” $31 when that’s not fair.  I told him I was grateful for the gift and I used it, I couldn’t take more.

This is what is called a Midwestern Standoff.  No one has done anything wrong, but all action taken now rests on who is more embarrassed and is more convincing that the other deserves satisfaction.

He said, “I really need you to take this” and was beating himself up so much that I told him I could see this was really eating at him so I would take it, under duress, but I really didn’t want to (both of us doing something just to make the other one feel better is about as Midwestern as it gets around here).  This part took a good 6 minutes also. Turns out he didn’t buy the gift card at a store, but he put money on it with his app.  When I used the card, he got a notification that someone had used it, assumed it was fraud (didn’t think a gift card he gave away would be in his account because why would it) and reported it and got all of his money back, then promptly removed it to a safer card.  Additionally, he had shared his rewards info with one of his team members for a coffee run (you fly, I’ll buy scenario) and thought maybe they had helped themselves, so he asked them about it on Sunday, which is also a big deal to a Midwesterner.  They of course denied any wrongdoing and said they would have ordered a pink drink (which I almost had, funnily enough) and NEVER oatmeal.  Who gets oatmeal at Starbucks??? Me. I do. That me.  How ironic that had their conversation escalated to an HR issue, that also would have been me?  But again, Midwesterners; no good way to bring this to HR.

When my boss came in later (still today, Tuesday), he was complaining that he ruined his coffee at home with too much creamer and didn’t want to make more.  I filled him in on part 2 of this story, since he was there Sunday for part 1.  Before I could even finish, he crossed his arms and said, “Are you the great oatmeal thief from Sunday?”  My mouth gaped open.  He had been the sole witness to all sides of this story on Sunday in real time.  Isn’t that fun?  This story is so stupid, but I did realize that I punished myself for no reason just because I was not wanting to be wasteful. What did I want the Tuesday team to do? Just give me free stuff and a new gift card? I think I did.  That’s a 10/10 on the ridiculous scale in the service industry.  This is the entitlement that I don’t want to serve; why did I decide a 16 year old who is only the face of the place on a completely different day needed to go above and beyond for me when I didn’t even ask nicely or expect a good result? I know that niceness gets me more than the bare minimum and entitlement gets me exactly the lowest of what they can even offer, that’s how I treat service as well.  Come on, Elle, a little self preservation, please. 

I don’t know what happened with the other TM.  Perhaps he gave them $20 as well J  Poor guy always celebrates the team out of his own pocket, is amazingly generous, and still gets stuck paying more for (probably) the same reason I got stuck with a coffee tea latte.  I’ll have to figure out something to get him with it; he doesn’t like sweets much, but that’s what Midwesterners do best ;)

 Today's song of the day is "Sweet Spot" by the Steep Canyon Rangers.  It's my favorite song of
theirs (my other favorites are TUNES with Steve Martin, but I digress), and they sang it as an encore when they were at the Dakota Jazz Club last October, but I couldn't sing along because they adlibbed the words.  The storm had just swung through Asheville, where they are from, and they were still out on the road raising money for their community and supporting their families.  One of them has a B&B and a Minnesota family had rented it and stayed in it while they rode out the storm and they thought that was pretty cool. Both the band and the family, apparently :) Here's a little clip of the ad lib about staying at the B&B.

 Here's a photo of that night also (Totally unrelated to this post, except finding sweet spots).  You may note, as I did, the Markham Bricks on the wall, made and shipped from Traverse City, MI.

If you wanna go down a Steep Canyon/hurricane Helene rabbit hole, they were workshopping a new song about the flood and they shared with with us.  Don't know if they ever published it, but at the time of this show, our friend, Reed, was down there cleaning up and replacing the electrical poles and such for a grueling 18 day run.  That storm affected an awful lot of people in an awful lot of places, but Asheville was really hurting at the time.

Warning: I don't know where I'm going with this post.

This morning, I was walking my dog.  You may know him, he's a bit of a big deal.  His name is JD Thaddeus Cooper ("Just Dog" or anything else that fits the moment).  We normally walk with his best friend, one Duke (last name TBD).  Today we were alone in the predawn, walking below the stars and satellites, in 13 degrees of introverted bliss before the next April snow storm hits around 1:00pm.  JD perked up his ears and then sat down, listening.  It's a great thing when he does this, because he twitches his Aussie ears, he pulls them all the way forward, then all the way back, so he looks kind of annoyed (see video Exhibit A).  At times like this one, he sits with his old man face pointed out to the world, quietly reading the park newspaper.

So I stopped.  Why not?  I stopped and stood next to my dog, listening to see what he heard.  Was Duke on his way to the park?  Was there a deer nearby?  Let's let him have his moment.  Then I heard it.  A soft, low "whooooot" from an owl.  JD has little use for songbirds, but is enamored with owls, turkeys and falcons.  I know, he's a little weirdo.  I located the owl visually, shadowed in the dawning grayness, perched upon a tall light post.  It took flight, massive wide wings, lazily flapping, and landed in the trees, where another owl began hooting in response.  We sat there and listened to these two owls cooing and hooing to each other for about 5 minutes, and I thought, "when did this stop being amazing?  At what point did I just begin walking the dog to get him out and get him home?"

So that was it; a little moment to recenter how amazing life is when you're simply out in it, no phone, no screens, experiencing a moment of beauty.  Thanks, JD.

So today's song (tune) of the day is contemplative; soft.  Appropriately called "A Shadow and a Thought."  An original Hanneke Cassel tune. If you don't know her, you should.  You know that thing about me?  The one where I've met a TON of famous people and only fangirled one?  Well, now it's two.  I couldn't help it; she was standing there, talking to someone else, and a million flashbacks of perfect and terrible moments set to her tunes went through my mind.  And I just walked up and hugged her.  I'm not even a hugger, guys. There were just no words to tell her how beautiful, complicated, simple, and meaningful her music is.  She is a rare gift.  You should know her.  And she didn't TOTALLY freak out when I hugged her; just a little.  She did become slightly more uncomfortable with the subsequent verbal diarrhea. Hopefully our next conversation made things better, because when someone's work is that personal to you, you'd hate to think that you personally but a wall up that will never come down between you.  Because you're weird and overly attuned to the intricacies of tunes and songs.  Always have been.  Sorry not Sorry.  If you've never stood in your kitchen, spinning around to a particularly good moment of loud piping or fiddling, or anything that touches you, you are missing out, my friend.

Anywho, HERE is the tune.  Thank you, Hanneke. My Dad told me a few weeks ago that I was a very grateful person, and I am glad they raised me to be one.  Life is hard enough without bright-siding it (hence the blog).  Did you know that if you donate a certain amount of money to Manyhopes.org, Hanneke will let you name one of her original tunes?  I'm just saying...
this is how you get tunes like "Artsy Smartsy Phoebe," which is a GREAT tune. :)

My Goal in Life is to Be Eileen to This Girl :)

There's a girl in my building who is a mini-me.  She looks like I did at her age, she is smart and funny and math makes her cry.  It's a strange thing to see someone so wholly reflected in who you were at that age; same thought processes, motivators, social problems.  She sits squarely where I did in school socially; not popular, not unpopular, wanting everyone to like her, but also has her own personality.  We spend some time together every week when I pick her up from school, and slowly but surely, I've slipped into the role that a dear woman named Eileen played in my life; at least that has become the goal.
Eileen was the cool, artsy, smart employee of the radio station a 30 second walk through the woods away.  I don't know if you know much about my childhood but it was pretty privileged if you ask me (which you did by clicking into this blog).  We lived in the woods on a dirt road, a quarter mile from school and beach and swimmer's itch.  It was a small jaunt to my father's work, a public radio station out in the woods with a 555 foot tower that I may have gotten caught trying to climb once. Maybe.  A woman named Eileen worked there, along with an eccentric group of hippies, conservatives, grammaticians, and musicians that I still think of with great affection.  Eileen had the distinction of being super cool in my mind; she brought her dog to work, she made crossword puzzles from SCRATCH, without computer help, she had a rubber stamp collection and colored pencils that kept me busy for days, and she had one of those ergonomic chairs that I took to college because it was so unique and cool. Apparently I was a hipster before it was a thing.

Eileen encouraged every creative bone in my body, as well as both my brothers'.  She'd take us for the evening or the weekend and we'd watch old movies and play games.  Every winter we'd make gingerbread men that my brothers always turned into zombies or monsters and she thought everything we came up with was great.  My parents never gave our cookies away, I'll just say that.   Her family was the coolest ever - her dad was an Irish story teller who had played in a big band before writing for the Detroit Free Press, her sister was an animator for Disney when they still drew cartoons.  She (Maureen) taught me to make hair scrunchies from any and all material laying around.  Any and all.  Upholstery scraps, panties, she never saw material she couldn't use for something.

Anyway, when I was a teen, I lost contact with Eileen and it was a real bummer, a hole that I felt for a long time.  We were able to connect a few years ago, and it has been great to have her in my life again and watch her with her family, just as marvelous as I remember.  Enough waxing nostalgic.

So, picking up this girl from school has been fun; on a few occasions she's come over and baked cookies or run basic science experiments in the kitchen like sucking smoke into a baby enema thingy and squeezing it back out, jello and food coloring experiments and the like.  We also made cupcakes in the shape of dog doo because we could.  I was asked to help her with math, and I hesitated because math always made me cry.  My brother, Jeff, was about the only one who could help me without making me cry (her mom asked me how, and I can't remember).  It was always so frustrating; math is supposed to be the same in every country, and I always got weird answers; I couldn't understand why I didn't get it.  Lydz is the same.  She can do it, she just doesn't see the point of doing the same kind of problem over and over again for the sake of doing it, and works better with story problems.  We were working on long division and multiplying multiple lines, blah blah blah. She can do it fine, she just doesn't like it, so after 5 problems, she starts rushing through just to finish it (just like I did).  So I went to Hobby Lobby earlier and bought some watercolor stuff and promised her we could do watercolor after we finished math.  At the end of each section, we had a 30 second dance party.  I played her favorite band on Pandora, we made it work.  It was so crazy to watch basically myself.  I knew when she was burning out, I knew what would bring her back, it was just nuts.  That's when I realized I could possibly pass on the gift that Eileen gave to me.  Having someone outside your family think you're cool when you're a kid is surprisingly confidence building.  She deserves confidence. And she's MUCH better at watercolor than I am. Anyway...

Last week she had an ice skating recital, and of course we went.  We brought JD, who was amazing, and also a hero.  A lady was walking down the bleachers instead of the stairs, and she started to fall; her trajectory was terrifying; the raised bump where your neck meets the spine was aimed perfectly at the concrete floor.  JD backed up and caught her.  She hit his back and he sat down, and she slid softly onto the ground.  Not only that, but for the next few seconds, as people were asking if she was ok before helping her up, he just sat there, with that stupid Aussie Grin, being adorable.  Big day for pride!  So that's what you do, as this kind of adult investor; you sit through a 2 hour recital because your goofball is at the end of the second half and you need a good seat while your awesome service dog sits in between your legs and is amazing, as each little girl in her skates and bathrobe stops to pet him on her way to her program.  I'd do it again.  She's the tall one, the anchor at the end of the line.  Yeah, that's pretty apt.

So last week was the last week she lived in my building.  I picked her up Thursday and realized it was the last convenient night to have her over, and she would be alone for a few hours if I left her at home, so I had her over and I pulled out a bunch of falling apart books and magazines.  We made collages, she discovered fountain and calligraphy pens and is subsequently obsessed.  I even pulled out my emerald and gold flake ink and let her go nuts.  We had fun.  I got a text later that night from her mom that said, "...I've heard 'Elle is SO cool' about 13 times, and one, 'Tim is SO lucky.'" So apparently it works both ways, in the confidence department.

I don't know how Eileen feels now that I'm adult, if she is as nostalgic about my childhood as I am, but I hope that Lydz is half as blessed as I was by that woman, who thought everything I did was so cool, and never told me something was a dumb idea or done badly.

Oof. Trolls and the Anti-Feminist Movement

OOF.

I've stayed away from political posts, I've tried to make my facebook page a beacon of light.  I see a man putting up a wall on the southern end of our country, when all along, I thought he was afraid of legion Middle Eastern terrorists in planes and cars, not desperate humans in small groups trying to escape death and poverty...on foot.  It may as well be isolationist 1916 (or 1961), and I don't know if saying nothing is ok anymore.  The power given to hate was instantaneous, and my compassion forces me to feel anxious, as if the rules that govern the people are hollow, and can be so easily changed or ignored. If there is no base mentality for better life for all, what's the moral code for? Can I simply not follow the rules because I don't believe in them? How many people do? But I digress.

I have not seen myself as a feminist.  I plod along, trying to bring peace and love.  I don't love labels, but yes, I do feel the burn when I pay more for my health insurance despite having no children and no hospital stays, no surgeries, but because I am a woman.  I have resentment over the fact that if I put my car in my name and a man's name, I get a better insurance rate because some actuary somewhere decided my sex makes me more of an accident risk, though I've never had one.  Maybe I do get paid as much as a man, but my bills are higher as a single female.  I have no tax breaks, no piggy back benefits, but big whoop. I have my independence and I enjoy my life.  This actually means something to me.

Yesterday I was sent a meme of a perfectly tailored, plumped lip, manicured and hair-styled blonde (suuuure) holding up a sign that says she will not make men the enemy and she will not promote feminism.

I found it ignorant.  Logically speaking, why would a feminist hate men, to which she aspires to be equal?  I made a facebook post as such (against my better judgement).  And immediately, a man told me that feminism has become more about man hating. Another man liked it. I responded with the illogical-ness of the statement and (admittedly) threw in a dig about how in this photo, the woman looks like she is in competition against other women for the attention of a man (my cynical side wanted to rip into the photo like, why would she want to do all that bling on her nails if there was no man paying for it, yada yada yada, but that's not helpful and it was bad enough that I said what I did).  He sent me back a message asking me to explain myself and that even though I didn't want to hear it, men and women are equal.

I see his perspective; I do.  A married man would think we are equal and paid and treated equal, but it felt like he wanted me to say he was the enemy here.  I didn't.  I realized his perspective, he does not realize mine; that does not make him my enemy.  MAYBE men think women hate them because they often tell women to sit down, everything is fine.  Resentment builds in a conversation, forget a world history of male dominance.  Maybe we are paid the same, but I'm spending more as a single woman and that cannot be denied.

Firstly, in text, asking someone to "please explain" their reasoning and how they came to that conclusion comes off as arrogant and condescending; it shows that one feels above the conversation, above the issue, and above the other person.  This is not a mathlete competition.

Secondly, women have to spend so much money to be taken seriously in a workplace, or pretty much anywhere.  We have to buy makeup, clothes, shoes, be the right weight, be funny, able to make jokes about other women and we BETTER do our hair with products and colors so that we are taken seriously in a conversation or a job interview.  Men can wear slacks and a shirt with 5 o'clock shadow and they are taken seriously.  If a woman walked into a job interview (even an internal one for a promotion) without her hair and makeup done, without high heels and in slacks and a shirt, would you hire her?  This just seems like  headache; like she's probably gay and a protected class and she's going to cause problems for the company in the future; boy doesn't that seem like a lot of work?  Plus, we need a face for the business; she's overweight and wearing pants (or flat shoes or her hair is short/not tied up perfectly, etc).  This does not just apply to men, women bosses are guilty of these things too, and I've watched over 15 years in the workforce as the same patterns emerge.  A guy can come in hungover with an untucked shirt and dirty pants and he can get to work, get promoted, stay mobile. A women comes in because her toddler kept her up and she has "Tired Eyes," which somehow equates to a low work ethic and she can't move up because clearly she doesn't "take care of herself." Feminists buck these kinds of double standards.  That's why they are seen as hippies, as women who don't shave, as women who are combative.  They want to be seen as the same, but they feel the pressure to be seen as "having it all together all the time" like a soccer mom image from the suburbs.  Do not try and tell me they are equal either.  At least they have wine (that is a joke).  When I see a woman in a photo claiming to be anti feminist (another label!!) looking like a barbie doll in pink, I feel like this point is made.

So when a feminist (since we are SO interested in labels) tries to present herself as she is without spending resources on makeup, hair, shoes, clothes, this season's anything, she is seen as not caring about her appearance, therefore career and she is often looked over.  Even if she DOES spend those resources, other women say things like, "oh, those are last season" or "I wish I had your bravery to wear that!" If you think confidence can override this perception, it can't.  The employer makes judgements immediately that range from "People of Walmart" to "CEO" based on their image.  I'm not saying beauty queens get hired for their looks and are brainless; there are so many brilliant, caring, ethical, capable amazing women who want to contribute to a workplace and a family life, but we don't all have the resources or time to be all nines all the time.  And even the smart beauty queen can't come in to work without her makeup done; you all know the comments that would arise.

Thirdly, feminists (there's that word again) don't hate men.  OK, some of them do.  But a real feminist knows they need men to help create the equality they so terribly desire; to offset the image of double standards.  Women can multi task; we love it. This often manifests in us taking on more responsibility than our pay demands, because it stimulates our brain and makes us feel productive.  We want to stay busy, show our devotion by acts.  This leads to resentment (that we brought on ourselves) because we see others just doing the same minimum and getting regular raises, promotions, results.  It also feels like we deserve it more because we can do it, and have been doing it, along with figuring out the copy machine and driving coworkers home, fine tuning presentations, watering the plants, making appointments, taking phone calls, and anything else this looks like.  So when it looks like they hate men, more than likely they do not, but once again, the structure has shown that there is no reason to try.  But if we don't try, can we live with ourselves?  Do we give up like in Atlas Shrugged, and realize that it doesn't matter?  Sure.  But then, what if we all do?  Oh, I know; half the country doesn't vote and we build a literal wall between our neighbors instead of feeding our children or cleaning the water pumped into their houses for drinking and bathing.  This is why men think feminists hate them.  Women are tired of the same status quo that they watch every day.  Women have compassion enough to try and be good humans, in order to stay in their positions if nothing else.  Enough to still care for others while allowing themselves to come second. But it becomes combative and improper to try to come first, so a label is made and they get a pat on the head to sit down; "You don't need to act like that, you're trying to get attention."  YES. They are the patient in the hospital with the cracked ribs trying to get pain relief, but since the doctor can't "see" the injury and there's nothing to do for it, they're just here for pain pills.  YES.  They become frustrated for a reason.  They become resentful and angry, and it has, at times, been aimed at men in an attempt to get them to help.

So here's an idea; HELP.  If a woman acts like she hates a man, it's because she's working toward a goal by herself.  Always.  At home or at work.  It doesn't mean her goal is stupid, it doesn't mean it's not a valid goal.  It means she has to navigate around yet another blockade in the hopes of making the whole environment better.  FOR EVERYONE.  And get a new label instead of changing the meaning of words.  Or just stop.  Could we stop?

End of speech.

Today's song of the day should come as no surprise. Lyrics: Sit Still, Look Pretty 

Family Recipes

So here I am, today.  I haven't blogged in a while (while not due to lack of interesting musings, more to misplacement of time into a box of good intentions).  Perhaps we shouldn't dwell on it.  The point is, today I have most of the day off, a rarity, and while I was at work this morning, I received a text from my beautiful, lovely mother with the following question: "Do you have a favorite from me...the recipe I make...?"  I saw the text as I was leaving and smiled.  I mean, recipes are attached to memories, no?  She may as well have asked if I have a favorite movie (all my number 1 choices are equal, and there are legion).  So in order to answer her question, you all have to deal with me processing the information here (sorry not sorry).

So it's been like a few years, but here's a song for you.  And here is the same artist, performing one of my mom's favorite songs. I put it up top, in case you want to hear it as you read (both instrumentals).

The first recipe that popped into my head was my mother's taco salad; a dish almost exclusively served in a crystal starburst bowl, and one of the earliest I remember.  But I don't really LIKE taco salad.  It was brought to many a potluck or Sunday dinner in between church services, and at different ages, I had different problems with it.  When I was 4, I didn't like the kidney beans.  When I was 10, I wanted Ranch dressing on it.  When I was 15 I hated the phase she was in that I lovingly call "the black-eyed pea rebellion," but at least I ate the kidney beans.  Looking back on it, she started using more black eyed peas after my southern great grandmother passed away, solidifying my belief that recipes are no more than train physical mementos of transient memories, bringing back a moment with a lost loved one.  Perhaps this is why I have always been enchanted with hand written recipe cards and church cookbooks.

In the end, this is why I want my mother's ever changing recipe for taco salad; so that I can live those moments as a child, sitting on a piano bench on Sunday afternoons, stuck between the kids' and adult's tables, seeing people at the age I remember them best.  The smile of my piano teacher, who was nearly another mother to me, full of encouragement and discipline.  The way her long, slender fingers gracefully passed the bowl to my mother while she inhaled and made a nearly imperceptible click in the back of her throat that I heard a million times as she sat next to me, fumbling over the piano keys as I did.  The pastor's daughter, who thought I was such a cool older kid and wanted to be like me, her fiery hair alight in the sun as we crunched on the chips together, me feeling somewhat superior because I had a fan.  Captain Awesome, enjoying the very same taco salad on my mother's patio just last summer, raving over the flavors, bringing him into my taco salad memory bank.  The point is, you don't always ask for recipes because they taste good; you ask because it was a staple of your life that turns into a deposit in a memory bank.

Secondly, I thought about her Chicken Spaghetti recipe that she discovered the year she home-schooled my brother and me, I think from his home economics textbook.  It was wildly expensive to make, and the only time I remember Velveeta being used in our home, but for that year, it was THE DISH.  It was also very flavorful, and reminded me of how I didn't love red sauce on my spaghetti, and my mother would saute noodles in butter for me...I was a difficult child, who didn't like my food touching and I wish I could say I grew out of it.  I would love that recipe, but would I ever make it?  Did we eat too much of it and burn out?

Thirdly, I favor her pumpkin cookies, for which I have a recipe already, tucked away in my handwritten book of favorite recipes.  Same with the Dilly Bread and her wedding cake recipe, which I will NEVER endeavor to make, but I think about the edges she cut off the cake to decorate it, and how we were allowed to eat those (the BEST strawberry shortcake ever in the history of the world), and how she always kept things in the oven for storage, forcing us to check before turning it on after we moved into town (and how the oven in the house until I was 13 was finicky but she knew how to time it right).  And how transporting wedding cake was always a family affair, each kid holding a layer, lifting it off our laps as we ran over bumps when we knew they were coming up in the road.  See? Recipes were never about food.

And then, Last summer she revisited egg rolls, which I remember helping with before I was 10, then don't remember for a long time after.  I was visiting her in Michigan, and she needed toasted sesame oil.  I had gone to Trader Joe's on my way out of town to bring her delicacies, and had on impulse bought a bottle of toasted sesame oil for myself.  It was (literally) the only thing I left at home, because I didn't see myself dragging it all over the Midwest for no reason.  She and I must have gone to 6 different stores looking for it, and couldn't find it.  We made do, but all I could think about was that stupid bottle of sesame oil, sitting in Minnesota being useless.  But man those egg rolls were good; I made a sweet chili sauce to go with them, which turned out not too bad.

I don't know how to answer this question from my mother.  I remember her shepherd's pie, with mashed potatoes piped on top.  I remember bags of hush puppy mix we had to keep in the freezer, in order to make the delicacy in our Michigan home.  I'm drooling right now thinking of her decadent Texas Sheet cake, with crunchy peanut butter and fudge frosting.  She taught me to make cinnamon rolls on the kitchen table which I always imagined my grandfather made, but probably didn't.  I remember her teaching me to make sloppy joes; how I left the ice cream bucket filled with flour sitting on the adjacent burner, her face in slow motion, silently begging me not to pick it up, even as I lifted it off the element and watched the bottom stay on the coils as pounds of flour escaped onto the floor and into the air.  Hours and hours of peeling potatoes for one reason or another, and how only philistines use peelers.  How could I possibly answer this question?

I know it's crazy that all these memories came from one text, but these and dozens other flashed through my brain in less than a second, one leading to the next, on and on, standing at the cash register as I checked out.  So, in answer to this question, I'm going to go completely tangent and say I think...enchiladas.  Is that weird?  I started out talking about taco salad.  Anyway, if the question is a favorite dish, I can't even.  :)  Hope that helps!

A Bit of Christmassy Goo, But it Gets Better Toward the End :)

As you may know, I have a very dear friend who lives far away (like most of the close people in my life...don't cry for me...Argentina?  Are there countries with 4 syllables to which I have actually been? Stop wasting time, back to the post).  Anywho, I've written about her before, but the gist of what you need to know right now is that we are old lady souls.  We prefer hand written letters when corresponding, the only email I got from her in the last 6 months was a virus (this is to show you she didn't actually email me), and I'll never see her on Facebook.  I'd be surprised if she sees this blog, but miracles do happen.  If we have urgent news, we text, but neither of us will allow abbreviations or text speak to darken our phones (which still flips open Zoolander style for ONE of us :P).  Otherwise when there is something to tell her, I rush home, new pen in hand (I love college bookstores for pens!), and sit down to write my tale.  I'm pretty sure it looks like a snail in a hurry; nose out, hands pumping fast, moving about .2 miles an hour with twitching antennae...is that why they call it snail mail?  Huh.  A gummi word makes sense, for once.  We did try to Skype once, but we were both too awkward.  We didn't speak for months after.  She actually commented it nearly destroyed our friendship, but I didn't know that :)

She married a lovely man from India and goes there from time to time to see his rather large family.  When she does this, she writes a journal to me which she keeps for about 2 years after, continually meaning to scan it and re-read it in preparation for her next journey to the land of whiplash (there is often so much happening, one could crane their neck watching the activity).  The last time she went to India (which was in October, if you're curious), she texted me asking if I could read her last letter and tell her the medicines she reminded herself to bring this time.  I obliged and she was on her way.  Once she got to the airport, she texted that she had a new notebook and pens for the journey, and rather than say something trite like, "I'll miss you," or "have a good flight," we took on a sort of blessing war.  It went something like this:

Me: Travel well my dearest friends, enjoy the trip!
D: May all the mosquitoes in Northern India die before my arrival.
Me: May you find the right number of ripe mangoes so as not to cause stomach illnesses.
D: Amen.
Me: May you be as content as a mongrel dog with hemorrhoids. (this makes sense if you read her letter and saw the drawings)
D: ...Always with a big bright smile on my face!

This went on. And it could go on because we both enjoy older versions of dictionaries and the formality of writing to each other not seen for 100 years (I couldn't really tell you the time frame, but "Old Timey" just doesn't cut it in this instance.  I know I think of the first World War era, so I think you should too).

So I started blessing people in my life (hey, what's one more quirk?).  It definitely makes me feel better when I am annoyed, and they get over the fact that I speak like I just moved to America from Downton Abbey (let's not talk about season 3 until I get a chance to see it, shall we?).  But sometimes I am at a loss for words.  So (stay with me here), I have been finding random blessings showing up on my Pinterest page, and some of them are quite lovely.  I am really taken with the blessings written in the letters of the New Testament.  They take so much hope and propel it out to others, and I just want to make these little good energy balls and blast them at other people.  I came across one this morning that made me want to write this post before work (oh, hey, I might be late today).  So I'm going to share it with you, get over it :) (ZAP!)  This person (I assume it is actually my 2nd cousin, Braelyn, who pinned it originally in this shape and drawing), put it in a Christmas theme, but it is so full of hope and good vibes, I had to share it.  I am now interested in pinpointing blessings and making a collection. I mean, it is Bright Side Blogs, no?

But seriously, that's enough for now.  I am really going to be late for work. Yup.  There it is.

Here's the song of the day, a Christmas song made amazing by the addition of hope and climbing octaves. :)  I  LOVE this song.  "The hope of every heart comes alive in Emmanuel!"  What a great thought.

Oh Wednesday...Here We Go Again

For those of you who are avid readers of my blog and have been without an entry since 2011, I give to you the most vile of all days, another Wednesday installment. If you also follow the Song of the Day, you will see that this post is a direct lead in from the last Wednesday post ("here we go again" is a line in the chorus of that song), which was a typical Wednesday.  But sometimes, SOMETIMES, a doozy comes along and you have to remind yourself that it is only a day, it can only last so long.  So let me present to you this week's experience, with some background (those of you who watch movies with me know I do not relish back story; however it is often a necessary evil, as in the case today).

It has been cold in the land of the frigid north.  Not the normal, Midwest cold, but the kind of cold that makes your fingers hurt inside gloves and freezes your boogers in 12 seconds while you bury your face as deep in your coat as humanly possible.  Like medallion hunting cold; the kind where you go out in it anyway, because there's $10,000 in the snow somewhere in St. Paul, and you hope no one else has the fortitude to be out in it. It has not been above 0 for 6 days, and the wind chills feel like really bad acupuncture; a slight numbing effect, but mostly needle pricks (turns out this windchill is about 16 below.  Surprised you didn't know that).  This is the kind of weather that makes me realize Prarie life is very low on the enjoyment totem pole, and I miss the effect of the Great Lakes.  No wind, just lots and lots of snow to play with.  But with the stinkin' prarie, all you get is wind that blows the snow you do get somewhere else.  It's a lose lose situation.  But I digress.

I also have the added benefit of living on the bottom of a long, steep hill, so when it's so cold that salt doesn't melt the snow and ice, a two wheeled Camry that is 16 years old, if not reliable, struggles somewhat to summit the trek.  She has made it, but the hill was the catalyst for the courageous decision I made last weekend to trade in my lovely, wonderful Camry named Paikea (Pai) for a newer, decked out, fully loaded Jeep named Sofie.  I had such a hard time trading in my reliable Camry with 220,000 miles on it, that I teared up a little, and they threw another few hundred dollars onto my trade in.  In an act of chivalrous gift giving, Captain Awesome had the Jeep paid off and insured within minutes, and I have been enjoying heated leather seats ever since, about 4 days.  I have been keeping Sofie a secret because I wanted to drive her to Michigan and surprise my parents knowing they wouldn't recognize my car.  But between their travel plans, my work schedule, 2nd annual cookie parties and a Norwegian Klub and Rømmegrøt party, I wasn't sure when it could happen (though I want to stress to my mother that I was aiming for sooner rather than later).  So far nothing screams Wednesday, right?  OK, I think we are caught up.
  

So, this particular Wednesday morning I got up early to finish up some work, went to work at my scheduled time (wasn't even late!) and parked up front because no one knows my car yet, I've had her 4 days.  And it was cold.  As I walked into the store I had this sense of foreboding like someone might hit her, or an animal would curl up on her hood because she was warm; I don't know, something.  But I told myself I was just worried because it was Wednesday, and things would be fine. I went about my day dealing with crabby customers, doing my work and writing company Christmas cards to our loyal shoppers.  I stayed late to finish and was looking forward to my 4 wheel drive, heated ride home.  I pulled out of my spot (spotted by a forklift driver, darnit) and started down the lot.  Suddenly she felt like a lumbering beast, storming through the lot with no power steering and blowing cold heat. What's cold heat?  Exactly. I pulled off into an abandoned gas station and called Capitan Awesome.  Wouldn't you know that it is at this time that wandering lemming-like people poured into the gas station, presumably thinking it's open because I am there, when it has been closed since February and gas is still $2.21 a gallon?  Really, people?  Really?  I thought I could drive her to Vroom, where the guys always take really good care of me, so I started over that way.

 It quickly became apparent that I was going to build up some ripped upper arms trying to steer her, and my phone rang 3 times while I was unable to take both hands off the wheel.  It was C.A. telling me that if she hasn't died yet, she will, it's a belt of some kind that no one could see coming, and doesn't light up any scary lights.  So I turned her back into the store lot and let him call the tow truck. I also learned a valuable lesson that I should have learned when I was 4; not keeping gloves and winter items in a car and depending on it for heat is stupid.  Thanks, Wednesday.

At this point the only thing warm was my butt (thank you, Sofie), because the heat also stopped for some reason, so I kept shoving my hands under my thighs to keep them warm on the heated leather seats.  I hid the keys in the vehicle and made the quarter mile trek back into the store to call a cab.  While I was on hold for 7 minutes (no one ever picked up, actually) and waiting for the feeling to come back into my fingers and toes, a coworker with a generous heart said she'd take me home.  How relieved was I?  As I hung up, I made a comment about Wednesdays, and the Harry Potter looking kid next to me said, "I like Wednesdays," with a ridiculous grin on his smug little face (I take it back).  This is where I learned that people expect me to always be sweetness and nice because all I said was, "Shut up," and they were all, "whoa, I've never seen you like this," and "let's not let that happen again," and "I hope you have a better day." Seriously? :P  

So the coworker who drove me home was having some issues with her car, and at this point I felt like a cooler (in the negative cold, so a supercooler) and that her car was next to fail, but thankfully we made it home, where all I could think about was a hot shower before my next activity.  As I stood in the lobby waiting for the elevator, the wonderful Betty in the office called out, "No water! Pipes are broke!"  So there's that.  I ended up drinking a bit of straight rum to warm up, but it didn't really do the trick.  Maybe I should have had more, but last night was a very important lab the week before finals, and since there's less than a week left of the semester and it's THURSDAY, I don't care who knows it. I was able to borrow C.A's truck (now that I know how to drive a 4WD vehicle), and she did well for me.  How exhausting.

So, as all vile days must, Wednesday ended.  Thursday brings a new day of joy and bright sidedness, and hopefully news on Sofie's belt (preferably that it costs very little).  The water is back on and it's hot, my coworker has arrived safely to her destination, exam prep has started, and I have to figure out what to cook for the 2nd annual cookie party.  I did not cry, which shows my Wednesday resilience.  Before you say anything, I will talk to the dealership also, but it sounds like you can't really see this coming, and the belt may have just slipped.  I may have been a little too excited to park on a snow bank also.  Who knows, it's a new day, maybe things will go my way.  I'm doing a lot of rhyming today (anybody want a peanut?).

Today's song of the day is a Christmas song.  'Tis the season, no?  I am rejoicing in the day, because it is not Wednesday.  :)  Plus it's got a fun beat, you can move to it.  Have a wonderful Thursday, everyone (and God bless us, everyone :P)

PS:  If you are wondering how everything turned out with the Jeep, the belts were all fine.  The power steering fluid was almost empty, and the coolant was a GALLON low, so I have no faith in Walser Jeep's ability to perform an inspection that they listed on CarFax.  There were NO leaks. Not one (well, there was a loose clamp on the coolant hose....should have caught that, Walser).  So at the end of the day, as Tony put it, "I won't charge you an arm and a leg today....just a tow."  Oh Tony!  Other than that they love her.  They drove her all day trying to get her to act up and she didn't.  So now my "Ghost car" will have her fluids checked more often.  And to all a good night.

Born Is The King (It's Christmas) - Hillsong 

To the GYM! The Saga Continues

As many of you know, I have a gym membership that I have had since 2004.  It's gotten to the point where it was so cheap, I kept it, even during my unemployment of 2009.  Last year I wrote about how if I went 12 times a month, my insurance would pay me $20, making my health insurance cost $100 rather than $120, and the gym membership free.  You may also recall from previous posts, that my boss was quick to point out, "that's like every other day."  Well, a lot has changed in the gym arena, and I thought you might like to hear the tale.

Firstly, my boss is no longer my boss.  You'd know that if I wrote more often.  I was promoted in May, and we were no longer limited to the company policy about fraternization.  We immediately quipped, "we can hang out together now!"  She has been asking which gym I go to, and trying to get me to switch to LA Fitness for the last year or so.  I go to Bally's, and due to above explanation, was not willing to switch.  One of my guests (we'll call him Fred) often came in to the store and would immediately talk about how he works out 2 hours every afternoon, and how much he loves his gym.  He would always end up insulting me without realizing it, and I chalked it up to his being from Jordan, or a neighboring country where the customs were different, especially between men and women.  Conversations would go like this:
"Hi, Fred."
"Hi, have you been to the gym lately?  I am about to go for 2 hours."
"Yes, I've been 2 times since Monday."
"Oh.  You should change gyms.  The clientele at LA Fitness is much better.  Do you like your gym?"
"It's affordable, it works for me."
"Ah.  How much would you like to lose?"
"Um. Some?"
"Well you have to stop drinking pop, and absolutely no sugar.  Absolutely none.  Sugar just makes things look like they do here and here and here (he says, pointing to my body)." Does he know I don't drink pop?  Yep.
"What can I help you with today, Fred?"
After I finish helping him, he invariably hands me a card, either a gym referral card or a handyman card (this man only knows the home improvement that I have taught him over the last year (Lord help him), but the card is cool, because it has little magnets in it.  It kills me when the ones who don't know what they're doing have the coolest cards.  I've begun looking for the bad advertising to find a good service :) Anyway, this kind of conversation went on pretty regularly, and I always somehow managed to feel bad after!

I got used to my gym, and went to yoga every week for a while (and still hit it sometimes).  It took 8 months, countless phone calls, letters, emails, threats of reporting to the BBB, more letters in bright envelopes and me actually using the phrase "I'll hold" twice, but Bally's FINALLY got my reimbursements correct through my insurance.  It was one of the more frustrating situations of my life, asking Bally's to fix a typo, but we don't need to go in to that.  This is a happy post :)

On December 6th, I received a letter in the mail that stated that Bally's had been sold to LA Fitness, and all the Minnesota locations were closing, save for 2, which were to become LA Fitness locations.  This change would take place on December 1st.  I was annoyed, but not surprised.  I mean, 8 months to fix a typo?  Telling me they sold 5 days after the fact?  Classic Bally's.  My location was one that was staying open, and I was told I had the choice to pay $30 a month and be stuck in my own club location, or pay $30 a month and go to any location I wanted.  Since my former boss (we'll call her Gwen for the rest of the blog) and Fred (boo, Fred) both went there, I upgraded to other locations.  This is all just a really ridiculously long explanation for what happened this week.

This week, I told Gwen that I updated my account, and can go to any LA Fitness, because Bally's is dumb.  She got really excited, and we both agreed we should workout.  You may recall she is tall and athletic, so this is a bit of an unnerving idea for me.  She said she hadn't worked out all year basically, and suggested we go walk on the treadmill for 15 minutes.  OK.  So we got to the gym, and things got embarrassing for her pretty quickly.  It went like this (all me). and I will let you guess which comment was found the most inappropriate:
"Holy big."
"The pool is twice as big!  And the tiling for the lanes is straight!!!"
"My whole gym, including the pool, is the size of the lobby!"
"Wait, none of these machines are out of order?"
"There's no rust on any of these machines!"
"Is that sauna only for women!?!?!?!?!?!"
"Oh my gosh! Look at this locker room!"
"Those lockers are twice as big.  They have wooden doors.  There's no rust in here!"
"Zumba at 4:30?  Can we go? Can we go?" (jumping up and down)

You get the picture.  There are some definite differences between the two locations.

So we started our 15 (20) minute treadmill walk, and Gwen immediately started looking around.  She was most impressed by the guys in the courtyard below doing pull ups.  I think that's a goal of hers.  The guy next to me ran the whole time we were on the machines, and so she ran for bursts of 3-4 minutes.  I may or may not have accidentally hit the emergency stop and had to start over.  There's no way to know for sure.  After that, she let her competitive side out (she played 3 sports in high school.  3 sports.  Who does that?), and thought we should do 20 minutes on something else.  So we did the bikes for 20 minutes.  I may or may not have tried to adjust my seat while pedaling and made a horrendous noise, as well as become suddenly, drastically uncomfortable. There's no way to know for sure.  Then, we should of course do some strength training, so we did the hip something-or-other, where you lay down and allow weight to be put on your elevated feet, and you push.  I kept thinking I was going to hit myself in the eye with my knee, and that this must be what childbirth is like for some women, knees up, pushing, all the midsection having to be misplaced somewhere.  Terrifying. :()

Last night we went to Zumba.  Half the class was new.  That was nice.  It was fun, you dance for 3-5 minutes per song, then take a break while she finds the next song.  The music is fun, but clearly out of Miami.  The dances are fun; there is Cha-Cha, Salsa, Meringue, Ballet, Hip Hop and a lot of hoochie mama moves.  Those felt the most unnatural for me.  The instructor was this cute little clubbie (a girl who likes the clubs) looking like NSYNC up there, and I felt bad for watching her butt to try and figure out what she was doing with it, exactly.  I could not get the pumps and the thrusts quite right.  The lady in her 50's next to me was doing pretty good, but I felt like John Cusack before he was cool.  I got a lot of other stuff down well, but those hoochie mama moves just don't come easy for me.  I guess that's a good thing, but it doesn't do much for the old self esteem :)  It was fun.  Next week I'll try spinning.  And I think I'll do Zumba again.  There was one lady there who got certified in Zumba on Saturday, and she was very excited, but she left after 2 songs.  Not sure what to do with that.

So, the quest for fitness continues; won't Fred be pleased.  I haven't seen him since August, when he told me he had a brain tumor and I wouldn't see him for a couple of months.  I hope he's well.  Perhaps I will run in to him one of these days...at the gym. :)

Hopefully we'll get the insurance figured out, now that I am spoiled by a large gym.  One lady said this location was small!  I will need to do some more investigating.  It is a very open layout, and every body can watch everybody else.  But they have racquetball courts, and I think I may invest in some of that equipment.  Good times.  Must wear better shoes. :)

The song of the day is in honor of my recent moving it experience.  Actually there are two today, because I can't decide which one to use.  One fast one, one not. :)  You all know I am full of paradoxes.  I blame it on being born in Northern Lower Michigan.  That's when it all started...

Officer Wednesday, Can't You Let Me Go with a Warning?

You may not know that I am abhorrently hated by Humpday.  I guarantee, if anything bad is going to happen to me, it’s going to be on a Wednesday.  I don’t know why this is; it’s a case of the Mondays multiplied by 10.  Most weeks I get up, get ready for work, and don’t realize it’s Wednesday until I drop something in the toilet, or people are driving while putting on pantyhose.  Suddenly it hits me like a bus; “Is it Wednesday today?” I ask aloud, with a hiss in my voice and an emphatic first syllable. Sadly, it usually is.  Arrest me, Wednesday.  I'm guilty of waking up on YOUR day.  

Yesterday I was astutely aware that it was indeed Wednesday.  I decided to not let it win.  I got up, made myself an amazing lunch (fruit salad and a Black Forest Ham sandwich on whole wheat with horseradish mustard and Muenster cheese), packed it up, and left early for work so I could stop at Sam’s club.

Immediately out of the driveway, I looked both ways to make sure I could cross the intersection at the yield sign.  It looked clear.  It looked clear, because I did not see the white car in the snow and with the sun in my eyes, zooming toward me.  I was sure an accident was imminent.  I braked, missed her by about 2 feet, and she decided this was a perfect time to stop her car and scream at me for about 30 seconds, while the guys at the bus stop looked on, amused at the stupid women.  I get that it was my fault, but I made the monkey sign, like, “clearly this was my fault, and I’m really sorry” with big hand gestures, and that just wasn’t good enough.  So she blocked the intersection and screamed at me, and I went on my way; I may have started to cry.  There’s no way to know for sure. 

I got to Sam’s, still shaking, parked next to a car that was well in my spot and expected a ding on my door,  and loaded up my cart with 9 items.  I know this because at Sam’s they count your items and match up your receipt because due to the lack of bagging supplies, they assume you are stealing everything that is loose in your cart.  As I was walking up to the counter, a man with one package of butter (one package, at Sam’s Club??)  and I let him go first.  As it turns out, my single item friend was really there to pay off his entire Sam’s card.  He had 7 different checks to accomplish this.  And, as luck would have it, the cashier was new.  After much debate and conference with his fellow employees, the credit card was paid off.  This only took about 10 minutes.  I happened to notice (because at Sam’s, all the information comes up on a monitor now, and the buyer is not able to read it, but the rest of the line is) that he paid off $10,772.00.  This is exactly, to the dollar, how much debt I have, which I am trying to not have, and on days such as this seems to be ruining my life.  I think I actually let out a groan. I mean, what kind of guy actually goes first, then takes 15 minutes?  A non chivalrous, boring, middle aged, balding white guy, that's who.

The gentleman then started his transaction for the butter, but could not figure out the card swiping machine, and every time he signed his name, he hit “cancel” instead of “accept.”  So that was fun.  It was fun 4 times in a row!

I got back in my car, which miraculously did not have a ding in the door (it was probably the single man in front of me), and drove to work.  I took the backroads because….well because it was Wednesday, and that’s really all there is to it.  As I came up to the building from the back, I went to turn left in to the parking lot.  I was stopped with my left blinker on, waiting for the opposing traffic to turn right into the lot.  I hear this noise, and think, what is that?  I know that noise…it’s a screeching eel from the Princess Bride.  They always grow louder when they’re about to feed on human flesh.  I looked in my rear view mirror and saw (in slow motion, of course) an old, beat up silver Buick literally careening (yes, carEEning) behind me, about to hit me, but trying to swerve.  I floored it and cut off the person turning right, and very very very narrowly avoided getting rear-ended.  I did glance up just in time to see him flicking me off, so that was nice.  At least I admitted it was my fault when it was.  That’s when I parked (I don’t even know where) and called Captain Awesome with one whiney sentence, all screechy and teary: “I (snurgh) hate (snargh) Wednesday!!!”  He responded with, “It’s all uphill from here.”  Which is very funny if you’ve seen Due Date; Zach Galifinakis says that, and the RDJ corrects him, “Uphill?  No it’s all DOWNhill from here.”  “But nobody wants to be down, they want to be up…” I cried for a minute or so, then walked inside, ready to tell my fabricated story of how it’s SO cold, my eyes were watery. 

I got in the store, and instantly a woman said, “excuse me,”  and I thought good gracious, I’m not even on the clock, I still have my coat on, and already bombarded.  But, to my surprise, she said, “are you the one who almost got killed by that maniac?  You were sitting there for the longest time with your blinker on, and he just came around that corner like a crazy person!!!”  Turns out she was the one I cut off, but she didn’t even care.  She actually stopped, hoping I’d turn in and not get hit.  So that was the best Wednesday in a while. 

After I left work, I couldn’t find my car, being so flustered when I parked.  I tip-toed across a pool of ice, and stepped over a snow bank to get to it, and as soon as I thought I was in the clear I stepped on another patch of ice and fell.   And there were witnesses.  “Are you OK?” they asked, “I’m fine.  It’s Wednesday, and that’s really all there is to it.”  

Since my Wednesdays bring on a case of the Mondays, today's song of the day is:

I think I need a nurse...

I'm sick.  I know this because....well because I am admitting it.  I never admit when I'm sick. Also, last night, my neighbors had a massive Pot Smoking festival, and the smell made me so nauseated, I knew I must be sick.  Normally when Marijuana seeps through the walls, I get the munchies.  I've had no interest in food and still don't.

It started off as a mild Sinus irritation I attributed to all the dust at work, but yesterday exploded into a high fever and dizziness (actual dizziness, not blonde dizziness).  I had Captain Awesome come get me early from work (he had a fever too), and we were asleep by 4pm.  It was sleep, but that frenzied, fever sleep, you know?  My whole body was shivering, but my lips were on fire.  I could not speak, and all my thoughts were in Shakespearian English, and I think iambic pentameter to boot.  In my delirium, all I remember is thinking something like, "I do not condemn your family, but your treatment of them, the very basis of which gives rise to your villainy."  I think I was talking to Liam Neeson.  I could not, for the life of me, form any modern sentences.  This is a big deal because typically my stream of consciousness flows in Jane Austen speak, not Shakespeare.  To be fair, I did just watch "Much Ado About Nothing" last weekend.  I woke up with my pillow soaked around my head, and I think my fever had broke somewhere in there.

I am not at work today.  My plan was to go in and try to get through it, because my boss is out of town, and I knew things would be bare schedule wise.  Last night I called another one of my bosses, and we worked out a plan.  For this I am very grateful.  I did not realize how ill I feel.  I have been up for one hour, and am presently returning to that bastion of rest, my bed. That's the update from the ole' homestead at the moment.

Now Here's the Story All About How...

...My life got twist-turned upside down...Wow. I can't say I have woken up with the Fresh Prince of Bellaire theme song in my head since 8th grade. I know it's 8th grade, because I was sitting in Margo Sirrine's English class (which I LOVED), and we had one of those directional/trivia sheets to get to know each other at the beginning of the year. The items were numbered 1-20, and some were questions, and some were directions. The first one said, "Read this entire page before you answer anything." One of the other questions was, "What show comes on Tuesdays (or whenever it came on)," and I started to write the Fresh Prince, when I remembered the instructions said to read the entire page before answering. So I was one of 2 people who only filled out my name and turned it in because the last item said, "Write your name on the top of this paper and only do #1." Yay me. This has absolutely NOTHING to do with why I write today. How is that for a stream of consciousness? Any psych students doing case studies? No? Well, you are now. :)

I write to tell you the tale of how Captain Awesome turned a boring, particularly cold and frigid January into a month of luck and fortune. I can see you there, on the edge of your seat. Let us begin.

The year started out like any other, excepting that out of sheer exhaustion, New Year's Eve was spent doing laundry and in bed by 10. Two people cold, bored, and unsatisfied with their life at the moment (go to work when it's dark, come home when it's dark) had only the St. Paul Winter Carnival Medallion Hunt to anticipate with any glee. This tradition, however, did not begin until January 22, and that seems like an eternity in the frozen tundra that is the East Metro.

On January 6th, on my way to work, I happened to hear that there was a pineapple hunt sponsored by Sun Country Airlines and KS95 that was happening at that moment. The winner received a trip for 2 to Mexico (Mazatlan, to be exact), and a slot as a judge for the Ugliest Hawaiian Shirt Contest the following Tuesday (this winner ALSO won a trip to Mazatlan). I thought it might be nice practice for the medallion hunt, and called Captain Awesome to tell him about it. I didn't think much of it until I got a call at 4pm while I was at work, and he was at the Mall of America, sure the pineapple was there. He stayed until 8, and we met at home. No luck. The next day we took off work a bit early and went back to the MOA to search for it. We knew it was on the East side of the Mall, and was either in Nickelodeon Universe (an amusement park in the mall themed in Spongebob Squarepants) or Underwater Adventures. Our guts told us it was in Underwater Adventures, but to go in, you needed a ticket, and we really didn't believe we would have to pay to find the pineapple. There was a guard standing at the escalator, and we wrote it off.

At about 3:58pm, KS95 read the final clue: The pineapple was at Underwater Adventures, and if you said the password ("Mazatlan or BUST!") you could gain access to it. We ran and called the password over our shoulders as we passed the guard. We went around the corner...and just missed the winner by about 3o seconds. Facebook had the clue 2 minutes earlier than the station, and I did not have the notification sent to my phone. Technology spoils another hunt!!!! We went to Bubba Gumps and told the bartender we were in great need of consolation, which arrived in the form of some fruity Beachy drinks with umbrellas, on the house. That was nice. We lamented our loss and the fact that we were not rule breakers, or we would have found it first. After a couple of fruity drinks, I sent a text message to KS95. It went like this: "FYI, we wanted to look for the pineapple @ Underwater Adventures, but the signs prohibited us. And Facebook beat you with the clue." I felt satisfied, and we went home.

About 7pm I got a text. It was from Sun Country Airlines, which had received my forwarded text. The sender was apologetic about the confusion, and in consolation for second place, she offered us 2 first class upgrades for free on any Sun Country flight. I thought that was actually really cool, though I had no travel plans. It's always a good thing to have in your pocket. I thanked her profusely, and went to bed consoled with umbrella drinks and a future flight in First Class. I dreamed about what Ugly shirt I might wear, bought of course at a thrift shop I had yet to visit. The contest was the following Tuesday, and this was Friday, but I had plans to sweep it.

Monday, January 10th, I went to work and was accosted by cranky Minnesotans who, in their winter blubber have forgotten all manner of manners, including a simple "hello" or "excuse me" before bombarding me with questions, aimed at my back. It was a particularly rough day, finished with a teeth scraping dental appointment, and when I came home, Captain Awesome tossed a piece of paper at me. It was very cryptic. It was bulleted and had odd half sentences. "Teri has a crush on her chiropractor." "There was a dream about a baseball player." I stared at the sheet, not able to make any sense out of it, my eyes burning from my long day and the exhaustion. He began to tell me that the same radio station, KS95, was having a contest, and if you could answer questions about what they had talked about all day in between songs, you could win a trip to Cancun, Mexico (through Sun Country, of course). He listened all day. He called. It rang for over 6 minutes. The first three people missed the first question. He was caller four. He gave all the answers in a matter of fact, academic tone. "That answer would be..." When he answered the last question, the DJ's rejoiced!!!! And the air was dead. It went like this: "Hello??? Do you have a pulse? You just won a trip to Mexico, you realize that, right?" And there he was, cool as a cucumber, pulling a Korbin Dallas from the Fifth Element: "Yeah. Thanks." I told him that's a DJ's nightmare, and I could picture them in their studio, putting their mikes on mute and SCREAMING. Then I asked (very selfishly), "Can we still go to the Ugly Shirt Contest tomorrow?"  I had the shirt you see in the photos....Hibiscus flowers and Woody Station wagons decorated in American Flags?  HOW COULD THAT BE BEAT?!?!?

When he told me, I didn't believe him. A) that he had won, and B) that he was so cool about it. It wasn't until the next day I was driving to work and I heard the promo on the radio. "Call in and play Know The Show and win a trip to Mexico!!!" They played little blurbs of previous winners, there was Captain Awesome in the promo saying, "Well that answer would be 7." Then it started to sink in.  I needed to get to the gym and a tanning bed, STAT. :)

We went to the Ugliest Shirt Contest on Tuesday. We didn't care if we won. We were hoping to come in third, and win a first class upgrade so we could travel first class both ways. I had gone to Goodwill and picked up 6 choices, and we chose some doozies. We accessorized with coupons, brochures, sunscreen and my 35mm digital camera on a strap around my neck. Suddenly I got really cold feet. Just like (my mother reminded me) when I went to audition for the Nutcracker and chickened out at the last minute because there were so many dancers there when I was a kid. I chickened out again. There were some truly horrid shirts, and I didn't feel like I had any right to take any pictures. Nobody was talking to anyone else, it was awkward. Captain Awesome bought me a mojito and talked me into it again. I clumsily got in line, and there was no audience anymore...everyone who was sitting was now waiting to strut their stuff on the catwalk.

So here I am, standing in line, watching those before me do a little dance (which I did not know we were doing until this moment), when this woman walks up to me. "Hi," she says, "I am with Sun Country, and I noticed you have a pretty nice camera there. The guy I hired is not taking any pictures, and I'd like to hire you. I'll give you 2 free first class upgrades, how does that sound?" My face immediately turned red, and I think I had to pick my jaw up off the floor. I instantly turned into a photomaking machine. A machine, I say. I took about 300 pictures over the next hour. AND, I made the top 15, thanks to my Napolean Dynamite dance (why I didn't Riverdance that second time, I will never know...I couldn't decide how to move, so I went for stupid). I took some fun pix of the winner, who can now, FINALLY go on a Honeymoon, though he has been married for years. He did go all out with a grass skirt and paint his belly. Take a look, at the OFFICIAL Sun Country Facebook Page. All mine. And they even gave me photo credit. We spent a bit of time with them after the show, and we shared our good fortune and told them C. Awesome had won a trip the night before. The winner's wife instantly flew into a frenzy. "That was YOU!?!?!? I wanted to slap you!!! You were SO cool, SO cool, like, 'Yeah. Thanks." Ohh, I was screaming at the radio, I want to slap you right now, but I won't! Oh! Oh! I bet those DJ's were pulling out their hair behind their microphones!!!!!"

So there it is. The next Thursday we went and picked up our information from the radio station, called Sun Country and asked if we could put the upgrades I earned towards the trip he won, and they set everything up. We went Feb 3-7, and that, dear ones, is another entry entirely.

For now, the Fairy Tale pauses. More to come soon, dear readers. Good Night.

PS: We didn't find the medallion this year either. We were WAY off, which is actually a consolation. The last 3 years, we've literally been within a foot of it, or walked right over it. Right over $10,000