Nostalgia and Petty Theft

Last weekend, we headed over to the next county to go shopping.  My kids, like kids do, came down for school Friday morning having suddenly outgrown their pants and looking like Jethro and Elly May Clampett.   There's an Old Navy in the next county over (Lorain County) and we headed there for some cheap "two more months of school" pants.  We live in Cuyahoga county, home of fabulous Cleveland and things are a bit more urban over here than outside of the county.  I grew up in Lorain county, in a town called North Ridgeville which is about as cosmopolitan as it sounds.  There were three exciting things about North Ridgeville:

1.  Our yearly walk to the pumpkin patch, which was at a creepy old abandoned farm house.  I always picked out a 50lb pumpkin and had to carry it home.  Never ended well.

2.  The library, housed in a turn of the century mansion.  Tiny collection, hugely cozy. And usually empty except for me and Mrs. Linden, the librarian.

3.  The Corn Festival, every August.  A teenage dream would be crowned corn queen, and I would spend all my allowance trying to win a Duran Duran mirror for my bedroom from a toothless carnival worker.

As we exited the highway, something caught my eye and I squealed, grabbing Winston and demanding he turn around so I could get a picture.  What I saw was something that gave me a huge pang of nostalgia for my childhood:  an abandoned corner used car lot.  Where I grew up, there were all these little tiny car lots that had maybe 15 cars on the lot.  I'm sure there are parts of the Midwest that still have a few, but honestly there can't be many.  This one in particular had been slated for demolition (because the world needs another drug store) and held fond memories for me.

Someone had already stolen it, but it used to have this funny mailbox out front with a friendly sign on it that said "Place your best offer inside!  We'll call you back!"  I thought that was so funny as a kid.  I used to scream at my dad from the backseat, "Daddy! Let's put a note inside for $1!  They have a Trans Am!! We can get a Trans Am for a $1!"  Imagine... a part time car lot with a handful of used cars on it where you communicated with the owners by passing notes!  That day is gone, baby, gone.

We had to park a bit away, because there is a great deal of construction booming around this tiny relic: drugstores, gas stations, the Little Gym, Chipotle, etc.  Lorain County used to be the sticks; now it's all cul-de-sacs and shopping plazas. None of that was there when I was a kid; this place used to sit at the corner of nothing and a cemetery. We trudged through a field of weeds and construction supplies to get some pictures.

I would totally buy a car from here.

Anyway, it got me thinking about other things that I don't see anymore.  For example, you don't see pickup trucks full of little league baseball players going for ice cream any more.  Remember that?  A whole pickup truck full of dusty kids all screaming, "We're #1! We're #1! on their way with their coach to Dairy Queen. I did that exactly 3 times.  But not because we were #1.  They were pity trips.

My dad had three sons, but apparently that wasn't enough.  One afternoon, he informed me I was going to play baseball.

My Dad:  Dana, honey, Daddy signed you up for baseball! Won't that be fun?  Play with the other kids, make some friends!

Me: I don't want to play baseball. I don't know how.  And I'm too busy fishing.

My Dad:  I'll teach you.  And you don't fish.

Me:  Yes, I do!  See, here is my stick and I sit on the picnic table and I catch all sorts of fish in the backyard.  And then I play with my worms.

My Dad:  You're playing baseball and making friends and that's final!!  Here, take your brother's mitt.

( I loved to play with my worm friends.  I would dig them up, and then take them for rides on my bike.  Then I would be all sad because they dried up and died.  Then I would have an elaborate funeral. All summer long.)

I remember standing there with my brother's mitt, staring at the pretty stitching and thinking it looked dirty, when WHAP.  Next thing I knew, I was on the ground and my mouth was bleeding.  My dad ran me in the house, yelling, "Oh my God!  You've got to get your glove up!"

My Mom:  What happened?!?!

My Dad:  I was trying to teach her how to catch and she just stood there and the ball hit her in the mouth.  She starts baseball this weekend.

My Mom:  This ought to be interesting.

I played three years and every team I was on sucked that much harder because I was on it.  I couldn't swing, but I had a natural ability to take a hit in the ankle and get a base.  I spent a great deal of time with a bag of ice on my leg.  I couldn't catch, so they created a position for me that the coach called "second right fielder."  Basically, I stood behind the right fielder in case something rolled my way.  But even then, I was so busy making birds nests out of grass or just laying there that I missed those too.  I remember my dad hauling ass to the deep deep outfield, where I lay singing songs I made up, screaming at me to at least stand up and look like I was paying attention.  Which would make me cry.  Three years.  It took that man three years to realize I wasn't baseball material.  He could have just looked at me.  Here are some pictures I dug out that, I think, demonstrate that I was better off at home alone fishing off the picnic table and murdering worms.

That's me on the left.  I usually wore my grandmothers' old clothes. My favorite was her old 2-way girdle. I think I wore it every day, with a belt. That's my cousin, Rachelle (sorry, sweetie!) who was stylin'.

I had some sweet lounging slacks for everyday.

I also spent hours dropping shit into the sewer.

Anyway, at the end of every losing season, the coach would load us into his pickup truck and take us to the ice cream stand.  We yelled, "We're #1!" and the coach would yell back for us to "shut up."  It has been years since I saw a truck full of elated children driving down the street, screaming out the back of a truck.  My kids will never do that, God knows, because they inherited my athletic ability.  And there's all sorts of kill joy laws against it, too.

You're probably asking yourself,  "Those pictures of the abandoned used car lot are poignant, but did you steal anything?"


 You bet your ass we did.  :)

Anne, watching for the po-po.

~dana

I, for one, Welcome Our Kitty Overlord!

I'm not sure how long it takes to get to the Lakewood Animal Shelter from my house, but that's about how long it took for me to get a kitty after we determined my darling poppet was no longer allergic. They only had 3 cats there, and she had me at hello.  I walked in the kitty room, and she screamed at me.  The only possible interpretation was, "You look like a sucker. Let's get the hell out of here."

We haven't had a cat in 9 years, so there was much rejoicing at home.  Winston loves cats, and he actually cracked a rare smile at this ridiculously tiny 5lb tabby.  The kids now spend all their time taking turns staring deeply into her eyes.  The poodles adore her, even though she kicked every one of their asses, Matrix-style.  She also managed to chase the two larger poodles out of the bed, so Winston and I are actually sleeping comfortably for a change.  So it's all perfect. Except for the naming part.

We have never had a naming issue before.  We only had one name picked out for Henry.  Anne was never going to be anything but Anne.  Henry named our first poodle, Seymour, and it totally suits him.  Anne named our second poodle, Mr. Pickles, and I defy you to find a happier name for a dog.  Winston named our giant poodle, Zyk, because he wanted a dog with a normal name, and he refused to allow me to name him Mr. Darcy because of the potential embarrassment of yelling that at the dog park. ("Mr. Darcy! No humping!)

And actually, Zyk (pronounced Zeke) is the name of one of the coolest kids ever.  We met Zyk and his hippie family at my son's cello camp in northern Michigan.  It's a commune-like summer camp for cello students and their over-involved parents. You sleep in sheds, there are only trails through the woods to the "classes" which are housed in barns or ancient gazebos.  Zyk was in Henry's class.  Except he refused to play.  If the teacher asked him to try a new bow rhythm or something, Zyk would, blank faced, throw his bow on the ground and stare at the instructor.  Or many times, he wouldn't even come to class.  The instructor would say, "Where's Zyk?"  And his hippie dad would reply, "I think he's up a tree."  Winston found him once, about 30 feet up a tree.  Zyk's father was totally unconcerned.  How can you not love a kid like that?  He was hysterical. I'm not even sure he played the cello.

So we tried to agree on a name.  Charlotte, Maggie, Evie, Nora, you name it.  The boys totally rejected all cute names.  They wanted an androgynous name, like Scraps or Squeek.  Anne and I refused to give in, because after 3 male pets, you better believe she's getting a girl name.  After 3 round table discussions that went nowhere, I tried a new tactic.

Me: Ok, one at a time everyone submits one name. Anne?

Anne: Bella.

Me: Yeah, but everyone names their cat Bella.

Anne: It means "beautiful" and she totally is!

Me: Henry?

Henry: Driller.

Me (slamming hand on table):  That is the worst name for a cat ever! What is your problem?

Henry: Driller! Driller! Driller!

Me (wearily): Winston?

Winston: White Kitty Poop Face.

Me:  That's stupid. She is a brown and black tabby with no white on her whatsoever!

Winston: White Kitty Poop Face.  It's awesome.  Do you have something better?

Me: Agnes of God. It is perfect and I demand that be her name.

(general screams of all versions of "no". )

Finally, Winston said, "How about Ripley? "  We all responded with an "ah-ha!",  because the character played by Sigourney Weaver in Aliens is our personal hero.  And it's kinda cute and she is very badass.  So we decided on Ripley.  Except...

I discovered that no one is really calling her Ripley.  Anne's girlfriends told me, "Bella is so cute!"  I whipped around and found Anne standing there with an "oh crap" look on her face.   Henry told me that Driller loves to watch him play Call of Duty, because she loves senseless violence.  And I definitely heard Winston whisper "white kitty poop face" to her during a snuggle.   I have been calling her Agnes of God because it brings whimsy to my day and lends itself to fabulous text messages to Winston.  Examples:

"Agnes of God made a big poopie today!"
"Agnes of God ate butter off of my finger!"
"Agnes of God made Mr. Pickles cry today!"

 What's interesting is that she answers to all of these names.  I think she's just glad to have a home full of mental patients to adore her.  Apparently, she was a stray the animal control officer found eating out of dumpsters behind some bars in Lakewood.  However, our new kitty overlord is settling in quite well, whatever her name is.

Really.  She kicked the asses of a combined total of 100lbs of poodle.

Don't Swing With Family

I want to preface this post with a few warnings:

1.  Every word is true.  And that scares me.

2.  I am extremely naive and this may all be so 5 minutes ago for you.

3.  I plan on stalking some strangers.

I walk my giant poodle, Zyk, every morning.  We walk the 3/4 mile to Lakewood Park, then head to the bluff overlooking lovely, fragrant Lake Erie.  I sit on a bench and play with my phone.  Zyk immediately flops down on the grass and takes a 15 minute nap because he is super lazy.  While I was sitting there, I sorta vaguely noticed these women walk by.  There were three of them and they were having heated conversation about scrap-booking.  I probably snorted because, I mean, come on.  Have a real conversation about meaningful things.  Take me and my brother Dan.  We talk about real world issues and try to find solutions. For example, these days all we talk about is our current research regarding frame by frame comparisons of both the original movie Alien and the newly released trailer for the prequel Prometheus.  It's hard, time consuming work, but we feel it's important if we are going to spend our time wisely before the movie comes out in June.    And FYI, frame 53 will rock your world. 

So, when Zyk's nap time was over we finished a loop of the park and were heading to the exit when the same women came back around the park loop, heading towards us.  Let me give you a mental image.  They were as average as you can get.  Age range probably between 36 and 45.  Supposedly out walking for exercise but talking way too much to walk fast.  Between them there were:

1. one fanny pack
2. one set elastic mommy slacks
3. one tennis visor

When they were about 17ft away, Zyk became fascinated with sniffing a random clump of grass and peeing on it with great enthusiasm. So I moved aside to let the ladies walk by.  They were talking loudly and I overheard this chunk of their conversation.  For clarity, I will refer to these women respectively as Tall, Chubby Pony Tail and Mom Pants.

Chubby Pony Tail:  "I mean, it just got weird. I tried to talk to them, but now it's weird and I'm not sure what to do next time."

Tall: "Listen, honey.  We like to swing too, sometimes.  Who doesn't?  But the mistake you made, and I hate to say I told you so, is that you don't do it with people you love. You do it with strangers. You don't do it with family. Period."

Mom Pants: (nodding)

Chubby Pony Tail: "Yeah, I know, but I keep thinking after the next time it will sorta get better... I want it to work and I thought they did too..."

Their voices trailed off as they moved away.  I just stood there with my mouth hanging open.  I wanted to run after them and beg, "Please!  I have to know! When you say family, are we talking cousins or like your in-laws?  And when you say "next time" do you have, like, a schedule?  And what's with the visor's and mom pants?  I imagined swingers would be sexier! Like male fantasy lesbians!  Come back!"


Maybe all this is yesterday's news to you.  I do live in a bubble of my own creation.  I can tell you this: I totally plan to stalk these women at the park and walk slowly behind them and hear what else they have to say.  I learned the first rule of Swing Club this week:  You don't swing with people you love. I look forward to returning to my bubble.  I'm a little freaked out.

~dana

Marc's: Fun For Your Money!

Definitely a ring of hell, but which one?

Marc's.  If you have ever lived in Northeast Ohio, you know exactly what kind of shopping experience I'm talking about.  If you've never had the pleasure, I'll get you up to speed.  Marc's is the local deep deep discount grocery store.  Everything is cheap, of questionable origin and strange name brands

Who the hell is Cousin Willie?

and placed in casual piles around a semi-filthy store, which is usually painted infection yellow.  Everybody hates Marc's.  Yet everybody goes to Marc's (at some point or another).  You are guaranteed a bad shopping experience and non-existent customer service.  I'm there every Friday morning.

It's like this: the economy is in the toilet and inflation has caused my shopping bill to go from $120 a week for a family of 4 to $250.  Easy.  And my son is on the edge of puberty and has some sort of tape worm.  When you couple that with 2 kids in private school and a 100 year old money pit of a house- I needed to bring all spending to heel.  The answer is Marc's for all canned, boxed and bagged food.  (I can't buy the meat.  The chicken is the color of marigolds and the "beef" is beige. )

On a side note, we have all manner of unexpected expenses in my "charming" home.  A good example?  Waking up one morning and discovering that 28ft of cast iron soil pipe had failed.  Rather dramatically.  From the second floor master bath, through the first floor powder room and into the corner of my basement.  Behind the new hot water tank.  The sheer vastness of the fail rendered my plumber speechless and we both sat silently rocking on the floor, freaking out.  And I have original tile work in those bathrooms, people!! Original tile work!!!  I asked him how much it would cost to repair the pipe and all the bathrooms.  His response? "Oh my God."

Back to Marc's.  I worked there briefly when I was 19.  Because they will hire anyone. My interview consisted of getting my driver's license photocopied.  I was then handed a CLEAR PLASTIC PURSE and told to use it at all times because of the rampant employee theft.  Are you getting the picture of this place?  It was a summer job and I took it because, as a college freshman, my work experience was limited to babysitting and rink guarding.

OMG, it was awful.  My job was stocking shampoo.  I got yelled at hourly.  I immediately adopted a zoned-out, mouth breathing expression.  Marc Glassman, the owner, once told me I was the worst stock help he had ever had.  (Of course, I didn't know it was him at the time.  I thought it was a random nut.)  Then one day, the ass. manager shoved a cash register in my face and told me to get my butt to a register.  No training.  "Oh, and by the way, "she said, " if your drawer is short it comes out of your pay."  (and I am so good at math.....)   No scanner, no price tags on anything.  I made executive guesses.  I usually went with $ 0.10.  My line was always the longest. :)  And they made me wear the second worst name tag I have ever worn.  It said my name in black marker, and underneath it read: FUN FOR YOUR MONEY!

So, it looked like this:
DANA!
FUN FOR YOUR MONEY!

The worst?  My first reference job.  It read:

DANA DELANEY-MCSWAIN
ADULT SERVICES
Every single man made the comment you are all thinking.

I lasted 6 weeks.  This is how my resignation and exit interview went:
Me: (on phone)  Yeah, this is Dana.  I'm like... not coming in.  Ever. Again. I can't handle it.
Ass. Manager: OK. Bye.

Nowadays, especially if I'm not in a hurry, I see Marc's as fun.  The people watching is bar none.  I guarantee you will see:

1.  Someone with an exposed wound.

2. Lots of elderly people in various stages of undress.  Just standing around.

3.  A creepy man in dirty sweatpants will follow you.  


You might also see this guy:

Just sit anywhere, buddy.

We encountered him on a Saturday junk food run.  You can see he's sitting on the floor.  Wearing driving gloves.  Studying something intently.  But what you can't see is that he is studying each and every DOUCHE on the damn shelf.  He sat there for like 20 minutes.  We left and came back to check on him.  This is what he was looking at:

Sweet, sweet romance

Winston loved the name on that one.  He thinks the guy was looking for a certain flavor, like Sweet and Sour or Honey Mustard or Salt and Vinegar.
Man, that guy was thorough.  And so engrossed in his task that he didn't even look up when Winston took this picture.  I was doing that silent-laughing-crying-choking thing.

And you find magical, random items shelved together that never ever should be!  For example:

toothpaste. titties. rats.

You can also find gems like this:

 OH    MY   GOD!!!!!!!  USHER GIFT BAGS?!?!?!  2 for .99?!?!?  You can't beat that price! My friends and family are going to be blown away next Christmas.  I bought them ALL.

But you also see wonderful, sweet things too.

Last week, the kids and I saw this dad and his 4 daughters in the toy aisle.  The dad was a tank top wearing, neck and face tattoo sort, and the girls ranged in age from maybe 6 months to 5 years.  None of the girls were wearing shoes and they were all sort of filthy.  I watched as he patiently let the girls sort through and pick something out from Marc's sad assortment of .99 cent toys.  All the while the dad was blowing farts on the baby's belly and neck.  Weird and adorable at the same time.  We moved on, but came upon them again as we walked out of the store.  The girls and their father were all sitting on the curb.  Using a large, scary knife, the dad was taking the tags off of 4 pairs of little sandals.  And those girls preened and pranced and walked up and down demanding that their daddy tell them how pretty they were.  And it was beautiful, right there in front of Marc's.  Yes, I had a little cry.

~dana

Math Nite. Please Kill Me.

Winston and I discovered last night that we haven't matured much since high school.  My kids' school had Family Math Nite yesterday.  Attendance was mandatory.  Yes, that shit is hell.  Particularly for me. I am severely special needs when it comes to math.  Now, you're probably thinking, like my husband once did, that I'm just not very good at math.  That I have some sort of functional grasp of basic math concepts through high school and I just don't get geometry or calculus.  You, like he was, are sorely mistaken.  I swear to God I possess only 1/2 of my brain.  I am certain that the left side of my brain is totally empty, except maybe for some lint or something.  I am totally right brained.  Want a 35 page paper on Henry VIII?  I can crank it out in a day.  But go ahead; ask me to do simple division.  Or to multiply 27 x 6.  I mean, can it even be done?  I have no clue.

Winston tried for years to help me with math.  I had to take pre-algebra in college because Kent State thought it would be funny.  And Winston is the most patient, calm teacher ever.  He thought he could get me through it, if he took the time to help me with the concepts.  The problem with that kind of thinking is that it assumes that there is a common ground to start from.  There is no ground.  Just air.  A vacuum of logical processes.  It's like talking louder in a foreign restaurant in an attempt to make the waiter understand you.  He understands that you want something.  He sees that you are talking and waving your arms and getting frustrated.  But he has no fucking clue what you are saying. 

It's like yelling at your dog.  Imagine you find a turd in the hallway.  You start yelling, "God damnit, poodles! To whom does this turd belong!  Who shit in mommy's hallway?  Who is the bad dog?  I don't love any of you anymore!"  They frantically mill around, pawing pathetically at the ground, whining and showing me their bellies.  But all they know is that I am yelling and there is a turd present.  They are incapable of making any connection at all.  Math is my personal turd and as many times as I have shown it my belly, it refuses to just go away already.

I recently had to take the GRE to apply to grad school.  I studied my ass off.  For weeks.  I am 15 years out of college, so I knew all that testing crap was going to be a bitch.  And I figured that if I did a combination of  best guess and answering (C) for all the other questions on the math part, I could at least get 50%, right?  And I figured my writing sample and verbal reasoning scores would totally make up for my special needs.  Yeah.  That didn't work.  Now on the math portion you have to actually type in a numeric answer for questions like this one:

If 2^x < 100 and x is an integer, how many of the 2^x + 2 integers will be divisible by 3 and by 2?


W. T. F. ?  I mean, seriously, I can just randomly hit a keyboard, too.  See?

If ^=678.0 than   %@(*  &^7i9284394839+h= ?


And being forced to actually enter an answer makes the "always answer (C) cheating technique" invalid.  I laughed like a lunatic when my scores came.  My writing sample and verbal reasoning scores were amazing.  This was my quantitative reasoning score:

I managed to score a 1.5 out of 50 questions.  (Honestly, even this number is miraculous.)    I sat back and prepared to receive a letter of violent rejection, perhaps accompanied by a pamphlet for a care center for the "differently able."   I was speechless when they admitted me.  Yay!!!  (although, really, it made me feel like Forest Gump getting into high school.)

So, Winston and I walk into the gym at their school, where the kids promptly ditch us to hang with their friends.  And then, as if in silent agreement, we both did a half circle lap of the math games-filled gym, and then climbed to the top row of bleachers and leaned against the wall.  We started playing with our phones and making snide comments about the sea of parents who were mingling in the gym making small talk with each other.  And then it dawned on me.

"Winston, this is exactly what we did at the Freshman mixer. "

"Yep," he said, " and every single chapel service." (at our school, we had chapel 2 times a week.)

" Honey, we are 38 years old and incapable of participating in a social activity that is located in a gym.  We haven't grown at all."

The problem is the groups are still the same.  There's the A-list group.  They used to talk about how awesome their clothes and cars were and stand around comparing coolness. (I'm imagining.  I never actually got close enough.)  Now they try to out-vacation each other and talk about their boats.  There's the people that are super involved in all school activities. I don't imagine there is any difference in their conversations at all since high school. Then there are the drones who wander around, bouncing off of these groups hoping they can attach themselves to one of them, if only briefly.  And then there's the jocks.  They are standing by the door talking March Madness.  And scattered around the bleachers are the angst-y slackers like me and Winston, who refuse or are too terrified to participate in any way, making snide comments. Nothing changes.

We survived Math Nite.  My son broke up the evening like only he can.  He walked up to us, his mouth glued shut with a Tootsie Roll.

Me: What the hell is wrong with you?

Henry: Mfun  uhhh mmook  muth. ("I ate a Tootsie Roll despite the fact that I have braces and it is on my "don't eat" list.  My mouth is effectively glued shut and I have wrenched my braces from the left side of my mouth. This will most likely be an expensive mistake.")

So the evening ended with me dragging my son outside and picking, fleck by tiny fleck, what appeared to amount to 7 Tootsie Rolls out of his braces so he could open his mouth.  Every time someone walked by, he shoved me and moaned/screamed through his gooey mouth to"get off" of him.  Then I would have to chase him further across the campus with a sticky, Tootsie Roll covered finger, screaming, "10,000 dollars!  You just destroyed 10,000 dollars worth of orthodontics!  Get back here and let me pick it out!"  The other parents scurried past in horror.

I think I have pretty much secured my outsider position in the bleachers.  Me and my sticky finger.  And it's very likely, at this point, that my son will be joining us there.  And if you are wondering about my daughter?  Working the room like a politician.  Amazing.  Two bleacher nerds produced a someone who can charmingly mingle with any crowd.  I should get a blood test.

~dana

If ¹/₂x +¹/If ¹/₂x +¹/₂(¹/₂x + ¹/₂(¹/₂x +¹/₂(¹/₂x + ... = y,
then x = ? ₂(¹/₂x + ¹/₂(¹/₂x +¹/₂(¹/₂x + ... = y,
then x = ?

My Mother is Wanted in Arizona

I feel like I owe you an apology and an explanation.  Months ago, I promised that I would complete part one of my glorious installation art vision: a diorama of our gross, scabby friend and his mail order bride.  And many of you sent me great ideas for captions and important details that would make my vision of an art show a reality.  Honestly, I have made very little progress.  I am blaming my mother.

Shortly after I started assembling all the supplies I would need to start the diorama, my mom started sending me more pictures of the "art" her and her girlfriends had been working on.  My mother lives most of the year in the desert of Arizona.  There is literally nothing there.  Now, when you picture nothing, I am sure you are envisioning something like Amish country.  Nope.  If I had to describe it to you, I would say Fort Mohave, AZ is more like the final shot of Sarah Connor in Terminator leaving that gas station. (It's sad, I know. I can only visualize via blockbuster movies. )

If this is nowhere, you're about in the middle of it.

Town is a gas station.  Burros run wild.  Roadrunners get in the kitchen from time to time. When my parents first moved there, the sheriff stopped by and explained to them that if they ever went walking in the desert, there was an ordinance requiring them to carry a .45 because of mountain lions and coyotes and God knows what else.  So, anyway, my mom met up with a group of other desert wives who like to walk their dogs in the desert carrying sidearms.  They get together every morning, walk their dogs, drink coffee and shoot things.  On a particularly memorable day, my mother's Dalmatian, Ava Hedwiga (no, seriously.) ran off into the desert and brought home the entire corpse of a coyote.  (Henry got the skull for his birthday. You have never seen such a happy 9 year old.)

People dump trash in the desert all the time.  Which is what sparked the idea in my mom and her friends to take all the desert trash and create art with couches and mattresses.  It looks like this:

The original artwork

After original was damaged by haters

Happy St. Patrick's Day

 The photos arrived, one after the other and my mother told me that people in town started giving directions based solely on what they came to call "Stickman."  As in, "You're gonna go past the gas station, turn right after you see Stickman and in 2.5 hours you'll still be in the middle of nowhere."  Her and the ladies made plans to expand the art work with a variety of clothing and home accessories.  And then it dawned on me.

                         IT'S GENETIC.

My God!  Here I am creating micro-verses of the dorks in my life, and there's my mother on the other side of the United States doing the same thing on a grand scale in the desert.  It's quite the emotional speed bump.  And my daughter is afflicted too!  She likes to draw gorgeous landscapes and then fill the edges with tiny flying vampires!  She decorated my dining room last week with sponges! It must increase with age.  Which begs the question:  what the hell will my mother be doing 10 years from now?  Will she be stenciling and be-dazzling part of the Grand Canyon?  Or will she still be doing community service when the people who posted this in town catch up with her?

The fire department and the local  do-gooder group ERACE posted this in "town" last week.  At first the ladies panicked, convinced they would be arrested for decorating the desert with trash.  When the initial shock that they had "Wanted" signs all over town passed,  they decided they had not yet begun to fight. So they regrouped and had a plaque made up that said the following:

              Winner 2012 International Desert Art Show

Which they placed in front of  "Stickman".  They figure it will give the fire fighters and ERACE pause before they toss the installation in the garbage truck.  I'll let you know what happens next week. 

So that's why I haven't worked on the dioramas.  This was all a bit of a wake up call.  I must suffer from a genetic need to express what must be a high-functioning mental illness through crafting.  Which brings me to this lovely inspiration:

oh, deer

Lorie sent me this Pinterest picture and I loved it immediately.  I think she looks like Ann-Margaret in Bye Bye Birdie.  I had to make one asap, so I went to craigslist and bought a deer mount.  I brought the husband with me for the exchange, because he was convinced I was going to end up in a shallow grave by meeting someone from craigslist in a parking lot at night in Medina.  My bargaining-wise friend Victoria told me to talk them down and tell them the deer looked like crap and offer $10 for it.  But I took one look at my new deer head and was so delighted, that I pretty much started throwing money at some poor bewildered woman trying to unload her husbands' trophies.  Winston said it was embarrassing.  I actually apologized for not giving her more than the agreed upon price.

But I took one look at my new friend and knew that although she was too beefy to be an  Ann-Margaret, she was definitely a cross between Miss Havisham and Queen Victoria.  And so this was born:

Elegant and sad

A bride forever in mourning

She's so lovely I can't stand it.  And not only is she a cheerful addition to the TV room, she finally helped me decide what to do with the limited edition Princess Diana engagement ring my mom got me for my birthday last year.  (note the brooch)

I learned a lot from all of this:

1. You can't fight genetics.

2. Lorie and Pinterest are enablers.

3. Me, my mom and my daughter need to get to work on something really big.

~dana


 

The 10th time is not a charm. NYC day 2.

Our last day in New York City, or so we  believe. After saying goodbye to the staff at our hotel we are off to the FDNY store which is  across the street.. This is where I find treasures for my Nancy. This is so cute,  a fire truck is in the store and there is a birthday party! They appear to be 5 year olds, who will be having cupcakes and learning about fire safety. These parents know how to party. Truthfully it's just really loud and obnoxious and we can not wait to escape. FDNY shirt is acquired and we are free at last! I forgot how loud children can be, especially when a fire truck is involved.

It is time to find our way to the World Trade Center Memorial. We have to wait for a train, so we watch for the rat infestation we had heard about on NPR the week before. There is a quick tantalizing glimpse of one lone ratty.We are disappointed, we fail to even get a photo of it. There is a river of humanity winding their way to the WTC site. We find the place to get our pass. It is chaotic. I am not sure if it's poor planning on their part or a deliberate exercise to illustrate the confusion of that day in September. To get into the site we have to do a full on security check. I keep failing the metal detector. I try to explain underwire to the nice man, his partner tells him to let me through. He whispers to me that the other man has no idea what an underwire is. How? I can not be  the first woman through his line ever with a support garment.. This is confusing to both me and Sarah. Shouldn't there be a section in the training pamphlet ? The plaza is peaceful and lovely. People could you please stop throwing coins in the water feature? It's beautiful and sacred. Give your coins to the fund raising boxes in the gift shop.

There are many trees and the one tree that was there that day is protected by ropes and cables. It's haunting and the most profound thing for me. The route out takes us past the fire station that is shockingly close to the towers and most certainly the house that lost the most that day. There is a scaffolding covered in stickers that say "Amplify Love, Dissipate Hate" and an envelope with more for us  to take and to place on the frame work ourselves. How many people have done this and repeated those words over and over again?

Now it's time to work our way to Times Square, because Sarah has decided that yes the Tokidoki Hello Kitty wallet is necessary! On our way to the subway we decide to walk through the store our limo driver recommended. It's a city block and we can be warm for a minute while we look. Well, Century 21 is amazing! Turns out it is the New York City equivalent of the ghetto Dillards at Euclid Square Mall. Ralph Lauren yoga pants for $14 dollars! This ends up taking much longer than we anticipated. Many gifts are purchased We haven't  even see the whole place, but we force blinders on and leave quickly. Thanks Limo Guy.

Times Square again! Wallet acquired. Now to finish up our gift list we go in every gift store we can find, burning up the credit card in one last frenzy of NYC giddiness. Now we need to eat and grab a cab to the airport. We have timed it out perfectly. We decide that we will have lunch at Applebees. Please do not judge us. I know we should find a fabulous Manhattan deli, or hidden Italian treasure, but we are cold and tired and the corporate evil is right there and warm with a big table and potato twisters. Those things are delicious.  Our waiter is fantastic. We are excited to return home and share our stories and photos. Then I get a voice mail from the airline. Flight cancelled, due to weather in Clevleand. Seriously? There are two inches of snow, tops. When did you become big pussies?  Not gonna lie, I start to flip out a little bit. The message I get makes it seem like Sarah and I will be leaving from different airports. This can not happen. I call my superhero husband, Norman. He is on his deathbed (the Cleveland respiratory flu has caught him). He soldiers on and promises to call me back when its all worked out. Meanwhile I pay for our meal. The waiter comes back, card declined. Now I know we went crazy but I still have plenty of room on it. I had even called before we left to let the credit card company know that I would be in NYC and to not flagg for suspicious activity. I call the "customer service" number on the back. Trivia Fact: You can only use the card for 9 swipes in a 24 hour period.  Applebees was my 10th swipe. I suggest to customer service that perhaps in the future they might want to mention that when someone calls about going out of town on vacation. It's an important element. There is nothing that can be done because it's the weekend. THANKS, that's awesome. I'm stuck in one of the largest most expensive cities in the world NBD. I have backup cards but still. The waiter listens to our ridiculous story, takes my alternate form of payment and tells us to stay as long as we need. Where does NY get this bad rap? Sarah and I have met nothing but kindness and generosity the entire time. Norman calls and gives us the address of the hotel near our airport that will take us in at a distressed travelers rate. This is scary. I ask "What kind of hotel? 65 dollars a night ?There have to be bugs." He was assured that it has 4 stars and the staff is very nice. Ok, it's not like we have a plethora of choices. I look at the address and see that the subway drops us off on that street in Queens so we pack up and fill our metro card one last time, sad.

 We make it to Queens at twilight start walking in the direction the numbers say will take us to where we need to be. It's getting darker and shadier. I'm not scared of the neighborhood yet but it's coming, so we turn around to where we see businesses. We find a flower seller -- this old man is directly from central casting, complete with white hair, beard and a twinkle in his eye. He tells me we are far away, we need to get a cab, we can't walk there. "I have been trying to get a cab no one will stop!" I say pathetically.  He directs us to the intersection where we will find one, he promises. Turns out saying something is on Ditmars Blvd. is like saying its on Detroit Rd. it could be 90,000 miles away. We are such noobs. We get to our hotel after Mr. Toads Wild Ride on the freeway! It's all chandeliers and marble, very nice. There appears to be a whole battalion of soldiers checking in this evening, so we feel all sorts of safe. I try to get Sarah to pose in a photo with them but she refuses.  Our room is large, smells a little musty but my bed bug check comes up empty so this is it! There are no restaurants, and we had pizza last night. So we put together a stockpile of food from the gift shop, grab some nail polish and the cutest NYC robot keychain. Time to hunker down, take a shower and watch some trashy television, The Voice, Smash and SNL will do nicely! It's not the glamor of Manhattan, but it's cozy and calm. We enjoy.

At checkout we see girls in fancy dresses! Our hotel is hosting a Toddlers and Tiarasesque pageant today! So many sparkles. The airport YAY! We go through our TSA check and find our gate, but the food we want is out in the concourse, and you can only buy an NY lottery ticket at one specific news stand hidden out there as well. We have an hour. I man up and ask an agent if it raises a red flag if we exit and return. They assure me it's no big deal, so let the race begin. Food and lotto tickets in 45 minutes. The airport is very sprawling. I think we may end up walking as much as we did in NYC the  first day!  Lottery tickets are a must however, Sarah has a scratcher problem. She wins, as she usually does (it's amazing, really). Our second TSA check; I am tagged for further scrutiny. So much for no red flags! Remember the cutest NYC robot keychain? It is "suspicious." Its hands look like tiny little wrenches. No worries though, he is officially cleared to come home with me. The plane is again uneventful. We are home. Very glad to see our boys and our beds. But we would do the whole thing all over again, given the chance. Sarah and I are excellent traveling companions, able and even willing to accept a change in plans, roll with the punches and take what comes. And she doesn't snore...loudly. 

NYC photo blog at http://www.facebook.com/media/set/?set=a.3367471673301.151477.1464454181&type=1&l=7823150df9

I'm Hiding in a Tiny Fort

I had way too many programs running and I crashed my brain.  I spent the last week like this:

I am rebooting.  :) Thank you for your patience.

~dana

Benton Harbor, Michigan: Axis of the Universe

I had breakfast with my dad this morning.  He's in town for a couple weeks from Arizona, where he and my mom live for most of the year.  We met up at the usual place; an old-timey restaurant designed to look like a log cabin that serves terrible coffee and platters of lacey pancakes that glisten with grease.  We talked about the usual things: his health, the weather, my chances of getting Winston to let me have 2 pet chickens. (And, husband dear, it is totally happening.  It's not like I'm asking for jewelry or Range Rovers.  I want 2 damn chickens.  I can't very well call myself a chicken enthusiast and not have any damn chickens. It's embarrassing.)  Finally, how bored my mom must be alone in Arizona, otherwise known in my family as Bedrock.

Me: Mom called me yesterday and told me the rodeo was in town.  I thought the heat was getting to her until she started sending me pictures of cowboys.  You better get back out there soon before she starts braiding her hair and wearing flannel.

Dad: Yeah,  I guess the rodeo is at the Avi (the local Indian reservation).  Well, it gives her something to do.  I guess she's going line dancing again tonight.

Me: Holy crap, did I tell you that she called and told me she wants me to start taking line dancing classes with her when she comes to Cleveland this summer?  No. Just no.

Dad:  Dana, Dana. Your mother just wants to..."

Me (interrupting): I am not learning how to group dance to hillbilly music!  I'll take line dancing when she starts joining book clubs!  No! I don't care if she wants to spend time with me! I am not doing it!

Dad: What I was going to say was, she wants to make amends with you about the ballet lessons.

Which made us both laugh like idiots.

When I was 5, all I wanted to do was take ballet lessons.  I wanted so badly to be a ballerina.  So my mom signed me up for classes at a local middle school.  I had 5 or 6 glorious lessons, then one day she told me that she wanted to play women's hotstove softball and I would not be returning to ballet.  She said there was no point in taking ballet because I was going to be too tall.  And there is no such thing as a tall ballerina.  She told me the story of how Princess Diana had to stop taking ballet when she was in high school because she had a growth spurt and shot up to 5'9.  My mom is 5'11, so she had a valid point, but I cried for years. I also stopped growing in 4th grade and remain 5'4.  If anyone so much as mentions dance, ballet, dreams or Princess Diana, a screaming match ensues.

At Easter dinner...

My Brother Dan:  I had this totally messed up dream last night about Mike Modano, the sexiest man in the NHL.

Me: I had a dream once.  I was going to be a ballerina but no! Mom wanted to play hotstove softball!  And I am the perfect height to be a ballerina!  You ruined my life!

My Mom:  Good God, let it go already.  You always were a troublesome child.  And you're too clumsy to be a ballerina.  How many head injuries have you had?

Me:  Maybe I wouldn't be so freaking clumsy if I had taken ballet!!! And it's only like 1 or 2 head injuries!

Winston: More like 5 or 6.  And remember when you stood up and broke your own foot?  Just by standing up?

Dan: It wasn't a gay dream or anything.

My Mom: See! You're too clumsy!

Me: I hate all of you! I could have been a dancer!  I could have been lean and elegant instead of squat and pear shaped!

My Dad:  You people are against me!  You put everyone else's favorite salad dressing on the table but not mine!   This is my house!  I want my salad dressing!

My Mom: It's right next to your plate.

My Dad: Oh.

This conversation takes place at nearly all family functions, with surprising little variety.

Anyway, just before the check arrives, my dad looks at me and says, "So tell me, what do you know about Benton Harbor?"

I yelled, "How the hell did you find out about Benton Harbor?" Inside, I was scrambling to figure out how he found out about my aborted ghetto luncheon in 1995 in Benton Harbor, MI.  He was hundreds of miles away!

Dad: I've known about Benton Harbor since the sixties.

Me: No way. What are you, Nostradamus? Wait a minute. Are we talking about the same thing?

Dad: Chicken Man! The Adventures of Chicken Man!

Me: Are you stroking out?

Dad: It was my favorite radio show when I was a kid!  The Adventures of Chicken Man!  Crime Fighter!  It was this guy, kinda like Batman, except his name was Benton Harbor and he dressed like a chicken.  His car? The Chicken Coupe.  It was great!

Me: You are making this up.  No way there was a radio show about a crime fighting chicken named Benton Harbor.  This is exactly like the time you told us that Minnie Mouse was named for my great grandmother.

Dad: You go home and look it up!  Chicken Man! Winged Warrior! And Walt Disney did name Minnie Mouse after your great grandmother Minnie.  They met at a bar.  What did you think I was talking about?

Me:  I almost had lunch in Benton Harbor, Michigan once.

Dad:  How do you almost have lunch?

Me: Well, me and my friend Sarah and her mom were road tripping to Chicago to see that big Monet exhibit.  We were cutting through southern Michigan and her mom handed us the map and said, "Pick out a promising sounding city and we'll lunch there, girls!"  Sarah and I looked on the map and saw this little city on the edge of Lake Michigan called Benton Harbor.  We thought it sounded chic, like "chicken salad on the waterfront in a bistro" chic.

Dad: Oh my God.

Me: Yeah well, we didn't know it was in the ghetto until we had passed not one, but two large black women sitting on couches in their front yards eating potato chips.  Picture Gary, Indiana and then make it 100x more run down.  Sarah's mom said, "Girls! Benton Harbor is not promising! I'm getting back on the expressway!"  That's my Benton Harbor story.  No crime fighting chicken.

Dad: The White Winged Warrior! Chicken Man!

I'm not sure what the point of any of this is.  I just think it's no coincidence that I am trying to get Winston to let me have 2 pet chickens that will winter in the basement (did I mention that?) and that my dad was singing the theme song to Chicken Man at breakfast this morning.  It means something.


~dana

Note: my dad was not stroking out.  click here to listen to some of the old reels of Chicken Man! Plucky White Winged Hero! Chicken Man Radio Show