DADT? Pa-shaw. Let’s talk about weed.

Since the repeal of DADT, everyone has asked M “What do you think about the repeal???  Is it impacting you as a recruiter?”

M doesn’t care.  He’s of the mindset that if you want to serve your country, you should have that right – the exception to that being someone with criminal tendencies or health issues that could limit their ability to work effectively.

M had just about enough of the DADT talk, and a rough patch of recruits failing urinalysis, when he responded to someone by blurting out, “I don’t care if someone is gay!  I just need people to lay off weed before they try to join the military!!!”

Yes, it’s true.  Many an evening occurs when M comes home telling me the same story of a young man or woman coming in to apply for the Army and taking the preliminary drug screening.

“Have you done any sort of illegal drugs in your life?,” M asks.
“No sir, none at ALL,” they reply, wide-eyed and with as much conviction as they can muster.
“Are you SURE?  You haven’t done ANYTHING?”
“No, not at ALL.”
When the test is complete, M is left holding a hot test (and I’m not talking urine temperature here.)

“I thought you said you don’t do drugs,” he says sternly
“Well, sir,” they mumble, “I may have smoked some cigarettes recently.”
“Cigarettes?  Do I look STUPID?”
“Weed, sir.”
“WHEN?”
“Last week…”
“I ASKED WHEN?”
“Okay okay okay, two hours ago!!!!”

I suppose that isn’t quite as bad as the young man who recently came to visit M.  M asked the potential recruit if he had ever been in trouble with the law, to which he replied, “Uh, you mean this month?”

Nothing eliminates a potential future soldier like a criminal record the size of a small encyclopedia set.

 

Jogging, weiner dogs, and the chase of self-improvement

Certain truths about one’s life suddenly become incredibly vivid when you’re being  chased through your subdivision by a small herd of weiner dogs.

In the last couple of weeks I’ve decided to take on the habit of jogging.  It’s part of a whole somewhat un-intended self-improvement kick I’m on.  I’m suddenly compelled to make my closets more organized, my office less cluttered and my whites whiter and brighter.  No, I’m not pregnant and nesting, as one friend suggested.  I’ve just been reading back issues of Real Simple and Oprah. 

Jogging was not in my original plan.  But given the consistent odd luck of M and I, we managed to score  lifetime ban at the local YMCA.  That’s right.  Lifetime.  We didn’t do drugs in the foyer (or ANYWHERE for that matter) or put Jello in the pool or drop free weights on someone’s foot.  M just didn’t read the fine print on some membership contract and we didn’t cancel our first contract according to the appropriate procedure.  Lifetime ban.  It’s like the yuppie equivalent to a biker getting kicked out of a bar.   

Anyhoo, I decided that maybe I didn’t want a gym membership anyway, to any gym, anywhere because I was using it as an excuse to not work out.  “It’s too far away / I’m low on gas / It will be too busy / I’d have to find a parking spot / It’s a full moon…”  I did realize that there was plenty of sidewalk and I like walking.  And jogging is just walking with pizazz, right?  I will tell you I have the running capability of a sloth.  I just don’t do it.  Well, I just didn’t do it.  Freshman year of high school I tried to run track and feigned sports-induced asthma to escape having to run in a circle for three hours a day after school.  I saw some tweet about finding a “Couch to 5K” program on iTunes and decided that I should try it.  All things considered, I was already on the couch end of the Couch——-5K continuum, and therefore felt I had already taken the first step.

So about the weiner dogs.  As I was completing the second day of the first week I ran past a garage and about 6 of those furry beasts came after me.  Dacshunds can move, I tell ya.  Don’t let those skinny bodies and stubby legs fool you.  They will hunt you down like a wild animal.  Their human came running behind them calling for them, but they were on a roll – a 30-something, out-of-shape jogger wearing stinky running shoes closely resembles injured prey, I’m certain.   They were  thrilled with the chase so I made a u-turn and they followed me right back to their home.  Just ca ll me the Pied Piper of Weiner Dogs.  I got me some mad skillz. 

But as I was leading the dogs back to their house, I was thinking.  “WHY AM I DOING THIS???  I’m getting chased by dogs and this is hard work!!! I have enough things to do!  I don’t need one more thing to keep track of! And do I need to say again that I’m getting chased by dogs???”

Ultimately, I realized that I’m enjoying the jogging thing.  It’s become a fun personal goal to try to reach the 5K mark.  In fact, I need someone to come up with a couch to organized closets series.  That would be great.  And no dogs would chase me.

NASCAR and other hot things…

I went to the Brickyard 400 yesterday with M, my cousin, and his daughter.  It was hot.  Brutally hot.  I’m pretty sure sitting on metal bleachers in 93 degree heat and no breeze must be what walking on the surface of the sun would be like.  Though the surface of the sun might be a bit cooler.

I’ve been to races before, I never really “got” it.  Cousin is in to the whole auto racing thing and kept informing me of the details which helped me get more from the race.  Generally I enjoy the ridiculous people watching (pregnant women in hot pants and string bikini tops…check!) but this time I learned about why changing tires, conserving gas, and overall strategy matter.  His daughter, my God daughter, had never really been to a race before and was semi-delirious from the heat.

“Chris,” she asked “Is it 400 laps or 400 miles???”
I honestly didn’t know and was horrified for the moment that it might be 400 laps, as we had just sat there for well over 45 minutes and had only reached lap 52.  If there were 400 laps, I was going to have to think about slitting my wrists with a beer bottle.  But I wiped the sweat from my face/arms/neck/legs did the math and figured it was about 400 miles – 160 laps.  (Hell, I was new…what did I know???)

I told her this and she blurted out, “I’m so hot!  When will this be DONE?”

“Hm, well, it’s 160 laps and we’ve been here for 45 minutes and they’ve done about 50 laps…,” I pondered. “Wait God daughter…how old are you?
“I’m 14,” she said.
“Well, let’s see…so, that means we’ll leave here when you’re about 35.”
I found that incredibly amusing but she was no longer listening…her attention stolen as an old man with a mullet and a “Born to be Wild” back tattoo walked past us.

Our section was friendly, loud and neon red by the time the race was done.  As we wearily walked back to the car, people had set up sprinklers that we ran through to cool off.  There were people selling tee shirts for $5 and water for $1 but by then all we could think about was air conditioning.  If they had been trying to sell air conditioning “Sit in this house for five minutes – just $10!!!” I seriously would have considered that.

I think I’d go back to the race.  I just hope that maybe there are more races in cool weather…I think I’ve run out of sweat for the summer.

It was a drive by roofing, officer…

M recently purchased a police scanner app for his iPhone. (There really is an app for that…)  This has given us an inside look at the high-crime life of rural Indiana.  It’s like we’re watching Cops.  But we’re listening.  And a hectic night involves asking people to stop throwing ears of corn at houses.  And there’s no one singing “Bad Boys”.  So, it’s really nothing like watching Cops, but anyways…

I think tonight may take the cake.

Dispatch:  “Car 578-Alpha-Bravo-98, we just got a call that someone came home to find that their home had been re-roofed without authorization, please investigate”

Police Officer: “I’m sorry Dispatch, I thought you just said that a house had a new, unauthorized roof???”

Dispatch: “That’s correct.  They came home to a new roof and they’re not happy.”

How does that happen?  How do you leave your house and come home and find it’s been totally re-roofed?  And why do you notice that?  I know I don’t come home and go “Well, let’s take a look at the roof and see if anything has changed.”  But apparently this person came home and noticed.  Maybe it was a badly done roofiing job.  Maybe it was an ugly color of shingles.  All we can be certain of is that there was a drive by roofing.  None of us are safe.

You do have to wonder what would cause someone to snap and decide they would install a new roof on someone’s home.  Was it a deranged, lunatic contractor out on a reign of roofing terror?  An angry neighbor?  “I’ll show Jim next door!  He keeps playing his music late at night…we’ll I’m going re-roof his entire house!!!  That’ll teach him who’s boss!!!”  We may never know…but if I find out, I’ll be sure to let you know.  I just hope the perp left fingerprints.  Book’em, Dan-o.  Or Roof’em…whatever works.

My life on the open road…

Okay, that’s a bit of an overstatement.  I’ve spent much of the last two weeks criss-crossing the Midwest and East coast on vacation and for work.  I started out in Wisconsin for my husband’s family reunion.  Family reunions are a bit of an odd thing aren’t they?  It’s like a party you hold once a year simply for the purpose of reminding yourself you should only have that that type of party once a year.  All in all it went quite well given that there were both guns and alcohol on the premises.  They were not used at the same time and no one lost limbs, hearing, or their mind from the use of either.

Of course, by the time the guns were brought out, I was back in Indiana.  I spent the week at home and work while a team of contractors worked on the siding of the house I rent.  Each day I’d come home to find new items from my walls and ledges laying on the floor.  I left before all of the walls could be cleared because by then I was…

…in Michigan on vacation.  This time, M and I were with my family.  We have been going to the same spot in northern Michigan for almost 25 years.  I love going up there, enjoying the fresh air, and looking at Lake Superior.  I haven’t swam in Lake Superior in years.  Only a few of the locals do.  Lake Superior is freezing, with the annual year around temperature average being in the high 40s.  It’s the type of cold that causes your legs to instantly go numb after you get up to your ankles.  After that you’re struck with some sort of odd paralysis that causes you to come limping up on to the beach like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.  It’s downright crippling.   Nonetheless, it’s still a blast and I came home with a ton of great souvenirs, like fudge, a new watch, and an awesome tan on just the backs of my hands.  (Note to self – if you go fishing in long sleeves, put sunscreen on your hands, you dang fool.)  But I didn’t even get to help pack the car from Michigan because I then went to…

Massachusetts.  Land of Lobster and people with many argyle socks.  It was a trip for a conference.  Nothing thrilling to report.  I flew in to the airport at Hartford, which is pleasantly not-busy compared to it’s other East Coast counterparts.  Last year I flew in to New York City – LaGuardia.  And then had to drive a rental car.  I think I gripped the steering wheel of that car so tightly it might still have my fingerprints embedded in it.

It was a busy couple of weeks.  I’m looking forward to doing nothing for a while.

Life in a fly-over state

I have had some sort of odd adventure every weekend for the last three weekends.  And while those have made for some really fabulous blog fodder, the recovery process from these events has left little time to write.

So, I’ll just start from the beginning and write blog posts until I catch up…

Let’s start with my visit to FlyOver.  FlyOver is the pseudonym I’m giving a particular state in the middle of the country that is the very definition of a fly-over state.  I used to think that term was so rude – “fly over state”.  As if that state had nothing to offer!  The people that live there must love that state!  Certainly they don’t think of it as a fly-over state!  And then I visited a few of those supposed fly over states.  And yes, some held their charm.  But there is one in particular…well, let’s just say it’s charm escapes me.  I will say, that this last visit restored some of my faith in FlyOver.  I actually met residents who had all their original teeth and didn’t think that best role for women was barefoot and in the kitchen.  To those people, I say thank you.

But anyway…

I went to FlyOver with M because he owns a house there.  (Long story.  Looooong story.)  We were about to sell it when we realized the home had sprung a leak and developed a severe mold problem.  We spent the weekend up to our elbows in bleach, moldy drywall and claw hammers.  I’ll tell you this – a little bit of you will die after you spend an entire weekend without showering and living in your most gross clothes while donning a breathing mask, goggles, and dish gloves.  I’m sure the neighbors wondered why there was a rookie hazmat team in our home.

One night, as we finished ripping out the last bits of moldy dry wall, we realized our disposal plan had a significant flaw.  We lacked a place to actually throw out said materials.  But then, I remembered…TOMMY.  (Again, name held to protect the innocent)

I met Tommy over a year ago.  M was gone at a military school and I received a call that the house in FlyOver had been damaged and needed repair.  That is the last thing you want to hear when you’re sitting hours away in Michigan, with little hope of actually getting to FlyOver to assess the damage with your own eyes.  I was desperate and started calling every person entitled “handyman” in the yellow pages.  The first person to answer their phone was the first person to get the job.  That person was Tommy.  Nevermind that Tommy showed up at the door with his truck tailgate duct tape shut.  And his advertising included a neon pink posterboard that had been taped the passenger side door.  We needed a handyman and Tommy fit the bill.

Tommy’s rates were ridiculously low, in part because he was trying to avoid the IRS and because, as I later found out, he worked at a pace associated with sloths, snails, or in his case, the heavily drugged.  But, he did the job.  He also hauled the garbage created by the project away to an actual waste disposal site, which appealed to my rule-following, by-the-book nature.

So, I recalled this as M and I stood in front of a large pile of mold-infested drywall in our alien-ish outfits.  And I called Tommy.  He answered with his Southern drawl and replied that yes, he would LOVE the work, and he could be there RIGHT AWAY but oh, his truck was broken but he could borrow a good one from his neighbor.

An hour later, as our nephew stood as lookout on the porch, waiting to wave Tommy down as he drove by, we heard him yell “Hey Chris…do you hear…do you hear a truck backfiring? “  M and I ran outside in time to see a monster truck – literally – backfiring up the road, driving toward our home.  It slowed briefly, continued to backfire past the house, then abruptly stopped, and backed up, jerking spasmodically the entire way, then stopped again, this time in the drive way.

Yes, our garbage removal crew was also part monster rally team.  But it worked.  Tommy saved us again, with a monster truck, and his materials disposal license.  Thanks Dude, we really appreciate it.

That ended up being the highlight of our weekend.  There was the Craigslist purchase of a dehumidifier from a guy who resembled Jeffrey Dahmer in far too many ways.  Countless trips to the Lowe’s.  The discovery that the Dollar Store is the best place to buy buckets in large quantities and that mold is the worst stuff to deal with.

And so concludes weekend #1.  You’ll find that it’s all on the upswing from here.  I promise you.

Fly Fishing and other things that defy physics…

Last weekend was my birthday.  I was the big 3-1.  We went back home to my family and on Saturday M and I spent the day with my Dad, learning about fly fishing.  That was my Christmas present to my dad – a day at a fly fishing “camp”.

It was incredibly interesting venture, and it makes me want to take out a second mortgage to go and buy the various accoutrement associated with the sport.

Flyfishing involves taking a fish hook covering it  in various combinations of feathers, string, foam, and even glitter.  You then attach this delicate piece of bug-like art to a string using a complex series of knots, and then gracefully suspend it in mid-air on about 40 feet of barely visible fishing line.  With a snap of the wrist, it is then placed it upon the water as if that exact spot at that exact moment was the only place that lure was ever supposed to land.  Well, that’s what you do if you’re the instructor.  If you’re M or my father or I or any of our classmates, you’re placed in a gymnasium with a tuft of feathers (sans hook) placed on the end of the line while you whip a fly fishing rod back and forth, stopping to take out the intricate knots you’ve created and muttering to yourself that “That damn Brad Pitt must have had a fly fishing double in A River Runs Through It”.

We started the day learning about fishing equipment and knot tying.  To test us, they gave us pieces of rope which we had to tie correctly, after watching the instructors deftly manuver the lifeless materials into intricate knots.  You’ve never seen so many grown adults concentrating with while sticking their tongues out like kindergartners trying to color within the lines.  It wasn’t until the end of class that our instructors smiled broadly and reminded us that we’d be as adept as they were in no time at all.  After all, they had had no previous training in knot tying, unless you count that one had a 25 year career in the Coast Guard and the other was something equivalent to a semi-professional Boy Scout.  No preparation at all!!!

They then shuttled us into fly tying class.  There, on a series of long tables, it looked like the contents of a craft store had been abruptly strewn.  Over the course of more than an hour, we were taught which feathers, colors, glitter, and foam pieces mimicked bugs and attracted fish.  At times, with the exception of subtle color change, it was difficult to tell the various creations apart.

“THIS,” our teacher told us, holding up a brown feathered hook topped with black chenille that mimicked a head, “is a WOOLY BUGGER.”

“AND THIS,” our teacher told us, holding up another, similar hook but this time with a touch of glitter,”is a SALTY BUGGER”.

I thought about this a moment, trying to categorize the new information in my own way and blurted out, “So, a salty bugger is just a wooly bugger with bling?”

The instructor thought about this a moment, looked at me as if I was suddenly growing a third eye, and said “I suppose, yes.” in a way that people do when they think the person their talking to probably should be committed.

When this was done, we ate a wonderful lunch and we all sat around munching and envisioning vast new adventures in fishing.

After lunch, we shuffled to a gymnasium, where we picked up our rods and were taught to move the rods quickly and precisely so that we too could place a lure in precisely the right spot on a river or lake.  Our instructor patiently explained that we must “wave the rod between the 10 spot and the 12 spot” on an imaginary clock.  The force of the movement would gently cause the line to be drawn out and we’d be casting perfectly in no time.  He said this as he calmly sent almost 60 feet of line into an almost perfectly straight line.

We then toddled out to the gym floor with our own rods and began moving our rods to project fishing line into an imaginary river.  Of course, it looked more like 20 adults spasmodically waving sticks at an imaginary creature in the middle of the room.  Car antennas have seen less vigorous waving in the midst of hurricanes.  Our instructors patiently guided us saying “10 and 2, remember?! 10 and 2″.  By the end of the two hours of rod waving, er, casting, I’d say I was actually beginning to understand it.  And was developing a bit of carpal tunnel to take home as a souvenir.

So Dad and M and I had a wonderful day.  We are starting to save up for new rods and reels, waders, and fly tying equipment.  We’ve done the math, and this will all work out okay – sure we’ll buy so much equipment we’ll be too poor to grocery shop BUT we’ll have plenty of fish!  We can’t go wrong!

 

 

Carnage and Squeaky Toys

I realized recently, that when a squeaky toy comes into our home, it must think “Well, here I am…hell.”

You see, we have two dogs, a cat and a parrot.  The first dog, is a chihuahua and is too refined, delicate and lazy to bother with silly things like toys.  And while you’re up could you get her a glass of water too, thankyouverymuch.  Yes, she’s spoiled.  Then we have our little boy, who a recent doggy DNA test revealed is part shih tzu, part Chihuahua, and some other indistinguishable breed.  The boy, well, he ran on the streets for almost a year before I became friends with him by feeding him cheese.  Since he’s moved in with us, he no longer can eat his fill of birds and squirrels, so squeaky toys give him all of the horrifying sounds and none of the mess of murder.

A dog trainer told me that that is why dog’s like squeak toys – it sounds to them like they are killing prey.  I was horrified and now that I’ve seen what happens to squeak toys, feel terrible for those real critters that were in the boy’s path of destruction.  It must have been a rough way to go.

Take for instance, Mr. Penguin.  Or in this case, just Mr. Penguin’s leg:

That’s all that’s left of Mr. Penguin.  You’ll note a small tuft of stuffing material.  Well, that came from Mr. Chicken, who was disemboweled and lays not that far away…

As you can see, Mr. Duck is reeling from the carnage, but surprisingly, is still in one piece.

Not even Santa is safe in this house.  One whole arm ripped off…

But the kicker has to be this…

Yup, that’s right.  Nothing left but a squeaker.  Or should I say, the squeaker formerly known as Mr. Moose.  Oh the humanity!

Anyways, I just wanted to show the evidence prior to cleaning up the blood bath.

Hope you all have a peaceful, squeaky weekend.

Dirty parrot, death by trowel, and snow

I’m not 100% on this, but I’m fairly certain my parrot is making sex noises.  Now, they aren’t sex noises I’ve ever heard in this house, so, if they are in fact sex noises, they are someone else’s sex noises. That’s pretty disturbing, as you can probably imagine.  Elvis sits quietly on his perch, but then suddenly and inexplicably will make this cooing sound that eventually crescendos into an odd moan.  I am hoping, sincerely hoping, that this is actually birdy snoring and is common in the wild.  But I can’t confirm yet, as the Audubon Society has not returned my phone calls or the email I sent with an attached sound file.  They probably think I’m a pervy or something, when in reality, I just want to know what my bird is moaning about.

In other news I’ve been taking a Master Gardener course.  If you’ve ever considered this but thought twice, I encourage you to give it a try.  You have to fill out some paperwork, like a permission form and a waiver saying you won’t spray anyone with a shot of chemicals during pesticide application class, but other than that, it’s been great.  The level of gardening experience amongst my classmates varies widely – most of us are novices, while some have a bit of experience.  There is one particular classmate who seems to know all of the answers and at times interrupts the teacher to let him know this fact.  The rude interruptions cause me to day dream of beating said person with a trowel during gardening volunteer hours. 

Lastly, if we get any more snow, I’m going in to full hibernation.  I’ve started to build my own plant stand with grow lights, and I might just snap and convert it into a tanning bed so I can get Vitamin D.    It could work.  Or at least it will put me in a different room so the parrot can have private time.

Let’s put the FUN in, er, finance…

So, I’m working with a financial advisor to shape up our finances.  Of course, one doesn’t do much else with a financial advisor right?  No one says “I’m working with a financial advisor on tango lessons.”  Anyways, the whole process involves an in-depth assessment of our family finances, starting with a painstakingly detailed budget.

I’ve decided I’m going to make my budget the most fun budget ever.  Never mind that every time I look at it I’m made aware of my crippling debt and life-long servitude to “the man”.  I’ve decided that my financial advisor will say “wow, this spreadsheet is a thrill a minute!”  Because really, isn’t that everyone’s lifelong goal?  To have a budget spreadsheet that brings just a bit of joy to the world?

So, I’ve added all sorts of sidenotes to help liven things up.  For instance:

Credit Card Debt B: $120 (from the emergency vet clinic visit.  did you know that dogs can pinch nerves in their necks by taking flying leaps off your couch after seeing you open a bag of dog treats?)

Grocery Bill: $150 (I’ll buy the $1 loaf of bread if you tell me I have to, but I won’t give up my caviar)

Auto Loan: $18,000 (I always wanted a red Lamborghini, but they were all out of Lamborghinis the day I went to the dealership! So rude!)

College Debt: Too damn much.  (Who says the poor college student days have to end?  Let the fun keep on coming…except now I don’t have to go to class!  And the food is better…please see line item notated as “Grocery Bill”)

Church Tithing: $40

Alcohol: $60 (Yes, we spend more on beer than we do on church tithing.  Apparently the road to hell is paved with Sam Adams seasonal collection bottles)

I think my financial advisor thinks it’s funny.  Or that I’m nuts.  Or maybe that I’m funny and nuts.   It’s just my way of helping the world – joy through budgeting.