So, if you're wondering why there's a fairytale on this blog it's because I have finally gone completely insane. Really tinfoil hat wearing, act like Napoleon, call the men with the butterfly nets crazy.
Okay, that's a lie, I wrote it for one of the kids. I just enjoy madness so much I was hoping the bend would appear in the road soon so I could go round it.
This morning Aiden found his lovely new backpack (thanks ever so, Jean) and completely destroyed all of his school supplies, then he reprogrammed the television so everyone is speaking Chinese, and he topped off the morning by deciding to sail around the world in the bathtub, apparently blowing bubbles with the good soap all the way.
I don't know about you but if I give those Dove soap people half of Jimmy's paycheck for some of that grand anti-aging stuff I expect more than a good session of foaming bubbles with a toddler.
I know what you're thinking, you're saying, "Where were his adults?" aren't you? I know because I ask myself that question pretty often, too. I would like to be Saint Grandmother and raise the children, but my baby will be twenty in November and as much as I enjoyed his childhood, I don't really care to re-live it.
Also I am very tired and prefer to save my energy for things like driving his mother completely insane by letting him do things like sleep in his new shoes.
And where are his parents? Well, his father is working in Iowa this week and is not telepathic, so he has no idea what is going on here most of the time. You can only call home about 65 times a day and then your boss starts to wonder if maybe you aren't talking to the Colombian drug lords, so there is a limit to what I can hope for from his dad.
His mother, now, I believe is a vampire. She hasn't said so, but I noticed that she doesn't ever rise until sunset and daylight seems to be very harmful to her. The last time I woke her before four PM she screamed in agony a lot.
You're wondering why I don't go throw her butt out of bed, aren't you? Well, that's a long and involved story, but doing so would mean negotiating through the upstairs til I found her bed and frankly, I'm just not that adventurous. God only knows what's up there. I haven't seen it since before heart surgery and anyway, it's their space, I don't like to invade it.
I like to rest instead. I have done my best to remove all poisonous substances from down here and hidden all the meds on a very high shelf and I'm afraid that's the extent of how involved I'm willing to get.
Also, even though she will only work after dark I'm the only person in my neighborhood that has a full time live in cook and housekeeper and good help is SO hard to find, so I don't want to make mine mad.
Anyway, this is our last day of summer vacation and then my little guy is off to start school, which is complety absurd if you're only four but far be it from me to suggest that letting babies become children before you ship them off would be a better idea.
I wouldn't want to cut into some parent's "me time".
I think that if you don't want to raise children, perhaps you should refrain from giving birth to any.
On the other hand, there will always be people like me to be the neighborhood mother or grandma on call. If you don't mind that I'm the one raising your children I'm not going to complain, either. I like children.
Just so you know, you have no secrets. When you're home every day after school with a cookie in one hand and some milk in another, and you're more interested in hearing about a kid's day than anything else in the world, there is no limit at all to what children will tell you.
You don't even have to ask. I have social services on speed dial and I'll try to remember not to talk about your financial situation, that disagreement you had with your spouse last night and your child's fears about whether he can live up to your expectations.
You can forbid him to visit but he's going to anyway. I may not have your income, but then you don't have my knowledge.
That's why I smile like that in church.
Monday, August 31, 2009
Sunday, August 30, 2009
A Fairy Tale
Once upon a time, long ago and far away, on the far side of a mountain and across the sea, there stood in a very untidy yard, a most unusual house.
It had clapboard sides and an uneven roof and looked rather like it had grown instead of being built. Which was how you would expect it to look, if you knew it had been planted, which in fact it had, some time ago,
It was Grandmother's house and she had grown it herself so that it would exactly suit her when fully mature. And it did.
It had very uneven walls and a floor that tended to slope in odd places. This was, Grandmother would say, because the furniture could never get comfortable on a completely even floor. The walnut secretary could not rest it's interesting nooks and crannies behind it's sloping lid unless it could lean back in a restful fashion and cozy up to the wall.
An unhappy secretary would be a dreadful thing to have in your house. The field mice would never sleep curled in it's pigeon holes in winter if it were unhappy. When field mice leave the garden in the fall and begin to make their winter home it is better if the secretary sighs in contentment than if it groans in discomfort.
Grandmother's secretary was very contented. And the rest of the furniture was, too. From the very sleepy overstuffed sofa to the stove where the teakettle whistled happily to itself, all of Grandmother's things were just like Grandmother. A bit odd, but very satisfied.
Her house was exactly the right size (she had tended it very carefully as it grew and pruned it back whenever it was tempted to get too large). Grandmother grew her house in the exact middle of her garden, behind the rambling hedges but before the quiet river that wound it's way lazily through the village.
Lazy rivers are by far the best kind because they only chuckle over stones and never roar. Grandmother's house often smiled at the river and shook itself just a litte in happiness when the river smiled back. Now and then they spoke, but very quietly and no one knows what they said.
Every morning, in nice weather, Grandmother went to visit the flowers in her garden. Flowers like to be visited, and Grandmother's were especially well behaved. This was because they greatly enjoyed the company of fairies, and knew very well that flower fairies insist on a well behaved home.
A certain amount of dancing in the wind was expected and allowed, but no ill bred nodding would be tolerated. Grandmother was very careful of her fairies and insisted that there should always be bumblebees in her garden, because there is nothing a flower fairy likes better than a nice bumblebee ride on a sunny morning.
On this particular morning Grandmother was expecting company and so she hurried a little over placing the new toad houses under the Lilacs, where the Toad family had indicated it would most like to live.
There is no point at all in having a garden if you don't properly place the toad houses. There is nothing a self respecting toad likes better than a well placed house near a lilac. The mosquitos are particularly tasty when eaten under a lilac. And properly prepared, of course. Mrs. Toad served an excellent dinner of fly and toasted mosquito garnish. In fact, it was quite a favorite of Mr. Toad, and he insisted it be served at least once a week, usually on a sunday.
Since this particular day was a sunday, Mrs. Toad was especially anxious to get the moving overas early in the day as could be managed. Grandmother was very fond of Mrs. Toad and so she was hurrying. I expect that's why she failed to see the.....
To be continued.
It had clapboard sides and an uneven roof and looked rather like it had grown instead of being built. Which was how you would expect it to look, if you knew it had been planted, which in fact it had, some time ago,
It was Grandmother's house and she had grown it herself so that it would exactly suit her when fully mature. And it did.
It had very uneven walls and a floor that tended to slope in odd places. This was, Grandmother would say, because the furniture could never get comfortable on a completely even floor. The walnut secretary could not rest it's interesting nooks and crannies behind it's sloping lid unless it could lean back in a restful fashion and cozy up to the wall.
An unhappy secretary would be a dreadful thing to have in your house. The field mice would never sleep curled in it's pigeon holes in winter if it were unhappy. When field mice leave the garden in the fall and begin to make their winter home it is better if the secretary sighs in contentment than if it groans in discomfort.
Grandmother's secretary was very contented. And the rest of the furniture was, too. From the very sleepy overstuffed sofa to the stove where the teakettle whistled happily to itself, all of Grandmother's things were just like Grandmother. A bit odd, but very satisfied.
Her house was exactly the right size (she had tended it very carefully as it grew and pruned it back whenever it was tempted to get too large). Grandmother grew her house in the exact middle of her garden, behind the rambling hedges but before the quiet river that wound it's way lazily through the village.
Lazy rivers are by far the best kind because they only chuckle over stones and never roar. Grandmother's house often smiled at the river and shook itself just a litte in happiness when the river smiled back. Now and then they spoke, but very quietly and no one knows what they said.
Every morning, in nice weather, Grandmother went to visit the flowers in her garden. Flowers like to be visited, and Grandmother's were especially well behaved. This was because they greatly enjoyed the company of fairies, and knew very well that flower fairies insist on a well behaved home.
A certain amount of dancing in the wind was expected and allowed, but no ill bred nodding would be tolerated. Grandmother was very careful of her fairies and insisted that there should always be bumblebees in her garden, because there is nothing a flower fairy likes better than a nice bumblebee ride on a sunny morning.
On this particular morning Grandmother was expecting company and so she hurried a little over placing the new toad houses under the Lilacs, where the Toad family had indicated it would most like to live.
There is no point at all in having a garden if you don't properly place the toad houses. There is nothing a self respecting toad likes better than a well placed house near a lilac. The mosquitos are particularly tasty when eaten under a lilac. And properly prepared, of course. Mrs. Toad served an excellent dinner of fly and toasted mosquito garnish. In fact, it was quite a favorite of Mr. Toad, and he insisted it be served at least once a week, usually on a sunday.
Since this particular day was a sunday, Mrs. Toad was especially anxious to get the moving overas early in the day as could be managed. Grandmother was very fond of Mrs. Toad and so she was hurrying. I expect that's why she failed to see the.....
To be continued.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Truck drivers
Before I go poking fun at truck drivers (which I plan to do a LOT of) I should probably tell you the truth about them, they deserve some good press, after all.
Although they may seem a little rough around the edges, almost every one of them is a serious professional. They not only pilot that enormous truck and trailer into places and out of situations that would make you and I faint dead away in shock, they also drive in all sorts of conditions with care and dedication to our well being.
They drive not only for themselves, but for every other vehicle that is sharing the road with them, because they know all too well what it can mean if any other vehicle cuts them off, drives in front of them, forces another car or motorcycle into their draft, stops abruptly directly in front of them or chooses to apply it's brakes just as the road freezes or it begins to rain.
I have never spoken to one who said he could continue driving if he was involved in a serious accident that hurt or killed others. Even if not his fault, he knows what damage that tractor and trailer can do, and fault isn't going to matter if he has to wade through your blood to get off the road.
I'm saying "he" in a generic sense here, but a lot of women choose this profession, as well, and they deserve to be recognized.
A Driver knows how to get to almost anyplace he has ever delivered, he has to remember thousands of directions, locations and circumstances and he has to be able to negotiate them in any conditions at the time the client expects his freight and with a cheerful attitude.
His GPS is his best friend because it has allowed him the luxury of giving more of his attention to what's around him than to where he's headed. His laptop is his constant companion, it holds his logs, runs his PC Miler program, connects him to the universe and generally makes his life simpler.
He knows how to print and scan logs from anywhere in the country and he knows that the GPS locater in his call comm better agree with the paper. He can tell you where to get a meal, a shower and a good cup of coffee and can also save your life if he has to. He carries white sheets, first aid kits, his cell phone and probably knows CPR.
He'll give you (literally) the shirt off his back if you are cold and all the money in his wallet if you ask him. That sounds like a lot but he isn't carrying that much cash at any one time. If he has to go without supper to feed somebody out there, he will and he's a sucker for a good cause and always willing to donate.
He will never be rich but he will always be satisfied and you can't say fairer than that.
A man who can turn around and back a 53 foot trailer into a dock from a street that was built for the horse and carriage while talking on the phone and doing his weekly paperwork is a good kind of person to have in a crisis, I wouldn't trade mine for the world.
He's my best friend, my dearest love, my hero and the guy that sees to it that when you want to buy groceries they are in the store waiting for you and when you need emergency surgery the gauze pads and hemostats are available to the guy stocking the OR.
He is intelligent, kind, thoughtful and a whole lot of fun to have around and the next time you see him, smile. It means a lot to him.
Although they may seem a little rough around the edges, almost every one of them is a serious professional. They not only pilot that enormous truck and trailer into places and out of situations that would make you and I faint dead away in shock, they also drive in all sorts of conditions with care and dedication to our well being.
They drive not only for themselves, but for every other vehicle that is sharing the road with them, because they know all too well what it can mean if any other vehicle cuts them off, drives in front of them, forces another car or motorcycle into their draft, stops abruptly directly in front of them or chooses to apply it's brakes just as the road freezes or it begins to rain.
I have never spoken to one who said he could continue driving if he was involved in a serious accident that hurt or killed others. Even if not his fault, he knows what damage that tractor and trailer can do, and fault isn't going to matter if he has to wade through your blood to get off the road.
I'm saying "he" in a generic sense here, but a lot of women choose this profession, as well, and they deserve to be recognized.
A Driver knows how to get to almost anyplace he has ever delivered, he has to remember thousands of directions, locations and circumstances and he has to be able to negotiate them in any conditions at the time the client expects his freight and with a cheerful attitude.
His GPS is his best friend because it has allowed him the luxury of giving more of his attention to what's around him than to where he's headed. His laptop is his constant companion, it holds his logs, runs his PC Miler program, connects him to the universe and generally makes his life simpler.
He knows how to print and scan logs from anywhere in the country and he knows that the GPS locater in his call comm better agree with the paper. He can tell you where to get a meal, a shower and a good cup of coffee and can also save your life if he has to. He carries white sheets, first aid kits, his cell phone and probably knows CPR.
He'll give you (literally) the shirt off his back if you are cold and all the money in his wallet if you ask him. That sounds like a lot but he isn't carrying that much cash at any one time. If he has to go without supper to feed somebody out there, he will and he's a sucker for a good cause and always willing to donate.
He will never be rich but he will always be satisfied and you can't say fairer than that.
A man who can turn around and back a 53 foot trailer into a dock from a street that was built for the horse and carriage while talking on the phone and doing his weekly paperwork is a good kind of person to have in a crisis, I wouldn't trade mine for the world.
He's my best friend, my dearest love, my hero and the guy that sees to it that when you want to buy groceries they are in the store waiting for you and when you need emergency surgery the gauze pads and hemostats are available to the guy stocking the OR.
He is intelligent, kind, thoughtful and a whole lot of fun to have around and the next time you see him, smile. It means a lot to him.
Pilly in the Truck
So, if I was really good at this, I guess I would tell it all in sequence, as it happened, but if you know me at all you are aware already of how foolish it would be to expect that, At least, from me.
I jump around a lot. Just so you know.
Before leaving I had asked my Dear Husband if there were any mountains to go over that had roads steep enough to require a runaway ramp. He said no. He lied.
When you come to a very large sign that announces, "ALL trucks MUST pull into lot to check brakes before descending mountain" that is really State Patrolese for, "Really steep mothertrucking hill dead ahead. Begin prayers now."
It was a six percent grade with three--no one, not two, count 'em THREE runaway ramps. I was thrilled, really. On an interstate that all put plotzes over the thought that you might pull off, stop, stand, sit or otherwise hesitate anywhere along it's length, it is alarming to read, "Trucks MAY pull off and stop to cool brakes." Oh, goody.
I can think of nothing more delightful, really, than pausing on the precipice to cool my brakes. Only trucks can use the right hand lane (the one closest to the drop) because all trucks must have access to the runaway ramp.
We, ourselves, did not use our brakes at all. We did some cool thing called shifting into eighth gear and "walking" down the mountain. Twice we passed under signs that stated loudly, "If your speed exceeds 35mph you are going too fast! Reduce speed NOW." I was all in favor of that, I can tell you.
Halfway down the mountain we passed a bed and breakfast sign. I had no interest in breakfast and I was pretty sure bed wasn't going to do me any good, either. While descending Mount Olympus there, no one cares about your bed and breakfast. Put up a sign that says, "Cheap parachutes" and you might get my attention. Bed and Breakfast, no.
At the bottom some industrious soul had made a hand painted sign and nailed it to a tree. "Jesus is Coming," it said. Dude, I've got news for you. Your wait is over, Jesus is here. If you're at the bottom of that hill and your heart is still beating, Jesus joined the wagon train somewhere around the bed and breakfast sign and he's been with you ever since, you can quit waiting.
You want to put up a useful sign put one up that says, "Clean Underwear next five miles," There's a sign that will make you some money
So, anyway, North Carolin is really beautiful. Not that mountain part, but the rest of it is worth seeing. They have some great tunnels right through the mountain. I personally feel that if we were going to tunnel through the mountain maybe we could have started at the bottom and completely done away with runaway ramps altogether. But apparently, no one but me has considered that.
Maybe there's a good reason for tunneling through five feet from the top of Mount Everest to shave thirty seconds off your trip, but if so, no one has informed me of it to date. I would just like to suggest that it might be a good idea to start further down. I don't even like tunnels, I'm claustrophobic, but even I prefer tunnels to parasailing over the top like we do now.
Now that I think of it, it's not surprising Jesus was there, we were only about ten feet from his house there in heaven and he probably thought we would feel bad if he didn't at least step out on the porch and wave.
I didn't see him on account of I had my head between my knees, clutching my Rosary beads and talking to his mother at the time, but still.
It was in Paducah, Kentucky that I learned what was wrong with the coffee. I had noticed that coffee wasn't working like it should. Jimmy went in every morning and brought me some nice coffee from the truckstop, which was surely thoughtful of him, but it didn't seem to have any guts to it.
I like coffee to kick start my heart and scream loudly at my brain until my mind consents to wake up. And it wasn't happening. And that's a little odd because truck drivers, of all the people in the world should probably be experts on coffee. I mean, now that west Coast Turnaround is no longer available, you would think they would be relying heavily on the coffee.
Okay, some wimpy mother's group got a law passed that states that for every ten consecutive hours you drive you must be off duty for fourteen, and there is less need for truly butt kicking road dope, but still, you would think they would still want some serious coffee.
So, anyway, in Kentucky I went in to get my own coffee and when Mr. Professional directed me to the very lightest little old lady coffee in the world, because, he said, "I always drink this one because it doesn't have so much bite to it," I realized wherein lay the problem, and took my self to the spigot with the darkest roast, most potent, serious coffee in the United States (it's Pilot's own blend, incidentally) and finally found something worth drinking.
As I was preparing to add the four containers of cream it takes for that coffee, I noticed fortunately that the little half and half containers were black, which was odd, so I read them. And they were not cream, they were something called a "Trucker's Shot" which is apparently enough caffeine to make your own jet fuel.
So I had cream, instead, because even I did not really need to fly over the mountain without my truck. I did so enjoy Kentucky though because all the people there are nice, which you cannot say for southern Illinois (Not counting Cairo) where I met a lovely little girl who got a little snippy when I asked her a question regarding her town, which apparently, I pronounced wrong.
Anybody might have, it had about six Qs, no vowels to speak of and may have been an Indian word for, "Kiss your white ass goodbye, we just sharpened the scalping knives" and if the settlers in question had been this girl's ancestors my sympathy lies entirely with the native peoples, I assure you.
I would just like to state for the historical record and the edification of female teenagers in Illinois who work at truck stops that it is not a mark of any kind of superiority to be able to correctly pronounce the name of the town you were born in. Everyone can do that. I know dogs who can even come close. Being polite to visitors, now, is a skill we all should cultivate.
To balance that, however, there was a truly lovely gentleman in North Carolina who not only held the door for me but said, "Welcome home!" which I thought was a rather lovely way to welcome people to your state.
So, anyway, there's more but Aiden and Nina just discovered some shampoo with a pump lid and are now busy decorating the kitchen floor and themselves with a pearly pink substance I can only assume is soap. And as I am not sure it is edible and safe for eyes, I had better go.
I'll tell you about the rivers and the photographs later.
And I AM going to be a grandma for the twelfth time in APRIL. Go granny, go granny, go granny, go!!!!
I jump around a lot. Just so you know.
Before leaving I had asked my Dear Husband if there were any mountains to go over that had roads steep enough to require a runaway ramp. He said no. He lied.
When you come to a very large sign that announces, "ALL trucks MUST pull into lot to check brakes before descending mountain" that is really State Patrolese for, "Really steep mothertrucking hill dead ahead. Begin prayers now."
It was a six percent grade with three--no one, not two, count 'em THREE runaway ramps. I was thrilled, really. On an interstate that all put plotzes over the thought that you might pull off, stop, stand, sit or otherwise hesitate anywhere along it's length, it is alarming to read, "Trucks MAY pull off and stop to cool brakes." Oh, goody.
I can think of nothing more delightful, really, than pausing on the precipice to cool my brakes. Only trucks can use the right hand lane (the one closest to the drop) because all trucks must have access to the runaway ramp.
We, ourselves, did not use our brakes at all. We did some cool thing called shifting into eighth gear and "walking" down the mountain. Twice we passed under signs that stated loudly, "If your speed exceeds 35mph you are going too fast! Reduce speed NOW." I was all in favor of that, I can tell you.
Halfway down the mountain we passed a bed and breakfast sign. I had no interest in breakfast and I was pretty sure bed wasn't going to do me any good, either. While descending Mount Olympus there, no one cares about your bed and breakfast. Put up a sign that says, "Cheap parachutes" and you might get my attention. Bed and Breakfast, no.
At the bottom some industrious soul had made a hand painted sign and nailed it to a tree. "Jesus is Coming," it said. Dude, I've got news for you. Your wait is over, Jesus is here. If you're at the bottom of that hill and your heart is still beating, Jesus joined the wagon train somewhere around the bed and breakfast sign and he's been with you ever since, you can quit waiting.
You want to put up a useful sign put one up that says, "Clean Underwear next five miles," There's a sign that will make you some money
So, anyway, North Carolin is really beautiful. Not that mountain part, but the rest of it is worth seeing. They have some great tunnels right through the mountain. I personally feel that if we were going to tunnel through the mountain maybe we could have started at the bottom and completely done away with runaway ramps altogether. But apparently, no one but me has considered that.
Maybe there's a good reason for tunneling through five feet from the top of Mount Everest to shave thirty seconds off your trip, but if so, no one has informed me of it to date. I would just like to suggest that it might be a good idea to start further down. I don't even like tunnels, I'm claustrophobic, but even I prefer tunnels to parasailing over the top like we do now.
Now that I think of it, it's not surprising Jesus was there, we were only about ten feet from his house there in heaven and he probably thought we would feel bad if he didn't at least step out on the porch and wave.
I didn't see him on account of I had my head between my knees, clutching my Rosary beads and talking to his mother at the time, but still.
It was in Paducah, Kentucky that I learned what was wrong with the coffee. I had noticed that coffee wasn't working like it should. Jimmy went in every morning and brought me some nice coffee from the truckstop, which was surely thoughtful of him, but it didn't seem to have any guts to it.
I like coffee to kick start my heart and scream loudly at my brain until my mind consents to wake up. And it wasn't happening. And that's a little odd because truck drivers, of all the people in the world should probably be experts on coffee. I mean, now that west Coast Turnaround is no longer available, you would think they would be relying heavily on the coffee.
Okay, some wimpy mother's group got a law passed that states that for every ten consecutive hours you drive you must be off duty for fourteen, and there is less need for truly butt kicking road dope, but still, you would think they would still want some serious coffee.
So, anyway, in Kentucky I went in to get my own coffee and when Mr. Professional directed me to the very lightest little old lady coffee in the world, because, he said, "I always drink this one because it doesn't have so much bite to it," I realized wherein lay the problem, and took my self to the spigot with the darkest roast, most potent, serious coffee in the United States (it's Pilot's own blend, incidentally) and finally found something worth drinking.
As I was preparing to add the four containers of cream it takes for that coffee, I noticed fortunately that the little half and half containers were black, which was odd, so I read them. And they were not cream, they were something called a "Trucker's Shot" which is apparently enough caffeine to make your own jet fuel.
So I had cream, instead, because even I did not really need to fly over the mountain without my truck. I did so enjoy Kentucky though because all the people there are nice, which you cannot say for southern Illinois (Not counting Cairo) where I met a lovely little girl who got a little snippy when I asked her a question regarding her town, which apparently, I pronounced wrong.
Anybody might have, it had about six Qs, no vowels to speak of and may have been an Indian word for, "Kiss your white ass goodbye, we just sharpened the scalping knives" and if the settlers in question had been this girl's ancestors my sympathy lies entirely with the native peoples, I assure you.
I would just like to state for the historical record and the edification of female teenagers in Illinois who work at truck stops that it is not a mark of any kind of superiority to be able to correctly pronounce the name of the town you were born in. Everyone can do that. I know dogs who can even come close. Being polite to visitors, now, is a skill we all should cultivate.
To balance that, however, there was a truly lovely gentleman in North Carolina who not only held the door for me but said, "Welcome home!" which I thought was a rather lovely way to welcome people to your state.
So, anyway, there's more but Aiden and Nina just discovered some shampoo with a pump lid and are now busy decorating the kitchen floor and themselves with a pearly pink substance I can only assume is soap. And as I am not sure it is edible and safe for eyes, I had better go.
I'll tell you about the rivers and the photographs later.
And I AM going to be a grandma for the twelfth time in APRIL. Go granny, go granny, go granny, go!!!!
Friday, August 21, 2009
Home again
Actually I'm just home for overnight and then I am going to Charlotte, North Carolina. Which is bound to be a distinct improvement on that three days of rain in Cincinnati I just lived through.
You see, there is a kind of formula trucking people have to follow. First, the satellite did not agree with Jimmy's log about what time we left Beloit. I bet that sounds like small potatos to you, but let me assure you it's actually a very delicately choreographed dance that only works if everyone does his part just when he is supposed to.
It goes something like this. First Jimmy calls his dispatcher and complains about the load he got and expresses his disappointment that it wasn't what he thought it should be. Then Lori goes to lunch, because Jimmy really loves her and he would never be mean to her. I love her, too. She's a peach. Really.
But someone has to hear the whole thing and it's better if it's someone we don't care for, who shall remain nameless, I'll just look at the party and whistle (Mark) and there is this whole male testosterone thing that involves everybody calling everybody else a son of a...something...at least four times.
And then Jimmy has to take a break of 14 hours before he can drive again, which doesn't exactly endear dispatch to him, so we go to the truck stop to watch some movies.
Well, I watch some movies, Jimmy calls a few trucking companies and asks for job applications and then he does this thing that's kind of like the mating dance of the wild wood duck where he calls every truckdriver whose number is stored in his phone--even the ones that work at a different company--and they have this kind of festival of outrage. That uses up like four hours.
It's not that funny but when it's raining and you've already taken all the naps one can usefully take for one day, it's at least something to listen to. You can't hear the movie anyway, what with the rain and the phone commiserating and all, so you might as well settle in with some popcorn and watch for awhile.
Then there is a brief pause to allow all the truckdrivers that work at your company to call dispatch and complain and to promise that if one of them quits they will all quit on account of it's some secret code of truckdrivers that states if Bill quits you have to go with him. I don't know why, I don't make the rules, I'm just telling you how it works.
So then pretty soon dispatch calls us again and says will we please not take fourteen drivers with us en bloc to Marten (or whoever the lucky company is this week for the purposes of discussion) and we allow as how we might reconsider if things were to improve but we aren't spending four days driving twelve miles because the baby needs a new pair of shoes and the dog just found out she has to have surgery and Shirley Temple might come in there somewhere, too, by that time I was getting tired. But I think there was a curly headed orphan somewhere and we might have been going to tie dispatch to some railroad tracks with a train coming, you know the kind of stuff I mean.
So, anyway, eventually we get a good load and Lori comes back from lunch and everybody is happy again.
Well, not me because it was still Ohio and it was still raining and I was there long enough that me and the cash register girl had begun exchanging knitting patterns and inviting each other to things like our kids' weddings and family reunions and such like that. But it wasn't as bad as that three days I spent in a swamp in Georgia, so I'm willing to overlook it.
I'm sure my trip to North Carolina will be far less dramatic. Unless someone else gets mad at dispatch and we have to promise to leave if he leaves. It happens about twice a week so I don't even know why it works except one time a bunch of them must have left in a herd and it made a really big impression on dispatch.
Anyway, I am flying around doing laundry and packing and trying to spend ten minutes with all my grandchildren, so I'll tell you all about the rest of it when I get home, again. And I hope you have a marvelously happy week--(I just found out I MIGHT be going to be a Grandma for the twelfth time so PLEASE cross all your fingers and toes for me! I'm whispering this part because it's a secret).
You see, there is a kind of formula trucking people have to follow. First, the satellite did not agree with Jimmy's log about what time we left Beloit. I bet that sounds like small potatos to you, but let me assure you it's actually a very delicately choreographed dance that only works if everyone does his part just when he is supposed to.
It goes something like this. First Jimmy calls his dispatcher and complains about the load he got and expresses his disappointment that it wasn't what he thought it should be. Then Lori goes to lunch, because Jimmy really loves her and he would never be mean to her. I love her, too. She's a peach. Really.
But someone has to hear the whole thing and it's better if it's someone we don't care for, who shall remain nameless, I'll just look at the party and whistle (Mark) and there is this whole male testosterone thing that involves everybody calling everybody else a son of a...something...at least four times.
And then Jimmy has to take a break of 14 hours before he can drive again, which doesn't exactly endear dispatch to him, so we go to the truck stop to watch some movies.
Well, I watch some movies, Jimmy calls a few trucking companies and asks for job applications and then he does this thing that's kind of like the mating dance of the wild wood duck where he calls every truckdriver whose number is stored in his phone--even the ones that work at a different company--and they have this kind of festival of outrage. That uses up like four hours.
It's not that funny but when it's raining and you've already taken all the naps one can usefully take for one day, it's at least something to listen to. You can't hear the movie anyway, what with the rain and the phone commiserating and all, so you might as well settle in with some popcorn and watch for awhile.
Then there is a brief pause to allow all the truckdrivers that work at your company to call dispatch and complain and to promise that if one of them quits they will all quit on account of it's some secret code of truckdrivers that states if Bill quits you have to go with him. I don't know why, I don't make the rules, I'm just telling you how it works.
So then pretty soon dispatch calls us again and says will we please not take fourteen drivers with us en bloc to Marten (or whoever the lucky company is this week for the purposes of discussion) and we allow as how we might reconsider if things were to improve but we aren't spending four days driving twelve miles because the baby needs a new pair of shoes and the dog just found out she has to have surgery and Shirley Temple might come in there somewhere, too, by that time I was getting tired. But I think there was a curly headed orphan somewhere and we might have been going to tie dispatch to some railroad tracks with a train coming, you know the kind of stuff I mean.
So, anyway, eventually we get a good load and Lori comes back from lunch and everybody is happy again.
Well, not me because it was still Ohio and it was still raining and I was there long enough that me and the cash register girl had begun exchanging knitting patterns and inviting each other to things like our kids' weddings and family reunions and such like that. But it wasn't as bad as that three days I spent in a swamp in Georgia, so I'm willing to overlook it.
I'm sure my trip to North Carolina will be far less dramatic. Unless someone else gets mad at dispatch and we have to promise to leave if he leaves. It happens about twice a week so I don't even know why it works except one time a bunch of them must have left in a herd and it made a really big impression on dispatch.
Anyway, I am flying around doing laundry and packing and trying to spend ten minutes with all my grandchildren, so I'll tell you all about the rest of it when I get home, again. And I hope you have a marvelously happy week--(I just found out I MIGHT be going to be a Grandma for the twelfth time so PLEASE cross all your fingers and toes for me! I'm whispering this part because it's a secret).
Saturday, August 15, 2009
My Trip
So, anyway, on Monday I am going in the truck with my Jimmy, again. And despite the fact that I got a perfect score on the "What kind of truckdriver are you?" quiz over there on facebook, I still have to promise that I will at no time, under any circumstances whatsoever, attempt to drive the truck.
They're awfully fussy about that clause. Why? Do wives and children often threaten to drive the trucks? You wouldn't think it would be an issue. It's a big truck. It's noisy, and most of us don't even understand how to make it move, and if we accidentally succeeded in doing so I am sure we would pass out immediately from shock.
Still, I am willing to state for the historical record that I will never, ever attempt to drive the truck.
I am still hoping to meet one of those Lot Lizard women and have some coffe with her and have her answer all the questions I have about the prostitution industry as it relates to truckdriving, but I have already promised that I wouldn't let her get in the precious truck, so I don't see what they get so excited about when I mention it.
It's a perfectly straightforward proposal, I get the hooker in the truckstop and we get chatty in a nice booth, and she tells me everything I ever wanted to know. Like what is the REAL story behind that rumor that lot lizards were selling chicken in the parking lot and why did I think they might also do laundry?
Jimmy says that idea is accounted for by those nice little TIAs I have had since I had that heart surgery, but I think that TIA story is just what we trot out when we don't want to answer the questions.
Jimmy swears he does not patronize lot lizards, not because he is morally opposed so much as because it takes all his money to maintain me. And I'm sure he is right about that.
So, anyway, having promised to not drive anything and confessed to my plans to see a hooker, there's not a lot more to do to get ready for this next trip. I filled the perscription for the Lorazapam in case we have to go over any mountains or that skyway thing they're so wildly fond of in Chicago, and I already packed my bag a week ago.
Since the grandchildren have all been so busy this summer I have had beau coup time for packing, believe me. I tried making a fort out of Jean's mattress and attacking the Triangles by myself, but somehow without Aiden it just doesn't have the same zing.
And my neighbor showed up right in the middle of it to drop off the chocolate milk and I am pretty sure she wasn't buying that story that there were more people than me upstairs and besides, a lot of people answer the door with a tinfoil sword in one hand and a princess hat in the other.
There was no need at all for her to suggest I might want to call the nice gentlemen at the psychiatric facility. Anyway, they didn't have time to play with me, either. Something about rules or work or actual people with real problems or some bunkum like that.
Still, I'm babysitting Emma tomorrow and she's 3. You can usually count on a three year old for some good imaginary play.
Of course, Emma will want to go to the playground, which in Viola some brain surgeon planted right next to the river. If you aren't already aware of this, let me point out that playground equipment is interesting to toddlers for roughly ten seconds.
After that, the the only thing anyone can think of is catching minnows off the boat landing. I don't even know why we have a boat landing, and having one, why is it in the park next to the playground?
You can't drive through the park so how are you going to get your boat to the boat landing? Boats are heavy.
In addition to which there is only one vaguely four by four spot in the river deep enough to float your boat. That would be directly in front of the boat landing. After that the river is about a foot deep and your boat isn't going to be a whole lot of use to you. Unless, of course, you want to sit in it to fish your grandchildren out of that deep spot after they fall in chasing that school of minnows .
Explaining to little people why it is not fun to wade in the river because the mud is deeper than you are tall is basically just a waste of time and energy. Your grandchildren don't care about that, they are only interested in making you sing a loud chorus of "What will we do with a drunken sailor" as a bribe to get them back to the slide.
Which is invariably when the Pastor drives by with a couple of deacons, leading to rumors that some of the congregation may have taken to drink.
And having gotten back to the slide you had better be snappy with a suggestion about why we should leave the park (and the river). Sometimes a bribe, like walking to the quick stop for a bug juice will work, but remember that involves herding toddlers three blocks down the street and back.
Once you get them in the quick stop it's not too bad, except that half of them raid the candy shelves (all within reach of the three year olds, tell me that's an accident) two of them want to help run the cash register and at least one of them insists on opening his bugjuice in the Deli, thus making hay with the sandwiches.
But eventually everybody gets home, and spongebob comes on, and we all get a cookie and fall asleep together in my chair. Now that I think of it, I'm going to miss that while I'm on the road.
On the other hand, getting to just ait still and watch the scenery pass is kind of a restful thought. And Grandpa doesn't say, "Grandma, whatch doin'?" repeatedly til you cry. And he almost never wants to have deep, philosophical discussions about frogs or where the sun goes at night.
He also has almost no interest in catching fireflys, chasing squirrels or trying to brain a Robin with a rock because shaking salt on it's tail did not noticably slow it down. No, I didn't make that up.
And he has never asked me to explain the mating habits of mosquitos on a level that reproduction can be understood at the age of four. Happily, Grandpa already knows all about reproduction and no longer feels any need at all to discuss it.
Anyway, I will tell you all about it when I get home. Whether you want to hear about it or not. That's why I have a blog, so I can talk as much as I want to.
By now, no doubt, you know why I need one.
They're awfully fussy about that clause. Why? Do wives and children often threaten to drive the trucks? You wouldn't think it would be an issue. It's a big truck. It's noisy, and most of us don't even understand how to make it move, and if we accidentally succeeded in doing so I am sure we would pass out immediately from shock.
Still, I am willing to state for the historical record that I will never, ever attempt to drive the truck.
I am still hoping to meet one of those Lot Lizard women and have some coffe with her and have her answer all the questions I have about the prostitution industry as it relates to truckdriving, but I have already promised that I wouldn't let her get in the precious truck, so I don't see what they get so excited about when I mention it.
It's a perfectly straightforward proposal, I get the hooker in the truckstop and we get chatty in a nice booth, and she tells me everything I ever wanted to know. Like what is the REAL story behind that rumor that lot lizards were selling chicken in the parking lot and why did I think they might also do laundry?
Jimmy says that idea is accounted for by those nice little TIAs I have had since I had that heart surgery, but I think that TIA story is just what we trot out when we don't want to answer the questions.
Jimmy swears he does not patronize lot lizards, not because he is morally opposed so much as because it takes all his money to maintain me. And I'm sure he is right about that.
So, anyway, having promised to not drive anything and confessed to my plans to see a hooker, there's not a lot more to do to get ready for this next trip. I filled the perscription for the Lorazapam in case we have to go over any mountains or that skyway thing they're so wildly fond of in Chicago, and I already packed my bag a week ago.
Since the grandchildren have all been so busy this summer I have had beau coup time for packing, believe me. I tried making a fort out of Jean's mattress and attacking the Triangles by myself, but somehow without Aiden it just doesn't have the same zing.
And my neighbor showed up right in the middle of it to drop off the chocolate milk and I am pretty sure she wasn't buying that story that there were more people than me upstairs and besides, a lot of people answer the door with a tinfoil sword in one hand and a princess hat in the other.
There was no need at all for her to suggest I might want to call the nice gentlemen at the psychiatric facility. Anyway, they didn't have time to play with me, either. Something about rules or work or actual people with real problems or some bunkum like that.
Still, I'm babysitting Emma tomorrow and she's 3. You can usually count on a three year old for some good imaginary play.
Of course, Emma will want to go to the playground, which in Viola some brain surgeon planted right next to the river. If you aren't already aware of this, let me point out that playground equipment is interesting to toddlers for roughly ten seconds.
After that, the the only thing anyone can think of is catching minnows off the boat landing. I don't even know why we have a boat landing, and having one, why is it in the park next to the playground?
You can't drive through the park so how are you going to get your boat to the boat landing? Boats are heavy.
In addition to which there is only one vaguely four by four spot in the river deep enough to float your boat. That would be directly in front of the boat landing. After that the river is about a foot deep and your boat isn't going to be a whole lot of use to you. Unless, of course, you want to sit in it to fish your grandchildren out of that deep spot after they fall in chasing that school of minnows .
Explaining to little people why it is not fun to wade in the river because the mud is deeper than you are tall is basically just a waste of time and energy. Your grandchildren don't care about that, they are only interested in making you sing a loud chorus of "What will we do with a drunken sailor" as a bribe to get them back to the slide.
Which is invariably when the Pastor drives by with a couple of deacons, leading to rumors that some of the congregation may have taken to drink.
And having gotten back to the slide you had better be snappy with a suggestion about why we should leave the park (and the river). Sometimes a bribe, like walking to the quick stop for a bug juice will work, but remember that involves herding toddlers three blocks down the street and back.
Once you get them in the quick stop it's not too bad, except that half of them raid the candy shelves (all within reach of the three year olds, tell me that's an accident) two of them want to help run the cash register and at least one of them insists on opening his bugjuice in the Deli, thus making hay with the sandwiches.
But eventually everybody gets home, and spongebob comes on, and we all get a cookie and fall asleep together in my chair. Now that I think of it, I'm going to miss that while I'm on the road.
On the other hand, getting to just ait still and watch the scenery pass is kind of a restful thought. And Grandpa doesn't say, "Grandma, whatch doin'?" repeatedly til you cry. And he almost never wants to have deep, philosophical discussions about frogs or where the sun goes at night.
He also has almost no interest in catching fireflys, chasing squirrels or trying to brain a Robin with a rock because shaking salt on it's tail did not noticably slow it down. No, I didn't make that up.
And he has never asked me to explain the mating habits of mosquitos on a level that reproduction can be understood at the age of four. Happily, Grandpa already knows all about reproduction and no longer feels any need at all to discuss it.
Anyway, I will tell you all about it when I get home. Whether you want to hear about it or not. That's why I have a blog, so I can talk as much as I want to.
By now, no doubt, you know why I need one.
Pilly's opening statement.
Sounds ominous, doesn't it? But it's not, I like to write a little humor, and I want the friends who read me to be able to find me, so I thought this looked better than myspace, which no one could ever find.
I'm importing a post from that blog for the first one here on account of I am very lazy and also not feeling all that funny. So here's Pilly's fish story:
Fishing Category: Life
I think that today I will have that disease that you can only get if you have been bitten by the African tse-tse fly. It's way more exotic than that UTI I just recovered from, and since I have been walking that path the village lightly calls a walking trail and the rest of us know as that old road that runs through the slough, I have enough insect bites to back up my claim.
No, the deet doesn't help and yes I have heard of bug repellent. In fact I'm something of an expert on bug repellent. Remember that guy on the old Off! Commercials who dared to stick his arm in an aquarium full of hungry mosquitos?
Well, he was a pansy
.I have personally taken up to eight grandchildren fishing at the Voila National Mosquito Breeding Grounds (hereafter referred to as Lover's lane) and let me tell you, there is absolutely nothing I don't know about bug repellent.
Avon lied about skin-so-soft, just so you know.
Just for your edification, if you are going to take people six and under fishing, don't let anybody have a hook. They're not going to catch any fish, anyway, so hooks are completely unnecessary and only useful for getting grandpa to the emergency room to have one removed from his butt.
It's fun and all, but you probably don't want your grandchildren exposed to that kind of language.
Also, the emergency room takes a dim view of having the hook removal becoming a field trip for little people who want to line up alongside the bed and give the doctor advice as to how to proceed.
Then there is the fistfight that's going to break out when you're back at the slough over who gets the "cool" fishing pole.
No matter how many fishing poles you have, only one is cool. It is always in the hands of Someone Else and can only be fairly taken through war
.Fishline can be a deadly weapon, replace it with red yarn. Yes I know how well that works in the fishing reel. Use an old reel. No sane person gives a good reel to a child under any circumstances whatsoever.
They don't have hooks, they don't need line, the fish heard the noise and have all gone upriver to La Farge. You're not there to catch fish.
At some point at least two kids will fall in the slough. The green stuff is duckweed, don't panic, it won't hurt you. The mud really is mud, however, and may contain leeches and other unpleasant things.After all, the Viola sewege treatment plant is on that road, too, but far be it from me to suggest that might be a bad idea.
Remember to add some bleach (Just a VERY LITTLE) to the bath water, you'll probably be okay
.Kids like mud, also duckweed, eventually everyone will probably "fall in" the slough. Bring towels. A sedative for grandpa won't hurt, either. I highly recommend whiskey, but valium will do if that's all you have.
Then there is the picnic, no one can go fishing without a few sandwiches. It might be a national law, I'm not sure, but in any case you should always bring sandwiches.
Bologna is nice. Peanut butter and Jelly should be called fly bait and left at home.
A good bologna sandwich and a juice box, a couple of apples that no one will eat but everyone will use for ammunition, and some cookies and you've got yourself a first rate, sloughside picnic.
Whatever you may have heard to the contrary dirt will not hurt children, not even if they accidentally eat some. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's a rite of passage.
Be sure that you know what things like poison ivy look like in the wild, also explore the pictures of poison oak, poison sumac and poison parsnip. A short course in edible weeds is handy, too. Never administer syrup of ipecac until AFTER you call the poison control center.
Grandpa will not appreciate the second trip to the emergency room to explain to the nice medical personnel how he got the syrup of ipecac even though he wasn't the person eating the weeds. Just never mind how I know that, you can take my word for it. I'm very honest. Really.
Leave the dog home. Especially if she is ninety six in dog years, somewhat deaf and possibly senile. It will not signifigantly improve her life to be thrown repeatedly in the slough while someone shrieks, "Puppy like a SWIM!" at the top of their lungs.
I can guarantee you that the one thing Puppy doesn't like is "a swimmin'". Puppy gets cranky and bites people, puppy doesn't even like a bath.
Your baby brother also doesn't like a swim, but someone is (usually) watching him a little closer than the dog.
So, anyway, a nice trip to MacDonald's after a day of fishing is a good way to round off the experience. Yes, it is fourteen miles the other direction from home, but no self-respecting grandparent will care about that.
Be sure to go in the place to eat, there is nothing that will brighten up the day of the people who work at MacDonald's like eight children under the age of six all eating a happy meal under the table while covered in duckweed and slough mud.
Also, your children get a little wild when they discover everyone they go to church with was a witness to that. It's good for them. Takes the pretension right out of them, believe me.
Then give them all back to their parents--after assuring them that their dad never went to bed before midnight when he was eight--and go home for a nice nap before dinner.
Ah, grandparenting. Who could ask for anything more?
To those of you who so kindly e-mail me in horror about some of the events in my life, please let me reassure you that all Pilly Stories are BASED ON actual events. That means the source of my inspiriation is triggered by a real event, and it's not that the truth isn't in me, it's just that any story teller will tell you we are born with the inability to tell any story without improving on it some.
I'm importing a post from that blog for the first one here on account of I am very lazy and also not feeling all that funny. So here's Pilly's fish story:
Fishing Category: Life
I think that today I will have that disease that you can only get if you have been bitten by the African tse-tse fly. It's way more exotic than that UTI I just recovered from, and since I have been walking that path the village lightly calls a walking trail and the rest of us know as that old road that runs through the slough, I have enough insect bites to back up my claim.
No, the deet doesn't help and yes I have heard of bug repellent. In fact I'm something of an expert on bug repellent. Remember that guy on the old Off! Commercials who dared to stick his arm in an aquarium full of hungry mosquitos?
Well, he was a pansy
.I have personally taken up to eight grandchildren fishing at the Voila National Mosquito Breeding Grounds (hereafter referred to as Lover's lane) and let me tell you, there is absolutely nothing I don't know about bug repellent.
Avon lied about skin-so-soft, just so you know.
Just for your edification, if you are going to take people six and under fishing, don't let anybody have a hook. They're not going to catch any fish, anyway, so hooks are completely unnecessary and only useful for getting grandpa to the emergency room to have one removed from his butt.
It's fun and all, but you probably don't want your grandchildren exposed to that kind of language.
Also, the emergency room takes a dim view of having the hook removal becoming a field trip for little people who want to line up alongside the bed and give the doctor advice as to how to proceed.
Then there is the fistfight that's going to break out when you're back at the slough over who gets the "cool" fishing pole.
No matter how many fishing poles you have, only one is cool. It is always in the hands of Someone Else and can only be fairly taken through war
.Fishline can be a deadly weapon, replace it with red yarn. Yes I know how well that works in the fishing reel. Use an old reel. No sane person gives a good reel to a child under any circumstances whatsoever.
They don't have hooks, they don't need line, the fish heard the noise and have all gone upriver to La Farge. You're not there to catch fish.
At some point at least two kids will fall in the slough. The green stuff is duckweed, don't panic, it won't hurt you. The mud really is mud, however, and may contain leeches and other unpleasant things.After all, the Viola sewege treatment plant is on that road, too, but far be it from me to suggest that might be a bad idea.
Remember to add some bleach (Just a VERY LITTLE) to the bath water, you'll probably be okay
.Kids like mud, also duckweed, eventually everyone will probably "fall in" the slough. Bring towels. A sedative for grandpa won't hurt, either. I highly recommend whiskey, but valium will do if that's all you have.
Then there is the picnic, no one can go fishing without a few sandwiches. It might be a national law, I'm not sure, but in any case you should always bring sandwiches.
Bologna is nice. Peanut butter and Jelly should be called fly bait and left at home.
A good bologna sandwich and a juice box, a couple of apples that no one will eat but everyone will use for ammunition, and some cookies and you've got yourself a first rate, sloughside picnic.
Whatever you may have heard to the contrary dirt will not hurt children, not even if they accidentally eat some. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's a rite of passage.
Be sure that you know what things like poison ivy look like in the wild, also explore the pictures of poison oak, poison sumac and poison parsnip. A short course in edible weeds is handy, too. Never administer syrup of ipecac until AFTER you call the poison control center.
Grandpa will not appreciate the second trip to the emergency room to explain to the nice medical personnel how he got the syrup of ipecac even though he wasn't the person eating the weeds. Just never mind how I know that, you can take my word for it. I'm very honest. Really.
Leave the dog home. Especially if she is ninety six in dog years, somewhat deaf and possibly senile. It will not signifigantly improve her life to be thrown repeatedly in the slough while someone shrieks, "Puppy like a SWIM!" at the top of their lungs.
I can guarantee you that the one thing Puppy doesn't like is "a swimmin'". Puppy gets cranky and bites people, puppy doesn't even like a bath.
Your baby brother also doesn't like a swim, but someone is (usually) watching him a little closer than the dog.
So, anyway, a nice trip to MacDonald's after a day of fishing is a good way to round off the experience. Yes, it is fourteen miles the other direction from home, but no self-respecting grandparent will care about that.
Be sure to go in the place to eat, there is nothing that will brighten up the day of the people who work at MacDonald's like eight children under the age of six all eating a happy meal under the table while covered in duckweed and slough mud.
Also, your children get a little wild when they discover everyone they go to church with was a witness to that. It's good for them. Takes the pretension right out of them, believe me.
Then give them all back to their parents--after assuring them that their dad never went to bed before midnight when he was eight--and go home for a nice nap before dinner.
Ah, grandparenting. Who could ask for anything more?
To those of you who so kindly e-mail me in horror about some of the events in my life, please let me reassure you that all Pilly Stories are BASED ON actual events. That means the source of my inspiriation is triggered by a real event, and it's not that the truth isn't in me, it's just that any story teller will tell you we are born with the inability to tell any story without improving on it some.
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