TATER TOTS BE DAMNED...

I have vowed to never jump to the challenge again. I believe that somewhere in the contract for the Most Sarcastic Person at work there is a clause the preempts one from rising to dares.

The picture of said Tater Tot Hotdish will appear tomorrow under the heading of "Never Again." Here is what I learned. Without the addition of Cheeze Whiz or Velveeta there is nothing to hold the conglomeration together. I did step outside the box and added: one pound of chopped onions, four cloves of garlic, tabasco sauce, and worcestershire sauce...still not enough to compensate for the general blandness and oddity of the dish.

However, while I was making it a thought came to me...I bet this was based on Shephard's Pie. Now those of you who have had Shephard's Pie can see the slight similarities. Shepard's Pie is a thick, rich beef stew with a topping of mashed potatoes and baked in the over...or even buttermilk biscuits...Aha, the connection is made. Unfortunately, the similarity ends there.

As for the amount that was made, well, that will also be the bane of my existence for the rest of the week. I see an amount available for approximately three lunches, two dinners and more than the dog will be able to accept as a treat mixed in the dried dog food. She, too, has her limits.

I would have loved to upload the picture tonight, but at 26kbps I was afraid that I just didn't have the patience.

Now, a confession. I have added a "Do Not View" blog to my list. Just one and it really chaps my ass that I did it. I can handle those who have different opinions than mine. I can handle those who want to talk about their opinions. But to imply that I am stupid because I disagee, to insinuate that I am not a patriot, to go so far as to suggest that I am utterly worthless in the eyes of the "all-knowing," well, there are two words I have for you, and they are not "Bite Me." I am not stupid, I wish I knew more, I am constantly seeking knowledge, I am tolerant, I am accepting and that is why it bothers me that I have censored you. I am a patriot. I am not a nationalist. Historical precedence shows the result of nationalism, and I just won't go there and I don't think you would either if you looked at the effects of it.

I don't even know if you will know who you are. I am sorry. Perhaps in a while, after the election, I will go back. Maybe I won't be so sensitive then. Maybe the sense of humor that I pride myself on will return. Until then, baby, I won't be reading your blog.

WHAT THE #*!&%?
I put in my hours at the wage generators this week. Forty at the mag. Eight at the bookstore. It's Saturday and I've already finished my obligatory bag of red string licorice and opened the bag of cookies. Well, they're called cookies in the grocery store. Vienna Fingers--Creme Filled. What that means is the driest sandwich cookie this side of the Sahara. Maybe Vienna Fingers are meant to be dipped into something to saturate them with moisture so it won't feel like a mouthful of cotton (hippie reference) when one takes a bite of them. Maybe the dog will like them.

And, I have a budget to work on for a non-profit that needs to be done on Monday. Aren't salaries fun?

And, I was mocked into making, of all things, Tater Tot Hotdish. Now, you've heard me go off on Minnesota Food before. One of the women at work had this particular treat for lunch on Friday. Having never had this culinary experience before, I went off on a five minute stand up routine on Minnesota Dining Habits. Then someone asked me if I had ever had it before. "No, of course not." "Well, don't knock it 'til you've tried it!"

I have responded to this type of a challenge before. It has led to a liking for martinis, dogs, and a list of things too numerous to name. That is why I will be making Tater Tot Hotdish for dinner tonight. It is also why, for the first time ever, I bought a can of Cream of Mushroom Soup. Of course, I went out on a ledge and got the "Golden" variety simply because the color was more intriguing than the plain variety.

I spent the rest of the day asking how to make it. "Oh, you know, it's just hamburger, french cut green beans, cream of mushroom soup and tater tots." Oh, really. So today I have been surfing the web for the perfect recipe. I have seen the tater tops on the top, tater tops on the bottom, cheeze whiz or velveeta, cream of mushroom, cream of celery varieties. I finally decided on one that fit me most. The recipe found on the White Trash Cooking site. There would be a link, but I haven't quite figured that out yet.

I will be living outside of the box a bit by adding onions, garlic, mushrooms, two (yes, two) types of vegetables, and, shock of all shocks, I even think I will drain the hamburger and grate real cheese to add. I know that's a bit on the edge, but after those damn cookies, I NEED some flavor. I will definitely let you know how it goes.

I also promise (myself) not to surf Blogexplosion all night and see how all the rest of you are doing and finish that damn budget. At least it's an excuse to not do laundry. Go Sarah!

OH MY GAWD!!!!!

I'm at work now...one of the twenty something's just came in and said that I shouldn't feel bad about being old...I DON'T FEEL BAD...but, she needs to realize that there are parts of my body that I haven't seen for as many years as she's been alive...and if that ain't the definition of old...What is?

What can I say? I'm losing it! 

I'M OLD AND I DON'T CARE!

Today at work, during lunch, still suffering from the cold that won’t die, I was sitting in the breakroom with a number of other staff. I had a huge bowl of wonton soup, a huge glass of water, a huge stack of tissues and I realized that I felt old. So I said, “Shit, I feel old.”

You would have thought I had said that the Cardinals were going to win the series. (Seventh inning, they're down 3-zip.) That Nader would be our next president. (Don't even talk to me about it.) That, horror of all horrors, NBC was going to cancel The West Wing. (No, they're just going to kill of the oldest person on the show.) That’s the kind of group we are. Underdog loving, realistic, liberal women. All at once, their mouths opened and they were all in agreement, “You’re not old.”

What the hell do they think “I feel old" means? It doesn’t mean I’m going to die. It doesn’t mean I’m ready for accordion music and Metamucil or that I'm going to quit plucking those wild hairs that sprout magically in the middle of the night. It means, “I feel old.”

Now the one person there that was older told me she wasn’t old. She’s three years older than I am. “Wait a minute,” I said, “you’re no spring chicken. You’re old. It’s okay to be old. I’m old and I’m just fine with it."

Then the young’uns popped in, “You’re not that old.” So, I’m only a little old, on the verge of being old, just getting ready for the downhill side of the mountain with my head hitting my gravestone with the inevitable hard stop. No, dammit, I’m just old.

Now, that is a privilege that I am going to take, being able to say that I am old. After all, shouldn’t we have our most fun when we are young and old? Who else can get away with crabbiness, food fights, and being cantankerous when the spirit hits. The advantage to being old is that you can do this and you are big enough not to be made to take a nap. Naps are voluntary as an “old person” and enjoyed far more than by a young person.

This doesn’t mean that there aren’t times that I feel young. In fact, most of the time I feel like I’m the age of the people I’m with. I can talk Green Day with my grandson, Red Hot Chili Peppers with the twenty somethings, I still like junk food, and I have tattoos and a nose piercing. But, feeling the age of the group you’re with and being the age of the group you’re with are two very distinct things.

I don’t know all of the words to Green Day songs, hell, I blew out my eardrums thirty years ago with Led Zeppelin and can hardly understand the words to songs I've memorized. I understand that the Red Hot Chili Peppers have a certain sexual intrigue to for those post pubescent women, but, they all look twelve years old to me…even if they do sing about “Californication” it isn't going to tempt me into jumping into a mosh pit. And junk food, really, who is going to say they don’t like? Being old means I can eat it and take medication to lower that mean old cholesterol. After all, I’m going to die from something at some point in time and if I get three extra years because I quit eating beef, start to like kale, and think that quinois is the answer everlasting life…well, I don’t know if I want those years are deprived of Chee-tos.

As for the tattoos and the piercings, I didn't get them until I was older. I had established myself as a professional with a strong work ethic, had a good job, knew I could get another good job if needed, and didn’t have to work in the local 7-11 because of my “uniqueness.” After all, one of the tattoos is a heart with my grandson’s name in it. Who could fault me for that? I also had the good sense to get them in places where they wouldn’t change their species, spelling or color saturation with age. The Phoenix on my forearm will not be an ostrich in twenty years and the red heart will on my shoulder won't fade pink as my twilight approaches. Oh, and I can wear a long sleeved shirt so as not to offend the Mayor, and just pull that little old nose post out when I’m next in line for the Presidency.

I don’t understand what is wrong with being old. Even Dove and their Real Beauty Campaign have jumped on the bandwagon. Just like it’s okay not to fit the profile of men or women pictured in all of those glossy magazines. When I say I’m old I don’t want to have to argue about it. After all, some of the other advantages of being old are hard-headedness, grouchiness and an inability to control those arm tremors that might make me hit you up aside your head if you start arguing with me about this again.

Spent the night at my daughters. So, play nicely amongst yourselves with this until I get busy tonight.  

HEY, BABY, LOOK AT ME NOW

I have altered my look...aren't I snazzy...and the really good news is that I figured out how to add links. All by my little (not a word), ole self. The really good news is that I figured out how to do it at work and get paid for it...Flashing lights next, little dancing snowflakes, time and temperature all over the world...books I've read, places I've been and anything else I can use to show you how crafty I am without having to take up blogging about motherhood, needle arts, NASCAR racing or religion...And you don't even want to hear my politics...

MINNESOTA FOOD...OR HOW I LEARNED THE MANY USES CREAM OF MUSHROOM SOUP

Be afraid...be very very afraid. That is what I would have said to myself prior to moving here some thirty years ago or so. If I had known that the rest of the world didn't eat like those in Los Angeles did, I certainly would have stocked up on food. Even thirty years ago the variety of foods available in LA were more than just international, they also had their own regional influences. I remember growing up in some of the lesser affluent neighborhoods, East LA, Compton, Watts...remember, we were poor white trash. Even though my mother was Native she had left that long ago and far behind. In these neighborhoods, we were white.

We lived for a while in a small two room "hovel" attached to a garage behind the house where the "landlord" lived. The "landlord" was an illegal just trying to make it in a better place with his family...which included his mother and other extended family that changed with regularity. What I remember the most was his mother having a stone pit built into the corner of the kitchen. She would sit there and take the masa flour and make tortillas with a steady slap, slap of her hands. They would come off the rocks hot, smoky, and crisp. Not out of a plastic bag. There were homemade tamales at Christmas, menudo on Saturday mornings and a plate always there for me whenever I stopped by.

When my mother got a job for a period of time, we would move. The next move took us to Compton. It is now called South Central in all of the movies with all of the gangs. There were no gangs then, even though there were our feeble attempts to start one. The lesson that I treasure the most from this period of my life was learning how to accept and be accepted. My mother was often gone on her own expeditions and I was, luckily, taken it by the other mothers in the neighborhood. For it was a neighborhood then, not a 'hood.

I remember iced tea out of mayonnaise jars with enough sugar to make it almost tea syrup. I remember barbecue on pieces of soft white bread, with no plate, just a sloppy handful of food that made you want more and more. I remember sweet potato pie and fried chicken and grits and my palate expanded with every neighborhood.

And then, I was on my own in LA. Running away when I was sixteen, full of the self confidence that would take me many places I probably should never have been, but with also the survival sense to stay just this side of jail and death. That was when I discovered Chinese, seafood, Korean, Thai, Ethiopean and every other ethnic derivative that was available. I have always been known to say, "Food, my favorite meal."

When I was ready for my wild, wild ways to come to an end, I moved to Minnesota. I was truly shocked at that time to learn that refried beans were not available in the grocery store, no salt pork, no fresh or dried chiles, no nothing that wasn't what I came to call...Minnesota White Food.

The first clue came when I went to a "potluck" dinner. "What is that?" I had no clue. It means you are invited to dinner with a group of other people. Oh, and you bring the food. Not a real social custom I grew up with, but, after all, wasn't this just another ethnic neighborhood I had moved into...Only here, all of the people were, well, white.

The person who was supposed to bring a salad brought....JELLO. Hello, Jello isn't even a food, much less a salad. And I don't care what you put in it, it's primary use is for hospitalization and then it should be so solid that it is one degree this side of gummy bears. I was amazed. Where was the lettuce? The tomatoes? The onions? Anything fresh and crispy? Not there, you can be sure. There were times to attempt to turn it into a real food...why, we can throw in a banana. White. See the connection?

Next came the "hot dish." Having grown up poor, there were many times that what we ate was what was in the cabinet. Thrown all together with hamburger, tomato sauce, and tabasco it was called a casserole. Not a hot dish. A hot dish is what it was served in. Here a hot dish is comprised of cream of mushroom soup, flat noodles, meat, and, if you want to live on the edge, you can crumble up some potato chips on top before you throw it in the oven. Adds a little hint of the exotic, those potato chips do.

I had never had Jello or cream of anything kind of soup in my house at any time. I still don't. It has been thirty years and I haven't given in. I have had a variety of roommates over this period of time. I have learned that you can make "chili" with cream of tomato soup and ketchup. That there is a time honored way to serve broccoli with cream of mushroom soup, Velveeta, white rice and milk. I dared to throw some water chestnuts in one time for a little texture, and you would have thought I desecrated some deceased mother's grave. Why, in Minnesota, you can even make a complete meal without using any spices except salt and pepper. And, speaking of Velveeta, just what the hell kind of cheese is that? I think it is the jello of cheese. The cream of mushroom soup of the dairy world.

And then, there was the shock of my life. Tuna Hot Dish. I had eaten Tuna in salads, broiled with a slightly pink center, and raw in sushi. But never, never in my wildest dreams would I have concocted a combination of canned tuna, cream of mushroom soup, elbow macaroni, frozen peas and milk baked to solidified mass in a pyrex baking dish. I tasted it once, and that was the end of that. "Stick to your ribs" is more than just a phrase here.

Now in thirty years, some things have changed. We have a Taco Bell's, a Taco John's and...miracle of all miracles, two authentic Mexican restaurants where chile rellenos don't mean scrambled eggs with canned chopped green chiles and cheddar cheese in them. Still no real barbecue. And, although, in a few of the "tonier" places to eat, you can order sweet potato fries, that's about as exotic as it gets.

Now, I don't mean to imply there are no ethnic foods available here. There's lutefisk...that's fish, dried and stored in lye and then soaked to restore it to consumable texture...that texture being slimy and and the smell being stinky. Served at the holidays, you will be forced to try it...with butter or "cream" sauce. I did try it. Once. And when I say that it is the most amazing taste in the world, it is not in a nice way. And there is lefske...a potato based flatbread eaten with sugar sprinkled on it. A tortilla it is not. You can throw as much red stuff on it as you like and it is still...tasteless. That is the pattern I call the "Minnesota White Food" syndrome. If it isn't white and has more than a little flavor, well, it isn't food.

You don't have to give into it. But, you can't avoid it. I still yearn for those palate stimulating foods of yore...and if I want them, I can make them a little easier now...more ethnicity has crept into the great northwoods over the past thirty years. I have developed a taste for the less exotic. It was necessary to survive. But, my roommate still shakes her head when I buy salt pork, and she and most others refuse to try menudo, and pie crusts made with lard...why, that's what Crisco was invented for. The smell of those things cooking in my kitchen take me back quicker than anything to the days where things seemed held together by those smells and plates of delicacies. To the days where I felt loved by strangers and fed by kindness.

What Classic Movie Are You?
personality tests by similarminds.com

OH, REALLY?

In a flash of genius, I suddently realized how to get a picture in like this. Of, course I saw the site on my new best blogging friend's site and as soon as I can move on up in this technical world I seem to adore I will have this place looking like a french whorehouse on a Saturday night....

OOPS AND A RANT

I guess that’s what I get. I was telling my darling daughter about blogging and some of my favorites…and, yep, she read mine. So from here on out I guess she won’t be open game for her mother’s mocking ways. Of course, there is always the grandson. Heh Heh Heh

My complaint today has to do with work. Not my job…I love my job. I work for a socially conscious girl’s magazine that emphasizes inner beauty and positive role models for girls. No, my job is great.

What is not so great is this new “touchy feely” approach to management and worker teamwork. “Clear communication.” “Belief Matrixes” “Honest feedback” All of these require taking time away from my job to learn and grow. Damnit, I don’t want to grow anymore…and unless it’s a new trick for excel I don’t want to learn it.

I am the second oldest employee in this office consisting of women from the age of 22 to 62. So, yeah, there are some communication difficulties. For example, I am sorry that you have emotional, boyfriend, diet, period or family problems. But, you know what. This is work. This is not time to come and ask what you should do about….not having a real boyfriend, losing fifteen pounds, what your mother said to you that really hurt your feelings, or why you “bloat up and cry” two of the weeks of your four week cycle.

It’s not that I don’t care, but, no, wait, yes it is that I don’t care. I raised my child, she is wonderful. I know that you think “nobody knows the trouble you’ve seen”, but I’ve got a few stories of my own…that would make you realize that growing up in the Midwest, having parents pay tuition, working at a place where you are paid well and not harassed are things to be celebrated.

I come to work to work. You are not my friends. I like you all right, but goddamnit, my friends don’t whine. My friends do not expect me to change so their feelings don’t get hurt. When was the last time someone ever told you directly what they were really thinking? Get used to it…I won’t be rude, but I won’t mince words. Get over it.

I love it when someone says they have to quit because they are under-appreciated and no one understands them. You’re getting paid aren’t you? No one yells at you, do they? And, we pay for your childcare, your health insurance and eleven holidays a year, including International Women’s Day.

And, now, because we don’t seem to be functioning as a team, We have to become acquainted with a Team Building Concept. Let’s “Share.” Let’s “Work Together.” Let’s “Waste Some More Time” when I could be doing the cash flows and budgets for next year.

Does this sound harsh? Good. Attitude is something hard to develop and more difficult to maintain. Could you just figure out how to hug yourself and get out of my space?

Here is my advice to those who work:

1. For the hours you are paid, you are expected to work. Chatting is fine, but does not include anything more personal that talk about food, movies, or what you saw on TV last night.

2. I’m glad you have a family…and I will look at their pictures once. I may see them again when I come to your station to see why you coded a travel expense as supplies, but do not expect me to comment on them.

3. When I get off, I have a life. I do not want to go for a drink and have “away from work time.” Give me a couple of drinks and I can tell you even more colorfully what I think of your whining.

4. I’m glad you work here, but just because you get your work done on time doesn’t mean I am going to juggle and whistle and yell, “Atta, girl!” That’s what you’re paid for.

5. Get a blog. Write whatever you want about whomever you want and if it’s about me, I don’t care, because that is what the button on the mouse is for. I can move on, and so should you.

Well, did I say I loved my job? I do. It’s this damn interpersonal relationship that chaps my butt. Did I mention that I'm not in management? (For which many are grateful!) Did I tell you I was married three times? And, last but not least, did I tell you that I really don't give rat's ass.

Hope this wasn't too harsh, rough couple of days...can you tell?

WINTER IN MINNESOTA

“Winter?” you say. Yes, Winter. In Minnesota season changes are not measured by the days. I can always tell when it is fall; the sun hits a special place in the sky and the air has a crispness to it. Now, that may fall on August 18th or later, but it always comes before September 21st.

With the temperatures in the 30’s and the furnace on, I call it Winter. Now the natives here might call me a wimp and perhaps they are right. But, I wasn’t born here…I didn’t move here until I was around 25. I was raised in places like New Mexico, Florida and Los Angeles. My winter sport and outdoor activity consists of running to and from the car. I, and others, say that it’s the winters that keep the riff raff out…and then I am often reminded that I am the riff raff.

When winter hits and the furnace turns on you can pretty much count on close to $250 a month flying up the flue until well into April. That is, unless you are as crafty as I am.

Hibernating in my bedroom saves a lot on heating costs. “How?” you might ask. Well, let me tell you. Close the door, turn the waterbed heater up to 70 degrees and turn on three lamps and the room is toasty as can be within 45 minutes. However, if you are like me, you have that thing for fresh air. Well, you can leave your window open a crack and add 15 minutes to that warm up time and all is well. For me, that is.

My poor housemate, who lives in the rest of the house, is living under my totalitarian rule of energy efficiency. That means the thermostat is at 53 degrees at night and when we aren’t home and 65 degrees when we are at home. Sure, sometimes you can see your breath, but at our age how else are we going to be sure we’re alive?

I may be an accountant, but the kilowatts those energy efficiency bulbs are burning up is miniscule compared to the fuel oil sucking, 1955, oil burning furnace I have down there in the basement. You know you’re in trouble when the furnace repair guys say, “Gosh, we haven’t seen one of these in, what is it Hank, 35 years?” Then they try and talk me into a new one with the efficiency rating of gobbledy gook and the payback will only take 15 years. Fifteen years? My youthful ways do not point towards me living until 72, and if I do…well, damnit, that’ll show me.

There are times when I feel only slightly guilty over this energy mandate of mine. Like when I walk downstairs and see my housemate huddled under one comforter, two afghans, and her cat being used for its precious body heat. Hey, her teeth aren’t chattering.

You may think that I’m getting away with paying no consequences for this cost effective practice. You are wrong. I am a morning showerer. Jumping into that hot water and warming up from the run to the bathroom is heavenly. Getting out of the shower is another story all together. It’s ugly. Some morning I have been known to rush that towel over the goosebumped body and run right back upstairs and in between those still-warm sheets for the final dry-down. And as long as I don’t think about having to get back out of the bed I am the happiest I could be.

It’s a small price to pay for this conservation in the area of fossil fuels…but, it also represents that fact that I may be one of fossil fools.

COUNTRY LIVING, PART ONE

I have mentioned that I live in the country before. It is a small, older farmhouse on three acres of what used to be a forty-acre farm. This was quite a while ago and all that really remains looking farm like is the 2½-acre yard that requires mowing far too often.

I have discovered that this area was home to quite conservative (not in a political sense, trust me, this is Democratic-Farmer-Labor country) folks before I moved in and brought the township average down to only slightly outrageous. Many of the families in this area have the same last name. Apparently they stayed around the old homestead to help out Ma and Pa. If I weren’t in Northern Minnesota I could easily mistake for some other backwoods community further south. Our “town” has two bars, one town hall, one burned out general store and one old schoolhouse converted into apartments. I have always been confused as to who would rent an apartment out here, but I have also often been known to say, “Ours is not to reason why…” This is definitely not the place to live if you find yourself needing to run down to the corner store on a regular basis.

The thing I will discuss on this particular posting relates to clothing and sleeping habits of the previous inhabitants.

This requires a bit of preparation and some self-revelation to set the tone. I am an introvert. If you were to ask any of the numbers of people who know me about this, they would scoff and laugh and point at you like you were a fool. That is because many people confuse the word “introvert” with the word “shy.” Shy, I am not. Bold and outrageous would be more fitting. However, bold and outrageous as I might be, I really like to be alone and read, watch movies, surf the ‘net, and enjoy my own company. This can easily be attested to by any of my three ex-husbands. (Did I leave out slow-learner up there with “bold and outrageous”? Oh, my.)

Now owning a home alone these days is something that must be accomplished by those who make more money than I. So, I have a housemate. We pooled our monies from our combined piles and bought this place twelve years ago. We were, and are, friends. But, I like being alone and that shouldn’t reflect poorly on her. Or me, for that matter. So, basically I live in my bedroom.

Now living in my bedroom would not be that much of a problem were it not for a couple of things. Apparently the original builders of this home were quite hard working folk. And, they also appear to have only used the bedroom for sleeping and whatever other sundry acts they had the energy for. Ergo, the bedrooms are small…utilitarian folks, these were.

I mean small as in by the time I got my double waterbed (old hippie reference number one), three bookcases, two dressers, one entertainment cart and bedside table in I had just enough room turn around in and open the door comfortably. OOOPS, I left out the fact that I am a compulsive collector of movies, CDs and more books. Hence, there are also stacks of “stuff.” And, I, being the clever girl that I am have managed to turn some of those stacks into double duty—using them as furniture, as well. We have now narrowed down the available floor space to just enough room to pull off my shoes and find a place for them that I am not standing in.

The closet is another story. Apparently these hard working folk only had two sets of clothes. Work clothes and Sunday go-to-meeting clothes. And that is exactly how much room there is available in my “closet.” There is not enough room for…the ranges of sizes of clothes that I have collected in my seemingly random ability to change sizes with a six size range. Why, if I ever weigh 120 lbs again, I have that designer pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans that I bough in the 70s. And, if I hit the top o’ the chart---I have those marvelous X-Large clothes purchased from the local fat girl’s store.

Since I don’t diet and eat in a somewhat indefinable cycle of “good for you” foods and those that don’t fit in that category (ok, garbage) my weight takes on a life of its own. I don’t care. And, I am lucky enough to have an extremely young doctor (Kristi, as mentioned earlier) who believes (and I swear to you that this is a direct quote), “Don’t worry about your weight, I prefer for my older patients to have a few extra pounds to fall back on in case they get very ill.” Woo-hoo, I ran with that…I could count on being “very ill” for at least a decade before she will have to start to worry.

I hope you are getting the picture…Oh, not done yet. Yellow-eyed dog also has to fit in here somewhere. And, fit in she does. We’re talking about an eighty-pound Chesapeake Bay Retriever who believes that if I am out of her sight the world will come to an end. So, here we are…me and the dog…safely ensconced in a pitiable wreck of a room, with no space to dance or stretch, and absolutely loving it. The life of a recluse has many advantages. And now, me, my dog and my piles of crap will go to sleep for tomorrow starts another week of dealing with the outside world.

SINCE I'M NOT ASLEEP YET, LISTEN TO THIS

I forgot about the funniest thing that happened today. It was right after I picked up the book for my nine year old grandson about the "Psycho Butt." It was when my daughter looked at the book, looked at me and, I would have sworn she slightly rolled her eyes. My question is...When did she become my mother?

Now, I remember to the day the day she and I were the same age...she turned 30 and I looked at her and asked, "How can we be the same age?" I think what has happened was, I'm still 30 and she got older. I must admit that my illnesses this year have made her a bit more attentive...She doesn't understand crotchety old ladies who are as stubborn as all get out...Sick, me? No, I'm fine. She doesn't do it in a condescending way, yet. She just calls more often...and has insisted on this new ritual of me spending one night a week at her house to save me the drive back and forth to work. Hey, I don't mind...she cooks, she fixes the couch up for me, there's more time with the grandson and with the price of gas...I'm making out like a champ. No, it's the little things. The tea. Tea? Herbal Tea? WTF? I drink coffee...with cream and damn the cholesterol, I'm going to die from something and it's not going to be from mellowness...And the afghan. "Do you want this afghan for your shoulders?" No, save it for the coffin. And how many times does she think I need to be told how to keep the bathroom door from slamming by making sure the rug is under it? And, why in the hell does she insist on giving me a new bar of soap every time I shower...I think it's an Oprah or Martha thing that she picked up somewhere along the way.

Now, I'm not complaining...it cracks me up. I'm beginning to feel like I should see how far this will go. I love her dearly and she is far nicer than I...for how nice is it for a mother to try and plan a way to mess with her daughter's caring ways...Let's see, what do I really want and how can I convince her it is necessary for my comfort? No, I'll just sit back and marvel at her kindness and chuckle quietly inside...and remember that when she was young she promised to push me down the biggest hill in town in a wheelchair so I could have some fun...Wait a minute? Hmm? Maybe she has her own ways of chuckling inside.

I’M FEELING BETTER AND WATCH OUT!

The cold has diminished to occasional sneezes that could blow out an eardrum and I can deal with that.

My daughter called and asked if I would like to meet her and the grandson for lunch. Since I had already committed to driving into town to make another donation to the Democrats—that would be the donuts and cupcakes purchased at a major chain as opposed to homecooked—I said “You betcha.” (From that you can gather that I have lived in MN long enough to pick up the local dialect.)

On my 45 minute drive into town, I found myself blogging in my head. Damn, I thought, why can’t I be this clever when the keyboard is in front of me?

The first thought was how, when you live in the country, you measure distance in terms of time as opposed to miles. For example, I live 45 minutes from town. Now, that 45 minutes only applies when the road is not covered in ice, rain isn’t pelting down so fast the windshield wipers won’t clean it, fog is so thick that you pass your road and find yourself 20 miles further from home than you want to be, or a roaring blizzard is blowing icy snow at your car at over 60 miles an hour and all you can do is 10 mph and beg. When it’s like that, it takes anywhere from an hour to an hour and a half. If someone asks me how far I live from town, I don’t answer with 32 miles, because they would then think it should only take me half an hour or so to get into town. No, I answer in minutes.

Today was a 45 minute day. And it was beautiful. And it gives me lots of time to think, listen to audio books, or…blog in my head. The thought of the day was MY PERFECT JOB. I have often said that my perfect job would constitute reading, eating, sleeping on a cyclical basis. Not bad. But today I thought of my perfect position. It would be a government job of the highest level. Appointed for life, I might add. It would be the new Cabinet post of: CRITICIZER GENERAL.

I can critique anything…and in a quite entertaining, if not sometimes vulgar, manner. Some of my more “upbeat” friends used to have the gall to ask me how I could criticize without having solutions. Upon hearing some of my solutions to the things that I criticized they quickly backed down. You see, I can criticize anyone or anything else’s behavior, actions, attitudes, appearance, smell, etc. and I have no obligation to offer solutions…I am more than willing to work on my own areas that need improvement…or, accept them as character flaws… but that is my extent of caring about change.

I know that sounds harsh, but at 57 I have volunteered, donated, worn ribbons, marched, boycotted, been incarcerated and suffered through quite a variety of social injustices, personal growth, and need to leave the world a better place. Now, it wasn’t all that bad. There were quite a few social customs of the late 60’s and early 70’s that made all of this somewhat enjoyable and certain parts unable to be remembered. But, that no longer holds the intrigue for me that it once did. No, I’m strictly a diet coke and nicorette gum girl now…with an occasional foray into the world of Nyquil if I really want to live on the edge.

So my newest contribution to the betterment of human existence will be my own appointment of myself to the role of CRITICIZER GENERAL.

Now, there are plenty of things I already have on my list to criticize, but if you would like to suggest anything on you list for professional analysis…feel free…I have opinions on everything.

So, that was my drive blog today. After which I had a delightful lunch with daughter and grandson and then indulged one of my many addictions by stopping at Barnes and Noble and dropping close to $40. The nice part of that is that I work there part time and get a discount and the not so nice part of that is—it ain’t free, babe!

Purchases:
The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night
Balzac and the Little Chinese Seamstress
The Queen’s Fool

And for the grandson:
Something about a Psycho Butt from the kid’s department. He got quite a kick out of the title until I started being an out of control granny and embarrassed him by talking about it. He’ll get over it. Humiliation is good for a child.

Luckily, I avoided the music department or my secondary addiction to music would have kicked in to the tune of another forty bucks.

The really exciting part of today is that I get tomorrow off, too. I feel good. And I have tons to read and carrot cake to eat. Life is good.

FOUR OUTTA FIVE AIN'T BAD

That's the number of work days this week I have fought this cold. And lost. I did make it to work one day. I suppose I could have made it more if I didn't live an hour out of town. That and getting showered, dressed and there and back turns into a 15 hour day when you can't breathe because the world has deposited all of its snot in your sinus cavities. Well, that was charming wasn't it.

At least I made it yesterday and had the foresight to stop at the grocery store and pile up on my favorite easy things to eat. And, I discovered the new, improved Hormel's Chili in a box, no preservatives, .7 ounces less than the can, and 30 cents more. I bought the house brand, in a can, for 60 cents less than I previously paid for the now unavailable Hormel's. That will show them. Or me. I could open the can and find out that it is the slimiest crap this side of my nose. And no preservatives? How do they do that...is it irradiated? And if it is shouldn't it say so? And would radiation cause my body any more harm than the younger years of drug and alcohol hasn't already done? More about that later.

I cannot believe that I even tried to watch the debate. I know who I am voting for, I know who I think is Cheney’s beeyatch and I know that on A&E they are running the not-to-be-missed Zen and the Art of Competitive Eating. Who comes up with the ideas for these shows? And how did they know that I would watch. Favorite quote, “That’s a dozen and a half increase in dogs over a four week time period, how did you do that?”

I tried posting a picture here, but it didn't work..I will figure this out, I will figure this out, I WILL FIGURE THIS OUT

So, to see these strange pictures go to: http://layer0.cocolog-nifty.com/eth0/

I am attempting this as a pre-written post that can be cut and pasted. Am I moving up in the world or blogs or just an idiot that can’t figure out how the rest of the people out there do the shit they do?

Now I will watch Competitive Eating and read blogs about the debate.

I am now exploring Blog Explosi0n, not that my posts shall be as interesting as all of theirs, but it does allow me to surf blogs that are very funny, interesting, moronic, blah blah blahg...Anyway, I will be attempting to figure out:
1. How to get their icon on my blog.
2. How to creat hyperlinks to blogs I love.
3. How to be as creative as the rest of you out there.