On the brighter side, the dating scene has provided lots of entertainment and adventure. Despite the fact that my various romances have not yet grown into lasting relationships, I’m glad, for the most part, that I have had them. I believe people come into your life for a reason. I suppose they exit your life for a reason too. The important thing is to learn, right?

As far as interesting flirtations and pick up lines, I have a couple of memorable ones to share. One of my first ventures into the dating scene post divorce was a singles dance for people 35 and older. I was with my married sister and her husband, and my friend Peggy who at the time wasn’t 35. So we were cheating a bit. I wasn’t brave or crazy enough to go to someplace like that alone.

Anyway, the hosting restaurant in DC was Mexican. The booths had large wooden carvings of horses on one side. You could see around carvings to the bar. Perhaps it was because I was sitting at a booth, or perhaps because one of our party was a guy, but no one had asked me to dance. I decided to take matters into my own hands. The four of us started looking around to find me a target. I made eye contact with a guy at the bar who I was discussing with my friends when he approached me with a memorable opening line.

Apparently taking his queue from the moment of eye contact, he put his hand on the hind quarters of the horse statue attached to our booth, leaned around toward me and asked, “Would you be interested in a horse’s ass?” Not your usual opener, but one that was humorous and ultimately honest. I appreciate honesty and humor, so we did dance. That romance had more length to it than many I’ve had since. I learned a lot, so it was worthwhile.

Another memorable pick-up line came at a local pub from a New York firefighter in town for a hockey tournament. We had already danced and were talking when my ride home tapped me on the shoulder. He said he wanted to talk to me again and asked for my number. I agreed and looked for a cocktail napkin that wasn’t too soggy to write on. Before I could find that, he whipped out a $100 bill and had me write my number on that. Then he pulled out a $50 bill and wrote his number on that and gave it to me. Pretty cool, huh? He did call the next night, but way too late. Hhmmm. What do you think he wanted? Eventually, I spent the $50. I suppose there is still a $100 bill circulating my number. Even though that encounter led nowhere, it was an impressive flirtation.

Do you have any lines that you’ve repeated? Did you ever have a dazzling first encounter, whether or not it turned into anything more? Maybe “dazzling” is too much, but memorable.

What is your opinion of a man-purse? Is it liberated or goofy? I suppose if it were the only flaw, it is certainly a manageable one.

I've been thinking of the growing list of... (I don't know what to call them - "ex-boyfriend" is too much)... dates that didn't pan out into continuing relationships. I have a growing list of turn-offs. I guess I really didn't know so many quirks were out there. I know nobody's perfect. However, once I decide that the guy isn't "The One," I seem to find a bunch of little stuff that irritates me - like the man-purse.

On one date I had a guy presented me with a copy of a letter of reference from a local politician for an act of kindness performed almost twenty years earlier. Weird huh?

So when I was first single again, my sister and a couple friends and I composed a description of the ideal man that had three columns: Requirements, Preferences, & Deal-Breakers. The problem was that I kept having to shift the items around. And like I said earlier, I kept adding to the Deal-Breakers column.

I deleted the file because it wasn't helping, but I can't help thinking about it. What leaps to mind as your Requirements, Preferences, or Deal-Breakers?

Music creates powerful memories for me. I can remember all sorts of inane facts if they are set to music. I tend to binge on music. When I get a new CD, I tend to listen to the first two or three songs over and over until I have all the words memorized so that I can sing it to myself later. This part of my brain is like an organic iPod. I may have a new CD for days before I hear song #4. Often the initial music binge will retain the memory of the events that brought the music to me. For example, the new Nickleback CD will always remind me of Bike Week in Myrtle Beach. Marc Cohn will always remind me of dancing with my children until we broke the coffee table. The Indigo Girls provide a whole language system for me and my friends Julie & Peggy. Pink Floyd's "Echoes" will alway remind me of skipping school during my senior year. All songs from "Jesus Christ Superstar" remind me of my brother.

One of my favorite record album memories is Meatloaf's "Bat Out of Hell." The summer I was 14, I worked at a summer camp as Jr. Staff. "Jr. Staff" is a euphamism for free labor. My sister and I and one other girl, Pam, washed dishes three times a day. The kitchen wasn't air conditioned or even well venthilated. In those days, we had no machine other than the sink. It was a triple sink. The first held soapy water, the next rinse water. The third sink held water made blue by sanitizing tablets and kept hot by a gas flame underneath. We wore plastic aprons that literally melted in front of the third sink. I have never worked in such sweaty conditions before or since.

The cook that summer seemed so much older than us. John was probably 19. He worked under the head cook, Momma T, who loved him and the three of us girls. After the meal and the campers had cleared out of the mess hall, John pulled a stool into the sweaty kitchen and read to us. We handled the china plates as quietly as possible so we could hang on every word of the V.C. Andrews' "Flowers in the Attic" series. John was a fabulous story teller. We didn't work faster, but the miserable conditions were made much more bearable.

What does this have to do with Meatloaf? (I was jsut wondering that myself.) When John wasn't reading, we listened to his cassette player. Meatloaf was the tape of the summer. We would get into a little rhythm of washing & dipping the dishes to "You Took the Words Right Out of My Mouth." We would sing "Bat Out of Hell" at the top of our lungs. We would take turns with the parts of "Paradise by the Dashboard Light" singing into spoons like microphones.

On road trips I still like to put in that CD, roll down the windows and sing loud. I still have most of the lyrics memorized. It makes me feel 14.

Do you have any good music memories?

I finally got myself to the movies to see "Pirates." As I sat flinching in my chair with my knees pulled up to my chest, peeking through my fingers I kept thinking - I let my 8 year old daughter see this? Between the creepy scenes and startling ones were hilarious ones. I loved the escape from the cannibals! Despite all the tension I felt during the movie, I'm sure I'll line up for "Pirates 3."

I've never been good with scary movies. I was a teenager of perfect babysitting age when I saw the first "Halloween" and "Friday the 13th" movies. I slept in my sister's bed for a month - lights and radio on, door locked. I never went back to check on the children I babysat after I put them to bed. I tried to find a place to sit in the house where I could not see any windows. I stayed on the phone until the parents came home. So I quit seeing scary movies. They still freak me out. I don't live with my sister anymore either but I could call her if I get too scared.

I feel a bit like Captain Jack, unable to see which way my compass is pointing. Would you rather be like Jack, without a certain heading; like Will, pulled by divided loyalties: or like Elizabeth, suddenly not sure of what she was once certain? Is anyone ever certain? Is it better to know you aren't certain or to make a certain decision and cling to it even when you are no longer sure of it anymore?

OK, if those questions are too much, how about this one:
On whose ship would you sail away: Jack's or Will's?

I enjoy talking to strangers. You never know if it will be a one time encounter, the beginning of a new friendship, or a difficult entanglement. However it turns out, I have heard some fascinating stories by talking to strangers. I have promised you one of them that I am finally delivering: the sledgehammer story.

Last March I had the ultimate Construction Girl vacation at the beach. If you have been with me for a while, you may have read about it somewhere back in March. I happened upon a construction site right on the beach and ended up having lunch with Jeff, one of the heavy equipment operators. He told me this story over pizza. I had to stop eating because my jaw was dropped open. (I swallowed first.) I saw him again when I went to traffic court and asked his permission to tell you this story. He had so many details that I’m sure it is true. Here it is.



Jeff prepared for his career as a crane operator as most heavy equipment operators do: he studied Art in college. One summer vacation in the 80’s, Jeff toured Europe with a group of college buddies. The young men took a ferry from Gibraltar, Spain over to Morocco to try their prowess at cliff diving. Jeff described Morocco as a beautiful country but a hole full of poverty. They landed in Tanger, Morocco, bright and colorful with a gorgeous fountain in the center of the plaza where tourists could buy all things Moroccan. The merchants always seemed to be shouting in Arabic. Quiet conversation did not seem the norm. Away from the tourist areas, the desert landscape of the Moroccan countryside seemed risky for tourists. Jeff saw a Dutch tourist poking at a cobra in the underbrush, ignorant of the risk his curiosity was creating. Tourists and cobras, however, were not the only ones at risk in Morocco.

The young travelers lodged with a variety of European tourists in an enclosed campground. The campground was surrounded by a high fence for the purpose of keeping the poverty stricken locals from nicking the tourists’ belonging. The fence wasn’t quite high enough on the night Jeff was there.

Exhausted from jumping off and scrambling up cliffs all day, Jeff and his buddies fell asleep shortly after nightfall. A commotion in the campground, more angry Arabic shouting, woke them around 10 o’clock. They left their tents and joined a growing crowd that had gathered near the main gate of the campground. The agitated campground owner was speaking excitedly to one of the nine Moroccan police officers who were guarding four men draped in native garb who were caught in the campground stealing from the tourists’ tents. The boys were the only Americans in the group and they tried to find someone to translate the angry shouts zinging between these Moroccans. Before they found a bilingual Spaniard among the onlookers to translate, Jeff witnessed the swift process of Moroccan justice.

Two policemen wrestled one robber so that the thief’s arm was stretched out over a log. The one officer not holding a criminal produced a five pound sledgehammer and approached the subdued tent raider. Without any ceremony, the officer held the sledge hammer low on its three foot long handle and swung the steel head in a full circle, landing a blow on the man’s upper arm.

It was the sound of the man’s arm being shattered, not the man’s screams that Jeff says he will never forget. The hollow wet thud sounded like a melon splatting on concrete. Without hesitation, the officer delivered another blow to the man’s lower arm and then again on his elbow. In the poorly lit campground, Jeff could not see any bones sticking out and remarkably there was little blood. He could see bends where they were not supposed to be. When the man got up, the arm hung at a sickening angle. At that moment Jeff knew that he was glad to be an American citizen. Jail looked extremely reasonable.

No one in the crowd intervened on behalf of the thieves. Despite the nausea from the repulsive scene, no one could look away either. Everyone was shocked.

The Moroccan officers dealt with the other robbers in the same fashion. Then everyone left. No paperwork. No jail time. I’m guessing no repeat offenders.

It seems that wherever I go I always get the last four squares of toilet paper on the roll. I expect it at my house because replacing the roll is a skill well beyond the scope of my children’s ability or even their awareness. What roll? I don’t really mind it at my mom’s or my sister’s house, but it seems to happen to me in so many different places. I must have some kind of karmic vibe going on the maybe doesn’t want me to have an easy time getting rid of my shit. (Is that gross? Sorry. I mean it as a metaphor.)

Some places it is easy to find the back-up roll. At the hairdresser’s today they had a cabinet with obvious extra rolls. Sometimes, however, I feel like I am snooping a bit when I look for the extra roll. I try to be real quiet with the cabinet doors so they don’t hear me and think I’m snooping.

When does looking for the extra roll become snooping? Have you ever seen something you maybe shouldn’t have seen in someone else’s bathroom while looking for something innocent? Or maybe they just left their medicine cabinet open because they just don’t care about hiding their prescriptions and you can’t help it, but you read the labels.

Is there ever an acceptable reason to snoop? Is it a smart way to learn about someone or a violation of privacy? Where is the line here? (Now any of my readers who have had me over to their home are wondering what I saw in their bathroom. Don’t worry, I have a terrible memory.)

Are you one of the people who leaves the roll empty – or with a useless few squares? Why do you do that? Do you see me coming?

Tell me which of these jobs you’d rather have.

Job #1
On the last day of school this past school year, a neighbor boy missed the bus and I had to drive him home. When we got to his house, a guy from Verizon was in his yard marking phone lines. In one hand he had a tool like a metal detector. In the other he had spray paint in a tool that allowed him to stand up straight and spray on the ground. He seemed to be ambling along pleasantly enjoying the nice weather, beeping and spraying. The boy & I thought it would be cool to have a job where you could spray paint in people’s yards and not even get in trouble for it. I shared this observation with the worker who just smiled at me without comment, probably because his mind was numb from the boringness of his job. Still, it was a nice day and he seemed peaceful. His efforts were going to bring fiber optic internet speed to my home. I was happy to see him.

Jobs #2 & 3
I caught up with a childhood friend the other day. We haven’t talked in at least six months or more. The last time I talked to her, she had just gone down to assist in New Orleans through the Red Cross. I asked on our phone call if she was still working with the RC. She had parlayed the job into an important consultant working on the US’s pandemic response plan. (I’ve never been good at remembering titles, but hers was an impressive one.) The latest component of the plan she had been negotiating was called “Body Management.” It seems that our morgues are not equipped for pandemic numbers. So she had been running numbers based on the burning capacity of incinerators at equine facilities. For example, an equine incinerator can manage 2500 pounds an hour. (Did you know they burned dead horses?) She explained that if the average adult male weighed 180, a 2500 lb per hour incinerator could handle almost 14 bodies an hour or 333 bodies per day. I reminded her that in America she might want to kick that 180 up to 200. She continued to explain that to be efficient, children’s bodies could be disposed of in veterinary incinerators that had smaller capacity. I asked who would be the ones stuffing in the bodies. She was still working on that component. Her efforts would help contain a deadly virus. Although I’m glad she is working on a plan, I was not happy to hear about it. I guess those medical types can check their gag reflexes at the office door better than I can.

So which job would you prefer: mindless yard spray painter, grisly body manager, or incinerator stuffer?

The reward posters in the local stores seeking information on an as yet unsolved murder in my town have been replaced with ones that offer more money. Although the neighborhood crime rate has increased, I don’t think we’ve had too many murders – especially mysterious ones. My amateur opinion is that it was impulsive youth gone too far, not a serial killer on the loose. But I bet someone knows more than they are telling.

A friend of mine who worked for the FBI said that most crimes are solved because the criminal told someone who eventually spilled. There is something about us that we can’t keep big news like that inside- even bad news. Eventually we feel compelled to tell. Surely the person who murdered this teenage girl has told someone. I wonder if the confidante has seen how high the reward is now. I wonder how much the killer thinks he’s worth to his confidante.

It got me hypothesizing. What factors would you consider if turning someone in? I suppose it depends on your relationship with the murderer and the deceased. If, for example, it was my close friend and her psychotic ex, I doubt I’d spill the beans. If the murderer was my child I imagine I would keep the secret, I suppose depending on the victim. If my kids did it, I would guess the victim might have done something terrible to them. But what if your coworker confessed? Your boss? Your brother? Your spouse? How high would the reward have to be? Would you turn them in for 5 thousand? 50 thousand? Would you wait and see if the reward went higher?

The other influencing factor would be how bad you needed the money. Say you had a sick child in need of expensive treatments that insurance isn’t covering. You are sinking deeper in debt, coming perilously close to bankruptcy. The reward money would bail you out and create a nice cushion. Would you turn in your sister? Your neighbor? Your mom?

I was discussing this on a second date recently that turned into the second-to-the-last date. I asked him how high the reward would have to be to turn me in. He insisted he wouldn’t.

“Oh come on!” I contended. “Everyone has a price. You hardly know me.”
“I can’t answer that because then we’d just haggle over the price.” He was clearly not a free thinking individual. He was trying to find the right answer to please me. How annoying.
“I’d turn you in,” I declared with a smile.

He looked surprised. He should have been paying attention.

The drive home from West Virginia was just as pretty as the drive in – prettier in fact because it wasn’t rainy and more relaxing because I had done it before. I noticed an interesting restaurant that I hadn’t seen on the way in just east of Sugar Grove called “Fat Boy’s Pork Palace.” Wow, huh? Maybe next time we’ll plan a meal there. Too bad we passed it in the morning and it wasn’t open. You don’t get a chance like that every day.

I intentionally took a route through Harrisonburg because I had noticed a store on the way in where I wanted to stop. It was called “Harper’s Lawn Ornaments.” It was a significant sized lot jam packed with any kind of lawn ornament you could imagine. I’m not a very good gardener, so I felt the need of a garden gnome to add some color to my unimpressive flower bed. This looked like just the place to find one.

Harper’s crowded property presented a taxonomy of concrete and glass yard baubles. You could announce your religious convictions for you neighbors by decorating with statues of saints or Jesus or Mary. They had the Ten Commandments to soothe all those people who get outraged to have them removed from public property. They had several variations of Buddha which would have looked nice with their Japanese pagoda collection. There was a whole series of Amish farmers and children. If sorcery is your thing, a wide variety of wizards, nymphs, and dragons were available.

If you want to keep your religious affiliation to yourself, a plethora of other decorations were available for reasonable prices. Animals from all continents were represented. There was a colorful display of those reflective garden balls, all kinds of birdbaths and stepping stones and benches. There were pet tombstones and wisecracks for solicitors.

We settled on a medium sized painted gnome. We named him Keebler. He’s grinning out by the stonecrop in my flower bed.

Do you have any lawn ornaments? Do they have any good stories? What could we learn about you form your lawn décor?

I have a few tips for you to keep in mind the next time you find yourself in group sleeping quarters. On the Habitat for Humanity trip, our group stayed at the volunteer center. The facility was only about 15 years old, but it was constructed to meet basic needs. On the main floor were men’s and women’s dormitories divided by a large room that served alternately as a dining hall and basketball court. The women’s dormitory had two rows of about ten bunk beds on each side of the room. My shower had vise grips for a cold water knob.

Bunk selection depends on several of your personal needs. If you can’t sleep with the early morning light, you need to select a bunk away from the exterior windows. That doesn’t always make a big difference if someone in the bunk feels the need to enforce reveille by flipping on the lights and calling us to attention. If you are a light sleeper, you may also want to choose a bunk on the opposite side as the bathrooms. Otherwise you are plagued by foot traffic. The night time pee calls involve either flashlights or stubbed toes, so you have to weigh the limits of your bladder against the limits of your patience

Top or bottom bunk mostly depends on your age. Fortunately, our group was predominantly men, so there was plenty of room on the women’s side. Anyone who wanted a bottom bunk could have one. If you have someone bunking above you, hopefully it is someone with whom you have a respectful relationship. Since the upper bunks often house the teens and tweens, you might find muddy footprints and wet towels on your bed.

Another amusement in group sleeping is the organic nocturnal music. On this trip, the snorers were not too bad. I have dormed with women who were sawing logs with a rusty chainsaw in their sleep. This trip we had sleep talkers. Sleep talkers can be really fun because they often respond to your prompting. We had two girls who carried on a conversation with each other that they didn’t recall in the morning.

Otherwise you just have to negotiate the increasing mounds of used clothing and towels that don’t find their way back to their bunk or suitcase: the younger the crowd, the deeper and wider the pile. If you have to find your way to the bathroom after lights out, you would be wise to make a mental note of the piles before you hit the sack. No one is cleaning them up until departure day.

Our trip was damp. Not only was it simply a humid time of summer, but we had torrential rains the first two days. Everything felt damp. The worst was the bedding. It is difficult to feel cozy in bed when the sheets feel like they need 20 more minutes in the dyer. Even since the rains have stopped, the air has not been dry enough to pull out the dampness.

Then there are the public parenting issues. I don’t know if it is the mother or the teacher in me, but I can only tolerate bad behavior in other people’s kids for so long before I have to step in. I always try to allow for the parent present to formulate a response. However, if enough opportunities have passed with insufficient parental reaction, I will step in. I made it all the way to the fourth day this trip before I began my personal campaign of direct honesty. Perhaps I waited too long, but I’m just getting to know these people.

The compensations for these imperfect living conditions were twofold. We are in the deeply wooded areas of West Virginia in Pendleton County. You cannot find a place to stand that does not have gorgeous scenery. The verdant mountains have clouds clinging to them like burrs. The meandering highways follow the path carved by the rushing headwaters of the Potomac River. Deer grazing by the highway make a beautiful driving hazard to monitor. There are fields of lazy cows, sheep, and goats. It can take you 45 minutes to drive 10 miles on these convoluted mountain roads, but at least you are moving and the scenery is breathtaking. At home you are stewing in traffic. The night sky is spectacular. We are so accustomed to the light pollution of life in the city or suburbs that we forget how many stars there are. I even got to see several shooting stars as I sat on the porch at night. Absolutely beautiful.

The other compensation for the rugged living conditions is the satisfaction that you are leaving the County better than you found it. The Almost Heaven Habitat for Humanity organization has their work cut out for them. They are trying to address a great need for simple, decent, and affordable housing. They offer repair work for only the cost of the materials. They house up to ninety imported volunteers almost every week between February and September. The staff in the office and the supervisors in the field were overworked and overwhelmed. They must love the high they get from handing over the keys to the new homeowner. So often our good deeds are not perceived, our efforts not realized. It is great to find a way to help that is so visibly beneficial. Sometimes less is more.

After my first day of work in West Virginia, I am a redneck – bright red. Long hair is new to me. Since I am single again, I am trying to appeal to the guys who went to high school with me when the Farrah Fawcett was the fashion. So I have a lower maintenance variety of that style now, kinda Farrah unplugged. I realized that longer hair is hot to work in, so I tucked it into my University of Maryland ball cap. Being a novice with long hair, it did not occur to me to apply sunscreen there. My hair had been providing a sun protection factor that I had not realized. So today when we began the day with a light, steady rain, I was relieved because my burnt neck was still stinging.

The work I was continuing on the exterior walls was physical and so I didn’t feel cold despite the rain. My pink tool belt served many on my crew who were not wearing tool belts or aprons of any color. The five most needed tools today were my tape measure, square, pencil, hammer and pry bar. Pretty soon, my team and nearby teams knew I was supplied. People would walk pretty far for my handy little pry bar. It is so easy to set down your pencil or tape measure and lose it. I was being very possessive and it was helping everyone around me. If I didn’t have the needed tool, I could often anticipate it and acquire it if not already in my reach.

There was one problem with my pink tool belt in the rain. It rained so steadily all day that everyone and everything was drenched. It was like working in a wet t-shirt contest. I was not the winner either. Neither were my shorts. When it was finally time to call it a day and I took off the soggy suede belt, the dark pink dye had bled over onto my shorts. There was no laundry option at the center, so the shorts just had to dry and sit for days before laundering. The change is permanent. It doesn’t look too bad. It’s not in the back. If anyone asks, at least I have a good story to tell them.

Construction Girl is alive and well. Today was the first day on the job site for my Habitat week. We are working on a twelve house sub division located on several acres in Sugar Grove, West Virginia. Two houses were under roof. One had its concrete foundation poured and ready to prep for exterior walls. One was almost ready for concrete in the foundation.

We woke up to steady rain that got steadier at times. Only lightening and thunder can end the day early, but we had none of that. Everyone was eager to work, rain or not. The rain prevented the concrete pouring, but the other three sites were ready to go.

Our group of thirty was joined by two other groups about the same size. Ninety volunteers are too many, so some of our group ended up going to the warehouse for inventory and clean-up to compensate for the lost jobsite. I did not volunteer for that even though it was raining. I know they still did meaningful work over there, but it sounded too much like housework which I find deadly boring. So I drove my van loaded with Presbyterians and tools over three mountains to Sugar Grove.

One of the other teams was an all-boy Catholic high school from Ohio. The few teenage girls on our team found themselves in great odds. The other group didn’t stay at the volunteer center, so we didn’t get to know them as well, but they were high school kids too.

My pink suede tool belt and work gloves from my previous life as Construction Girl were a hit. No need to be boring, right? At the end of the week when they handed out awards on scraps of lumber I got “best dressed on the jobsite.” I’ve never been accused of being best dressed before. I just hadn’t found my element yet.

I need to thank my former coworkers, Don & Stan, for the lessons with the hammer. Between my pink tool belt and my skill with the hammer, I managed to attract the attention of the only eligible bachelor on the job (not counting the Catholic boys, of course.) The strong armed supervisor later told me that the tool belt caught his eye, but when he saw me swing the hammer, he wanted to meet me. You know I have a weakness for strong arms. He asked me to be his assistant on a job later in the week where we were correcting some outlets and light switches that had been wired improperly by previous volunteers. I was happy to help him remove those shorts.

Anyway, back to the first morning. We stood in the downpour listening to the job possibilities for the day: siding & soffits, drywall, and something called “setting plates” that I raised my hand for. All I knew was that it had to do with the exterior walls of the foundation-only house. Eight of us were chosen to set the plates: 2 Presbyterians and 6 Catholics.

Lucky for me, another smartass Construction Girl was on my team. Because of our Catholic boy co-workers, we mostly we whispered our naughty comments to each other. I didn’t want anyone to think I was flirting with eighteen year olds. They at least need to be 21 for me. I have standards ya know.

Our team did end up dividing into four and four. One new graduate on our team was starting engineering school in the fall and was excellent at measuring and visualizing the end product. The other boy followed instructions very well, an excellent quality I think. Our team worked way faster than the other four. I’m not sure if it was because Construction Girls are less territorial about the cool parts of the job or because we were just more skilled. Probably a combo.

The sawdust created by the circular saw and the drills was kept under control by the constant rain. Once we had rimmed the foundation with our 2x6’s, or “set the plates,” we had to bolt them down. As Construction Girl, I had acquired some very useful tools that I and my teammates were frequently happy to have on this job. I got to break out my socket set to ratchet down the bolts. I wish I could think of how the write out the satisfying clicking sound that tool makes as it cranks down the nut. I love the sound of nuts being tightened. (See, that’s what we would whisper.)

The most fun for me was when I got to stand on a ladder and swing a sledge hammer. The exterior walls were different from any I have seen before. Once the plates were set, these big sections of exterior wall slid into place over them. These pre-fab walls called sit panels looked like giant rectangular scooter pies (moon pies if you are from the South.) They were two sheets of OSB board sandwiching six inches of industrial strength Styrofoam. Everything was wet, so we had to coax the pieces into place with a sledge hammer. (I still have a great sledge hammer story to tell you. Maybe after I get all this Habitat stuff posted.)

Even though sledging was a totally cool part of the job and there were all these eager eighteen year old boys around, I somehow got to climb the ladder and whack that panel down onto the foundation. Wow is that thing was heavy. Unlike the hammer, I could not swing it by the tail of the handle. The handle was too long for the weight of the head and the strength of my arms. It was great that everyone was willing to share the cool parts of the assignment.

The sun came out mid day, making it steamy for a while. We got two corners of the exterior walls in place before it was time to call it a day and go scramble for the limited hot water available in the volunteer center. It was fun to compare notes with my daughter about the tasks she got to perform. She had been on the team framing up studs for interior walls. I saw her swinging the hammer during parts of the day. She is a natural athlete and seemed comfortable with the tools. She looked good in her canvas tool apron. Next year, she will definitely have a pink one.

In fact, all the women on our team were talking about getting them for next year. Check ‘em out at charmandhammer.com. That’s where I got the pink eye protection and work gloves. They have pink hard hats too. If you equip yourself, let me know and we can go on a build together. They even have an all-women’s build coming up this spring. I just might go. Wanna join me? We'd be happy to take along some guys to cook for us.

I have just arrived and settled into the Almost Heaven Habitat for Humanity Center in West Virginia. That was an amazing drive. I kept thinking I must be lost or we must have passed it, but it was just a mountainous, winding road. I think West Virginia would be at least twice its size if you could smash it flat.

The rainstorms we were experiencing in Maryland are either everywhere in the Mid-Atlantic area or else they followed us here. I alternated between my driving glasses and my sun glasses. (I really need to go to the eye doc for these middle-aged eyes.) One moment it was sunny and squinty bright, the next it was a deluge forcing the bikers to huddle under the overpasses.

One highlight of the trip came just east of Front Royal when we stopped at The Apple House at the Linden exit. Here you can purchase wines from several Virginia vineyards, local jams, relishes, and jellies, pretty & marginally functional crafts, hamburgers dripping in greasy sautéed onions, and the best donuts you could probably ever find: the famous apple cinnamon donuts. Nutritionally speaking there is absolutely nothing redeeming about these delicacies. Deep fried white flour and sugar rolled in cinnamon sugar. The apple component is nominal, certainly no chunks of fresh apple. But every now and then you need something that is completely bad for you - especially if you have been good for a long time. You can't diet every day. I bought a cup of black coffee and a dozen of these gems.

Due to the lack of visibility from the rain, I accidentally exited early and drove through the booming metropolis of Harrisonburg, VA. We passed Harper's Lawn Ornament store on the outskirts of town. I made a mental note to stop there on the way home. That place was worthy of a blog of it's own. I wended my way out of the last "big" city in Virginia and quickly found myself in increasing wilderness.

The highway narrowed and the signs of civilization grew further apart. The trees crowded up to the edge of the road. I noticed three homes close together with brightly painted homemade signs reading “Don’t even think about turning around here.” I was wondering why so many people turned around there and what the local's beef might be with the u-turners. I didn’t want to risk any “Deliverance” style hospitality, so I proceeded without turning. I didn;t really think about it. Before long I realized that the narrow passage was really the last turn around available before you were committed to a serious mountain drive. It was two hands on the wheel, no fooling with CDs, eyes on the road. I felt like I was steering the roller coaster.

The last third of the trip had spectacular scenery. I woke up the girls in my car so they wouldn’t miss it. Because of the recent and current rains, the spectrum of greens was like an optic orgasm. My mother the artist wouldn’t have known where to begin. We were winding right up the side of these ancient rolling mountains on the old side of the continent. We literally had our heads in the clouds. We crested the state line between Virginia and West Virginia on Route 33 at 3580 feet above sea level.

I have been up Mount Evans in Colorado which, if I remember correctly, is a 14’er. That was spectacular in a whole different category – and much scarier. In Colorado, I actually passed a road called “Ohmygod Road.” I asked how it got its name. The guide said, “Just wait, you’ll see.” The drop off was terrifying for a flatlander like me. The difference is that I wasn't driving in Colorado.

The West Virginia mountains were not as menacing as the Rockies, but much more lush and beautiful. I was grateful I was not twisting up and down this mountainside in the dark. Concentrating to see around the bends in the road through the clouds we were penetrating, I don’t think I ever reached the speed limit. I caught one glare from a local for driving too slow. Too bad. He could see my Maryland tags.

My 4th of July party might have been the biggest disaster of a party I've had yet. The advantage of diasterous parties, however, is that they are so memorable. This one will live in my guests' memories for many Independence Days to come.

First of all, the guest list was a bit fluid. Who did I invite? Who RSVP'ed? I should really be more organized about stuff like that. Maybe if I updated my Palm Pilot. So how many were coming? How many burgers should I buy? (You didn't think I'd actually pat them out did you?) 48 burgers. 32 hot dogs. 16 Brautwursts. Who knew how hungry they'd be.

Everything started benignly (like my.... nevermind.) A few guests arrived an hour early, so the prep time got cut a bit short. That was no problem since my 11 year old son was so terrific about helping. (He's buttering me up so I'll buy him Halo2. Now I don't want to buy it because he's being so helpful and I don't want him to stop. How long can I stretch this out?)

Anyway, after most everyone was here - about 4o, and I was just firing up the grill, a big storm rolled in. What a doozy! It knocked down trees in the neighborhood. (damn Bradford Pears.) It was raining sideways. My noble brother-in-law, the marathon runner, martyred himself and grilled during this 30 minute typhoon. The lightening was dazzling and the thunder was eardrum splitting. You could feel it. We were in dead center of the storm cell.

My power went out. So now I have 40 dripping wet party guests huddled in my downstairs. Some kids are screaming with each boom, seeking shelter. Several ended up on the front porch to enjoy the organic fireworks. I did a quick excavation of my garage and some of the guests helped me haul in some tables and chairs for additional indoor seating.

When I finally sat down with a plate of delicious foods, a panicked girl burst through the garage door to report that my basement was flooding. I thought, flooding? Probably not. Oh shit, the sump pump and supplemental pump are electric. Buckets of rain. She's right.

I went downstairs where 10 kids were simply watching water pour under the door and soak the toys and blankets comprising their fort without thinking to move anything. They all had towels around their necks from the pool so I ordered them to drop their towels in the water. Once they comprehended the situation and understood that towels work well to soak up water, they reacted. We ended up forming a bucket brigade up the steps of my basement with me in the murky well passing up bail water. It's the newest rage in party games. I think they were delighted.

By the time the basement flood was averted, the rain stopped. The thunder kept rumbling, so the pool was still off limits. I broke out some of the sparklers and smoke bombs early. Then the "ground blossoms." No one even got burned.

The last guests left by 10:30. I drove my son over to a friends and stayed for a glass of wine to soothe my nerves. They had left for the fireworks in the city park. Her son told me I had the best party ever. It's all in your perspective, huh?

I started my 4th of July celebration on the 3rd today. I had a bit of an impromptu party for my family. I love it that my family all still lives in Maryland. I love it that my kids are friends with their cousins and grandparents, aunts and uncles.

We had steamed Maryland Blue Crabs for dinner: steamed crabs and cold beer in the back yard with people I love, listening to my new Paul Simon CD. What a great night. We practiced with some sparklers to get us prepped from my modest display of fireworks tomorrow night.

My eight year old enjoys a crab feast, but not really the crabs yet. I'm sure she will learn that. But tonight she just enjoyed a crab picking lesson. I pointed out bits of technical advice and she rewarded me with the meat. Then she enjoyed a rite of passage for a Maryland kid: she broke down a big claw and used it to pinch people at the table. I smiled to see her enjoying what she thought was new mischief.

My oldest has learned to enjoy both picking and eating. I checked her pile to see if she had left much for me to clean up. No, she's gotten pretty good at it. I was so proud.

What regional food specialties do you love?

I know I promised some posts about the Habitat for Humanity trip. I didn't get as much time up there to write as I anticipated. So I need more time to review my drafts and notes first. I've been so busy since I got home though. So I promise I'll get to it. It was so cool.

Enjoy the holiday tomorrow. I hope you see some sparks fly - in a good way.

I hope you all had a great weekend. I wonder who has to work this Monday and who is stretching out the 4th of July into an extra long weekend.

Last week was really a great week for me. I spent it with a group of volunteers in West Virginia helping build a house with Habitat for Humanity. I was out of internet range, but did take my laptop to write about the whole experience. I will be posting those in a series this week.

Have any of you gone on a Habitat weekend? If so, where and when and how was it? Do you volunteer with any other charitable organizations? I think these are much more important than going to church. Actions speak louder than words, ya know? It matters if you make a difference. How do you guys serve? When is the last time you were in touch with your inner do-gooder?

I have been picking up various dead animals lately. (You thought I was going to say men, didn’t you?) Now that the weather is nice and the critters in my neighborhood are active, my cats have been getting in touch with their inner predator. Lately it has been birds. I found the hind end of a mouse with its tail in the air by the back door. Although these small carrion are a nuisance, I prefer them dead than alive.

One day a year or so ago my cat came in the cat door with a bird in his mouth that was still squawking for help. When I realized what was making that sound, I kinda lost my cool. I didn’t want a bloody bird dying in my house. I didn’t want to touch it. My kids still use that as my extreme hysteria reference point, as in “Mom screamed, but not as bad as with the bird.” There was even a school friend of my son’s in the house who will reference it when I see him.

Not long after that incident I found a shredded bird on my deck. My friend Evelyn was sitting at my kitchen table when I came in, grossed out by the mess I couldn’t ignore.

“It’s times like this when I wish there was a man in this house to clean up the dead birds,” I complained in disgust.
“Believe me,” my wise friend said soothingly, stilling my arm with her hand. “It’s much easier to clean up your own dead birds.”

I think maybe she was right. I’ve gotten better at it. I don’t scream anymore but I still make a face when I pick up the carcass of whatever gift my cats have adoringly brought to me. I’m just glad the critters are dead. I guess I’m glad I clean them up myself. And I don’t step outside without looking down first.

Did I tell you about my recent day in traffic court? I don’t know if I mentioned that I got a speeding ticket coming home from the beach last March. What a speed trap!

I was coming back from a fantastic couple nights on the coast playing with the construction boys and their heavy equipment. It was a sunny warm day and I had fun plans for the evening back home. I was singing loud to Natasha Bedingfield’s great anthem, “Single.” I don’t think I have ever returned from the beach without a traffic jam. What great time I was making. Along about Denton, the two-lane highway stretched out straight in front of me with only cornfields beside me and not a car in sight – until that State Trooper drove by.

I slowed and stopped singing. He passed me and made a u-turn. Don’t you hate that feeling when you see the lights turn on in the rear-view mirror? Maybe you’ve never had that experience. It sucks.

When the friendly trooper approached my window for my documents, he informed me that he had clocked me at 74 in a 55. I hadn’t seen a parked police vehicle and asked,

“Would you mind telling me how you determined my speed?”

“Radar,” he stated simply.

“I didn’t realize radar worked from an approaching vehicle,” I offered to explain my query.

“Technology’s improved,” he smiled.

“Damn.” I hoped he didn’t mind the honesty.

He then offered some friendly advice.

“The judge here is real fair. If you have a clean driving record, you’ll likely not get any points for this.”

“I get points for this?” I winced.

“Two. But if you have a clean record, the local judge usually knocks those off."

“Weellll,” how honest should I be here? “I did have a ticket about three years ago.”

His half smile met my raised eyebrows.

“Well, you can take your chances,” and he explained my pay it or go to court options. I decided not to mention the camera ticket notice I had on my kitchen table.

Well I did take my chances and it didn’t pay off. But what a collection of elaborate excuses! I’ll share some of those with you tomorrow.

So on the way home from the beach, either hope for traffic or use your cruise control – especially on MD Rte 404. It’s way underrated for it’s speed limit, not at all like North Carolina.

On a cross country flight, you simply cannot avoid at least one trip to the lavatory. “Lavatory” must be a Latin derivation for “wash room.” The only place I ever hear the word is in planes and by old high school teachers. On a long flight, I think it is probably best to use the lavatory during the first half of the trek, primarily for olfactory reasons. I always plan on a bit of clean up first. I always wish that I had brought some handi-wipes for better disinfecting.

I don’t know how some of my fellow passengers manage the cramped quarters of the airplane lavatory. The target presented by the stainless steel bowl seems smaller and lower for most men than the standard bowl, which is why I always have to clean up. There are some big fellas on the plane who must be operating blind in that little facility. I am reminded of the scene from “Tommy Boy” with Chris Farley in an airplane bathroom.

I’ve heard that this is the place for the “Mile High Club” but do not find that adventure appealing in the least. I guess with two very skinny people it would be technically possible, but I can’t quite imagine the logistics of it. There are several places that I’d rather not let any of my skin come in direct contact with in this tiny room with little soundproofing. eeww. I suppose I could consider that venture in a private jet. Short of that, I am content to leave that item on the list unchecked. (Do you have a list like that or is it just me?)

The little sink is always a challenge too – I mean for hand washing. You do get about a 5 second spray of water to actually rinse both hands together. It is difficult to wash one hand at a time. By mid to late flight, the “trash can” is full. I hate to have to touch the flap door after I’ve already washed. I’m really not OCD, but I am aware of germs.

Then there is the exit from the closet washroom. You know on a fully booked flight that someone is watching the lights to see when the seat is available for them. Your exit will be noted by at least one person who will attribute whatever smells are left behind to you. At least people aren’t allowed to congregate by the doors anymore. I always smirk sarcastically when the attendant comes on the PA and says we are “free to move about the cabin.”

I’ve never flown first class. I wonder if the personal facilities are any better. I wonder if it is worth the extra expense. It just might be.

I wrote this on my way back from San Diego in early June, but wanted to share it with you before it gets lost in my laptop.

I am squished against a window in a Southwest plane with an aching butt, I’m sure swollen ankles, and a gas problem that I’m going to have to act on soon. I shouldn’t’ve had that burrito in the airport. I don’t mind disturbing Peggy who is sitting in the friendly seat next to me. She’s just reading “The DaVinci Code,” but the lady next to her has out her laptop and is working on some sort of presentation that looks like real work with outlines and pie charts.

At least the crying baby has recovered his composure. From where I sit, it looks like the young dad managing the child has no woman with him. I felt like going up to him and handing him my driver’s license and asking if I could walk with the child up and down the aisle. But the child looks a bit too old to go with a stranger. I just had to grin and bear it like everyone else. If I was right behind them, I could, as I have done before, have made a puppet out of the barf bag. That’s always fun. And if you put some chewed gum inside, squish it and pull it back open, it looks like stalactites and stalagmites. I have traveled with children before. This guy looks like a novice.

Booking a direct flight from San Diego to Baltimore sounded like a great idea. I was really looking forward to being forced to sit for 5 hours. I wouldn’t have to get up to change the laundry or help with homework or fix dinner or clean up something my cat killed. All I had to do was read my travel magazine, “Cosmopolitan,” sleep, and maybe write. Well, I read the Cosmo on the way out here. I’ve slept off all the weekend activities and I played a few rounds of Spider Solitaire until I finally won one. Now a layover in Detroit or Dallas sounds like the perfect chance to stretch my legs. I’m always worried that my luggage won’t make the connection though. I like my luggage to stay on one plane after the incident in the Cancun airport.

There has been some turbulence, so the Captain kept on the fasten seatbelt sign. But now we are “free to move about the cabin.” Right. I can barely wiggle my feet. We were reminded about the “no congregating around the lavatory” rule three times already. I guess I could climb over everyone and pace up and down the aisle as long as I don’t stop near the lavatory. I’m actually going to need to make a stop there soon. I am in the “hope you have a big bladder” seat. This has been a long flight. Enough is enough.

Computer lady has gotten up. Now’s my chance.

My daughter was appalled when she saw my notice of a trial for the speeding ticket. It said near the top of the page in bold, “State of Maryland vs. CG”
“Mom! That’s terrible.” She is still adjusting to the inevitable realization that her mother isn’t perfect. I wish I wasn’t giving her so many lessons in that though.

I arrived two hours early for my trial time. I checked out the little brick courthouse in the quaint Eastern Shore town. I found the posted docket to see if I might get an earlier hearing. There were 56 people listed on the docket ahead of me, all listed at the same court time. Looks like I had plenty of time for lunch. It was a good thing I had made a lunch date with the cutie-pie excavator/crane operator I met the day before I got the speeding ticket in the first place. I have a story to share from that lunch, but that will have to be in another post.

After lunch, I returned to the courthouse and sat on the benches in the hallway outside the chambers with the other violators. I counted twelve men and six women of various ages and races waiting in the hall. Most of us offenders were dressed in business casual. There was one guy in a work uniform with his name on a chest patch. One big young guy had on a billowing t-shirt with surfers on it that asked if anyone would like to wax his woody. I’m guessing that question had gone unanswered for a while. I wondered how strong the correlation would be between dress and trial outcome.

The first few moments we were all quiet and fidgeting with our papers and comparing them to the docket posted on the bulletin board. One guy hoped aloud that since he was the only one listed for that particular officer, maybe he would get lucky any the trooper wouldn’t show. I didn’t realize the officers’ names were listed, so I went back to the board, hopeful. There were at least a dozen for my officer. He must’ve had a busy day that Saturday. What a speed trap! I was pretty sure I recognized him in the courthouse anyway. Dern.

So we sat there on hard wooden benches amid the seatbelt safety posters exchanging excuses and strategies. Being guilty of the same crime is a bonding factor. We were quick confidantes. I was planning on observing earlier trials to see if I could find a factor that worked with the judge so I could repeat it.

When we entered the courtroom, I was seated in the front bench between two handsome men. When the bailiff instructed us to squish in closer to provide more seating, my initial optimism was dulled by the gold bands on their fingers. Figures. The bailiff gave us the run-down on where and when to stand and sit, how to speak, and what was contraband: gum, cell phones, talking, food & drink.

This is the first time in years I have been in court because of my own wrong doing. I had gone to traffic court once about 15 years earlier. Since then it was just for my divorce and as moral support for a friend – oh yeah, and as a character witness for one of my former students. So even with some experience under my belt, my armpits still felt a little sweaty.

On the wall was a portrait of a smiling, pin-headed judge with big glasses and big ears. That was not the guy who walked into the room. The only time this judge smiled was when listening to the excuses offered: late for school, sun in my eyes, speeding to merge, avoiding a road rager. What was my excuse: didn’t want to be late for a hot date? Just met a cutie-pie heavy equipment operator? Good song on the radio?

The only thing getting people off was a clean driving record. There was no cheating on this – I thought – since the judge was looking at a computer screen up there behind his imposing bench. The eye candy next to me leaned over and whispered that he had a previous ticket, but in a different state while he had a different driver’s license. He was wondering if he should gamble that it wouldn’t show up on the screen. Since I enjoyed the whisper, I engaged him in a brief conversation about that. Lucky for him it worked. The judge let him off easy since he had a clean record.

I was not so lucky. My PA Turnpike speeding ticket showed up. My “I forgot to use my cruise control” excuse was insufficient. He did reduce my fine, but left the points. I expect I’ll hear from my car insurance company soon. Dern.

Double Dern. I just noticed my posting from yesterday didn't go through even though I got the "successful" message upon submission. I'll try to create it again later.

CG could be Cereal Grazer at my house. I have 12 different boxes of cereal in my pantry. That’s three varieties for each member of my house. Here they are in order of descending healthiness:

Optimum Power: my personal favorite – high fiber, reasonable sugar, and actual flavor

Organic Pumpkin Flaxplus Granola – good mixed in yogurt

Kashi GoLean – actually says twigs & puffs on the label. Tastes like cardboard. I should throw this one out, but I can stand it if I mix it with another one.

Raisin Bran – not very popular. A good back up if I run our of #1 or 2.

Cheerios – everyone eats these from time to time.

Frosted Bite-Sized Mini Wheats – a current favorite with my kids and not bad too.

Strawberry Delight Frosted Bite-Sized Mini Wheats – sounded like a good idea, but no one likes these. I keep hoping to pawn them off on a guest child.

Rice Chex – low sugar, but not much anything else to say for them. Rice Krispies in different shape.

Lucky Charms – There’s not many marshmallows left in the box, so the remaining portion isn’t that bad for you, no more yellow moons or pink hearts.

Golden Grahams – I could eat the whole box of these.

Fruit Loops – great for craft projects. These have been in there a while.

Pops – I believe these were called Sugar Pops when I was a kid. They remind me of Calvin & Hobbes’ Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs.


I’m wondering if 12 boxes show a bit of indecision on my family’s part or if we just like variety. Cereal is often a bedtime snack which I figure has to be better than several other snack options. Our individual preferences descend in healthiness with age, although sometimes we opt for a different extreme. How many boxes in your household? What’s your favorite? Is there anyone who doesn’t eat cereal? Have you heard that there are whole cereal restaurants now?

Doing laundry with children is always an adventure. By "adventure" I don't mean to imply that it is necessarily fun or adventurous. Certainly it is endless. There is, however, always that element of the unexpected. Tonight's lesson was that while chocolate can survive in a cold load, it doesn't do so well in the dryer. Figures it is clothes I wanted for the morning. So I'm still up doing laundry on Saturday night at 11. Not as fun as some Saturday nights.

I thought about creating a sort of mural based on the things I pull out of the washer and dryer that aren't clothes. The occasional coin would help date the growing collection. It would have plenty of color from the Legos and Barbie shoes. My jeans are often authentically stone washed, as my kids like to pick up smooth or unusual rocks. When I saw feathers in there I crossed my fingers that it wasn't the whole bird. You never know in my house. We've had plenty of lip glosses go through, but some of those I confess were mine. We also launder plenty of money. I consider that a way-too-small tip. I suppose having children who are careless about emptying their pockets might be a good source of information as they become teenagers, but here we go back to that "ignorance is bliss" conversation.

What does your laundry debris say about you? Did you ever get caught by something you sent through the laundry?

BIG storm last night. I really need to go check to see if my basement has flooded again. I’ll do that next. The thunder and lightening were booming simultaneously, bright and loud. I started the night with one child in my bed. It wasn’t long ‘til we were joined by another and one wet, frazzled cat. My youngest never stirred. So it was a crowded bed for an hour in the early hours. I felt like breaking out into “Raindrops on Roses.”

I already have two baby replacement trees in my front yard from previous storms: one last year, and Isabelle the year before. The one last year we saw blow over. We love to sit on the front porch in the storm. The kids, mine and some neighborhood kids, had a fun time sawing on it before the chain saws arrived. No one even lost a finger.

My trees are Bradford Pears. They are an experimental hybrid, bred to be beautiful but not to produce fruit. They are beautiful, especially in the spring when our neighborhood is lined with their white blossoms. They don’t bear fruit, so there’s no messy clean-up or fertilizing necessary. One flaw in their manipulated creation is that they are brittle. They can’t support their own weight in a storm. They don’t bend well in the wind.

Beautiful things are not meant to last. They are fleeting moments. You have to enjoy them while they are in bloom before the winds blow too hard. What lasts longer are the natural, fruit-bearing, messy trees. They still have their moments of beauty, but they come with a mess and lots of work.

True for you?

I was overwhelmed with an amazing thank you from one of my coolest friends today.

My walking buddy, Anne, is so much smarter than I am. She knows that I appreciate the conveniences of technology, but she also knows that I have a low aptitude for manuals and instruction booklets. Maybe it's not a low aptitude as much as a bad attitude. I just hate reading through those boring things. For example, my relatively new microwave supposedly will brown a chicken to a crispy perfection in 20 minutes. All I have to do is read the manual to figure out how (and feel like cooking real food.) My palm pilot is the original graphite version: 3x5 card and a pencil. I do buy colored 3x5 cards. Sometimes I even date them because I'll find various lists lying around and not know if it is today's list or yesterday's, hence the colored cards.

Well, Anne is a big iPod fan. She has a great iPod story that you may have read about in the paper or seen when she was interviewed on the Wolf Blitzer portion of CNN last year. Maybe I can convince her to tell that story on her blog. (There's a link on my page to hers. She helped me figure out how to do that too.)

Anyway, as a thank you for watching Fern after school this year, she bought me an iPod! Wow, huh?! AND, she has offered to load it up for me. She will probably even show me how to use it so I don't have to read through all the instructions. Isn't she the coolest? I need my technology to come with a person, not a manual.

So she was trying to figure out something clever to have engraved on the back without me knowing what she was up to. On one morning walk we were discussing mantras. I had one when I was going through the divorce, but that one I have kind of set aside. I told her that my mantra these days matched my 3x5 cards. I often find myself repeating something like, "turn on the sprinkler, start the coffee, vac the pool." I keep repeating it until I either get it done or find a 3x5 card.

I'm glad she didn't engrave that on the iPod. She kept it to a simple "thanks."

Do you have a mantra or saying that you would engrave on your iPod?

Alright girls. We've been accused of male bashing. I know they give us plenty of fodder. They just hand over reasons for griping. Even so, we still love 'em - either in general or specifically.

So let's tell them what we love about them. Why do we want them? How do they comfort us or make us feel loved. How did you meet your guy - if you have one currently. What were the best traits in the last one you loved?

You go first.

Knowledge can be distracting. The things that distract you depend on your knowledge. For example, my friend who is a nurse gets distracted in groups by people's health issues. She will notice if someone seems ill and she starts determining if her action might be necessary. Should she speak to them? Might she have to do CPR? It can be a distraction.

My friend in law enforcement can't help but notice the potential criminals in a crowd. He notices suspicious behavior and makes note of exits and hidden spots in rooms. He notes positions that would provide cover in a shoot out. In some situations he carries a weapon - situations where I am oblivious to potential dangers.

I don't know that much to be distracted by, but sometimes my imagination will distract me. I will notice unique people and start formulating possible scenarios that they might be dealing with. How did that man injure his foot? Why does that woman look sad? What was he doing before he came here? Where is she going after this?

At my son's baseball playoff game tonight (which he won 12 to 11 - he had 2 runs) I was distracted by my knowedge of the hazard that can be created by boys with baseball bats and their general lack of awareness of their surroundings. I am the alarmed, alert mother always telling the next batter up to scoot over so they don't smash their teammate in the face. That happened to my nephew. I don't want to witness that. I may get on their nerves, but I can't ignore their risks.

Is ignorance bliss? I think I'd rather be aware, although it can be a problem sometimes. What knowledge distracts you? Are you glad you know anyway?

I don't suppose I'm a typical church lady. Last night began my congregation's Vacation Bible School. I have a tendency to overcommit my schedule, which this VBS thing has done for me. I agreed to help with the opening singing in the auditorium. It's just kids, so I didn't stress out like I did for my sermon. I don't even think I went to one planning meeting. I just showed up where I was told to by the real church ladies.

The theme was "Fiesta!" I didn't know if we were to dress in a certain way, so I chose a red t-shirt that had some stitching that was slightly South American looking. But when I got to church, I was handed a cheap white t-shirt with the VBS theme logo ironed on it. I don't usually go in for the "let's dress in matching clothes" thing, but I was willing to be a good sport. Unfortunately, I didn't get the memo about which underwear to wear to VBS.

I had on a dark fushcia bra that showed way through the white t-shirt. Would Jesus mind? I suppose it was a good thing I was wearing a bra. Do people assume that church ladies where white underwear? Did they think I had on granny panties too?

My sister bailed me out as only a sister can do. We went into the restroom and traded bras for the evening. It was like a modern day variation on the Good Samaritan parable. She is a better church lady than I am - but she's still cool too.

So am I atypical, or are church ladies changing since we were kids? I don't know if I fit a clear category. Are you a church lady? Can church ladies wear fushcia bras?

It has been a great, but busy weekend visiting with old and new friends. For Father's Day, my father is celebrating his 45th wedding anniversary with my mother in Niagra. So it is a bit of an unusual Father's Day for me. I was going to post an excerpt from an article that I actually got published in a magazine a few years ago about my Dad. But I haven’t had time to dig through my document files and find it. So I promise that is coming, because my dad is cool and you would like to know more about him.

Instead, I am visiting today with two others moms & their kids – with no fathers around. They are too cool of people to not hang out with them. So I am not looking for the lost article.

Peggy was skimming the bugs out of the pool and noticed that in the remaining participants of the Barbie orgy, the male doll was missing. What does that mean?

I'm glad my son got to spend the morning with his dad because he will be surrounded by girls and women this afternoon.

Today I installed two window unit air conditioners upstairs. Ok, I did have a little help since I was afraid of dropping them out the widow, but it was much easier than I had anticipated. I tell you, it is easy for fear to impede you, isn’t it? I bought those two window units a month ago during a heat wave. I figured if I waited until the end of summer they’d be all sold out. I know I have central AC, but our upstairs is always so hot. There’s probably a better long range solution, but this seemed expedient and cheaper. I just followed the directions and it was easy. I even got to use my (OK, my son’s) power drill. It was a pleasant reminder of my Construction Girl days.

Now all I have to tackle is the leaking faucet in my bathroom. (By “all” I mean not including the windows, siding, deck, my closet & carpet & the basement carpet.) I went ahead and bought a whole new faucet since I’ve been thwarted by the stem replacement before. I picked a familiar brand. But I haven’t installed it. It sits on the floor of my bathroom mocking me. It’s just that I know this could easily turn into a three hour job – and, worst case scenario, I won’t have a sink in my bathroom until I can call a plumber to fix it. So I have been reluctant to start.

It’s kinda like my writing career. I’m afraid I won’t be able to pull it off. I don’t know how long it will take. I’ve decided to find a writing conference to attend this fall and maybe schmooze with some agents. Maybe I could pay someone to do the tough parts. I need to establish some connections. But for now I just blog every day. I do better at daily blogging than daily flossing. It’s good exercise and hopefully it will give me the confidence to take the next step.

P.S. Blogger's not cooperating. I got a picture of the Barbie orgy, but the picture posting function is disabled - supposedly temporarily. So are the other tools, like italics and font size. I did open an e-mail account for this blog that you can reach through my profile just in case you have a comment that you'd like to make out of the public forum. I'll post a real entry later today. I have some houshold Construction Girl things to do today.

- Back in business! You can tell by the italics!

There’s an orgy in my backyard of perfect hard bodies. Why is it that the Barbies can’t keep their clothes on? The orgy of Barbies in my shower looks like the United Nations. Since they started the “Princess of Many Lands” series we have the palest, Princess Ireland, to the darkest, Princess Nigeria and every shade in between, from Japan, India, the Netherlands, and of course, Malibu.

But these Barbies are really slutty. Just today I was driving with my 8 year old and her friend in the back seat. The girls were giggling and I did a quick check to see the mischief. The topless Barbie was flashing the passing drivers. Can you imagine?!

I’m not sure of the sexual orientation of these chicks. There was only one naked man among them – and it wasn’t Ken. I hear he and Barbie split up. But this new guy has a couple or three missing parts. He’s apparently a eunuch. You know those guys make great girlfriends. Barbie has had a few things waxed and airbrushed anyway, so they make a good pair. So I’m not sure about the naked thing. But those pale skins must have a great built-in sun protection factor. The sluttiest is Barbie’s cousin, Bratz who keeps her go-go boots on during the orgy.

Once a few years ago I got an e-mail about the Barbies that didn’t make it to market, like Burka Barbie. I’d like to see a Barbie with stretch marks or slightly saggy breasts. How about Cellulite Barbie? Or a Barbie with a tattoo? I’d be content with a size 12 Barbie with flat feet. What Barbie would you like to see?

Do I want to ever get married again?
Lots of people have asked me that: men and women, married and single, hopeful and discouraged.
I don’t know. That was the original plan, the happily-ever-after beginning. Reality, however, doesn’t much compare with the fairy tale. In reality – mine and my friends’, Prince Charming can be a workaholic, an alcoholic, disinterested, a selfish or lazy lover, boring, irritating, compulsive, abusive, unfaithful, or just plain psycho.

Lately the people who have discouraged me the most from the idea of another marriage are my married friends. I have become a reference source of therapist and lawyer phone numbers. I have encouraged friends to call their doctor for a prescription. I have poured many glasses of wine for women weary of working so hard on their marriage. Shouldn't it be easier?

I suppose I was ahead of the curve in my generation as far as getting divorced is concerned. Perhaps that’s why I have never dated a guy in his forties – only 50’s and 30’s mostly. Guys my age are all still married. My ex-husband was a visionary in that regard. He saw what was coming and cut to the chase. I recently thanked him for that. It took courage to leave, but we neither one were happy. I don’t know if that would have changed. We’re even friends now, much better than we ever were married. Yesterday would have been our 19 year wedding anniversary. We agreed it was a fine occasion to exchange gift bottles of wine. I find that wine improves many situations – provided you don't drink the whole thing yourself.

So I guess I would consider marriage if I met Prince Charming, but I haven’t met him yet. I'm not waiting to be saved from anything. A wise friend of mine who has one of the best marriages I know said to me long ago, “If you are looking for Mr. Right, you will find him. But if you are looking for Mr. Perfectly Right, you will end up lonely.” I don’t mean to be picky, but I’m not going to settle.

I don’t think that marriage in and of itself will bring anyone happiness. If I really wanted to be married again, I could have already done that. I have had a couple of serious offers. But I believe marriage should improve my life, not make it harder. Maybe that is idealistic thinking. Maybe that is why I am single. Everyone, especially once you get midway through life, comes with baggage. Some baggage is heavy and doesn’t even have wheels on the bottom. My baggage I think is at least a matched set. I have my own shit to wrestle with. I don’t want to carry too much of someone else’s. There are a helluva lot of advantages to being single. I’m not sure I want to give any of them up.

Bottom line is that I don’t know what lies in store for me. I thought I did, but really no one does. The future is wide open. That’s a bit of a thrill, isn’t it?

The total combined ages of the women in my pool is currently about 96. That would be a fascinating conversation with one 96 year old woman. It would be a relaxing day poolside for me if it were two 48 year old women – or three 32 year old women. Four 24 year old women would probably be fun, except we probably wouldn’t enjoy the same music and I would most likely be deficient in the tattoo and piercing department.

Today, however, I have eight 12 year old girls in my pool. They are great girls and I’m proud of my daughter’s taste in friends. For some reason these girls communicate in shrieks and shouts that make me reluctant to sit poolside with my book. I have mostly been watching from the kitchen window. It did get considerably quieter once the pizza arrived, but that was temporary. We are ignoring the no swimming after eating rule.

I wouldn't have 16 six year olds in my backyard at the same time. Absolutely never 24 four year olds - or 48 two year olds. Eight 12 year olds is my lowest ratio. Solo that is. I'd need more support supervision backup.

I love the racial diversity of our community. My children have made friends with children of various races. Sometimes I can’t easily communicate with their parents because of language barriers. I wish I had taken Spanish in high school instead of French. I’ve never encountered someone who only spoke French. If I did encounter a Frenchman, I could recite my 7th grade dialogue about the eminent arrival of the Duponts for dinner.

Of my children’s three end-of-school year pool parties, only my youngest invited both girls and boys. I did require them to limit the number of attendees, so I know that was a factor. The middle years of childhood are where the sexes separate. They haven’t merged again yet. That must be part of the natural process of things.

I took pictures and videos. It will be fun to look back on them when these girls are seniors. I can’t help wondering how their lives will turn out. My childhood friend swore she’d never marry or have children. She’s been married 18 years and has seven beautiful children. I was the likely candidate for the Betty Crocker route, and I turned out opposite to predictions too. Maybe one of these girls will be the first woman president, more likely the second. They will one day be our caretakers. I hope they still have all this energy.

One topic I have steered pretty clear of on this blog is men and their role in my life. Part of that is because I am aware of my readership: a few exes and almost relationships. Today I'm feeling irked by a few of them in particular and a lot of them in general.

So far in my life I haven't been able to align the willing volunteers with the ones actually available and attractive to me. It's like hunting a unicorn.

Do I have to know exactly what I want? I thought I did, but since that didn't work out, I haven't reformulated. I suppose I do have to figure that out. Does it have to be all or nothing? Maybe everyone else knows just what they want except me. Will I know it when I see it? Did you? Were you right?

I have so many blessings in my life, so much to be grateful for. My kids are so easy to love, bright and healthy. I am supported by the best friends anyone could ask for. There's just this one area that is... fuzzy. Some days I like it this way. Some days I wish for something else. Mostly I try not to worry too much and enjoy the ride. I just don't know which direction I'm heading. I have seen some spectacular scenery though. I am learning a whole lot. I didn't realize how much I didn't know.

It's good to have sore muscles. It means you did something - played hard, worked hard. Hopefully the ache, that quiver or burn is a reminder of something you are glad you did. But even if sore muscles are an unpleasant reminder, at least you did something.

It would be safer to not play. It would be safer not to risk. But then you wouldn't have done anything.

Different parts of the body ache differently too: knees, glutes, arms, heart. I know the heart is a muscle because I've felt that afterburn. What about the brain? I think I've strained that before too.

Some injuries are more painful than others. Sometimes I even feel regret. Doesn't everyone? But I'd rather regret the chances I took than the chances I didn't take. I'd rather regret what I said than my silence.

"Pain is temporary. Pride is forever."
That's my son's lacrosse team's slogan. The only actual injury I sustained was when I was playing catch with my son before the game and caught one ball with my right eyebrow. ooww. If there's a bruise tomorrow, it won't be as bad as the one I got in the biker bar brawl.

Before the game I went over to my son to talk a little trash to get the competetive juices flowing. Everyone who knows me knows how cutthroat I can be. I leaned in by Kyle's ear and said, "I just wanted you to know I'm taking you down!" He laughed.

Only three moms got on the field today. When I was on, the dads told me to hang out down by the crease and they'd give me to ball so I could score. I had to ask exactly where the crease was. No one mentioned that I wasn't supposed to cross a certain line. Suddenly everyone was shouting "Mom in the crease! Mom in the crease!" At first I thought that was a good thing, but apparently it wasn't.

They really tried to keep their word, but I just couldn't keep that ball in the net. It would have been easier if I didn't have a dozen boys trying to knock it away from me. But there was only one goal in all four 10 minute quarters, so I wasn't the only novice parent. Those little guys are good too - and quick!

My son told me he was hoping "Pass to my mom. Pass to my mom." I was thinking, "Don't pass it to me. Don't pass it to me." I did scoop it up several times and pass it to some of my teammates, but I could never catch it in the mayhem of the game. As we left the field my son told me, "You're an inspriation to moms everywhere." It doesn't get much better than that.

It was a beautiful day though. My knee brace did its job and I walked off the field with no limp. I may feel it in my muscles tomorrow. That's OK because pain is temorary. Pride is forever.

This weekend my children have helped bump me into different social circles. We had discussed having an end of the school year party, but the guest list quickly spiraled out of control. Rather than limit the party because of the size, we decided to have three. Each child got to pick friends from school to celebrate with this weekend, but at three separate party times. Here at almost midnight on Friday I have two down and one to go.

This was the first time my children had more knowledge of the families on the guest list than I did. My oldest's party is beginning later this weekend.
My oldest has friends whose families I have known longer than the others. Our families are comfortable together and have known each other for years now.

My middle child's guest list was of names I had heard and faces I had seen in assemblies or back to school nights. I was delighted to find some kindred spirits in their mothers. Maybe that is why our sons enjoy each other's company. I also appreciated having two other mothers who could hang out with me so I wasn't the only adult at the party. We have discussed hanging out together again.

My youngest had the freshest guest list. I really only knew one family and had made the previous acquaintance of another. But there were five other families. Only one man came, although all invitations invited the whole family. So again, it was a chance for us mothers to bond. We just kind of naturally relieved each other of watching the children and all enjoyed a pleasant time to get to know one another. It was cool.

New relationships are always fun.

When is the last time you had to pee in a jr. high bathroom? I guess it has been a while for me. But tonight I was at my son's baseball game where he played first & third bases fantastically and hit impressively too. My 8 year old daughter, of course, forgot to plan and was in a knee clenching paroxysm just after my son made a beautiful infield catch. So we had to hike around to the front of the school, rattling doors as we went, hoping to find one left open.

whew! We did.

So I decided to make the most of my time in there and use the other stall. I forgot about this, but for some reason schools don't use rolled tp. They have that stiff tissue that fan-folds like kleenex - only less soft. The dispenser in my stall was empty. I had to ask my daughter if she could "spare a square," a ritual that all women eventually experience that I bet few men ever have. I got the last three 5"x5" squares. Thank God it was only #1. (Sorry. Is that too gross?)

What is it about rolled tp? Too expensive? Too easy to overuse? Too much potential for mischief? No wonder some days my eldest waits all day.

By the way, any athletic ability my son may have does not pass down from my side of the family. I'm a great cheerleader - in an informal sense, not an athletic one. But here's something to amuse you. This coming Saturday I agreed to play in the parent-son end of season lacrosse game. Maybe I should practice. Hopefully I won't wreck my middle aged knees.

Here comes summer! Today was my last day with all my kids in for a full day of school. I felt a bit of a panic about not having time for myself starting tomorrow. Part of me wanted to race around and part of me wanted to lie down on the couch for the last bit of quiet.

I still didn't even get the full day. I had to take my youngest in to see the doc for an ear problem. Fortunately for me, we have the coolest doctor's office in town. We hang out and visit like old friends. I guess we've know each other for years now. It's nice not to go to one of those big impersonal medical groups. I like that we all know each other.

Today I began distributing my new "Tell Me Your Story" business cards. My new job title is "personal essayist." What do you think? I don't need to sweat thinking of a plot because everyone has a great story to tell - they just need me to write it down for them. Tomorrow I will post some ads on community bulletin boards. I think I'll hold off on heavier advertising until later in the summer. I already have my first job lined up just by word of mouth. You know I will eventually see if I can combine some finished essays into a book. But one step at a time right now.

So what does everyone have planned for the summer? I know two of you are coming to my house for a week or two. I'm looking forward to time for extended visits with old friends - late nights after the kids are in bed, drinking wine on the front porch.

My oldest & I are joining forces with a Habitat for Humanity team in West Virginia. I'm afraid she's expecting Ty Pennington and and Extreme budget, but it should still be fun. At least it will be good bonding time for us. I'm looking forward to a revival of Construction Girl.

Was everyone aware that today was the day of the beast 6-6-6? I saw a bumper sticker recently that read "667: Neighbor of the Beast"

I have a good friend in the Midwest who is a labor & delivery nurse. She told me this tale of what happened on the midnight shift in her hospital. Two teenage Goth-types were in for the induced delivery of their baby. Their son was delivered in the early hours of 6-6-06 and they named him Damien.

Without even trying, I know I have done some things that will likely require therapy for my children. I've already started saving up for it. So how can you go and do something so deliberately that will make life hard for your child like that? I hope that their son will grow up and do everything he can to rebel against his parents. Can you imagine what would make parents like that disappointed in their kid?

I'd say their story is a good argument for not having a baby when you are still a teenager, although there are plenty of older screw-ups having kids too. (like me for instance.) Is it scarier to have parents who think they know what they're doing or parents who are aware that they are just guessing?

I suppose I don't want to regulate too many parental choices because it could quickly become a Stepford baby kind of situation - especially if we let Dr. Dobson in on it. I guess if Dr. D could regulate babies, we could just sic Damien on them and maybe balance would be restored. It would probably cause the same kind of mayhem as Anakin caused though.

So do you think little Damien should go to public schools when he grows up? Can you imagine the parent teacher conference?

I just got back from a weekend in San Diego. I went out there with family and friends to visit family and friends and to cheer my brother-in-law on for the Rock-n-Roll Marathon. It was his 7th full marathon.

It was beautiful out there. Almost everywhere we went we smelled the native star jasmine. The 5-day weather report I saw in the local paper had to be specific about the degree of sunshine each day would provide: patchy morning fog then sunny, a few clouds in the evening, abundant sun. It made me think of that song, "It Never Rains in California."

We stayed in the Gaslamp Quarter and enjoyed some local night life: Dick's Last Resort, Croce's, The Field, The Blarney Stone. We danced in the street to a sidewalk musician and took a ride in a pedicab. We took a water taxi across the bay to Coronado and the trolley to Old Town. We shopped at the Seaside Village and saw the aircraft carrier Midway that is now a museum. I bought my new sneakers at the runner's expo in the pretty convention center. My brother-in-law did well in the race among fellow racers several of whom ran in Elvis costumes.

The one feature of this town that really impressed me, aside from the fine law enforcement officers, was the MLKJr. Promenade. This sidewalk ran between our hotel and the convention center. On either side of the walkway there were several MLK quotes in stone plaques. I strolled slowly reading each one, sometimes twice to comprehend the big ideas this man was trying to convey. What a wise man he was. At first I wondered about the connection San Diego might have with Dr. King. After pondering his quotes I realized that no connection was necessary other than the city's desire to align themselves with his philosophies. The Promenade was also enhanced by a sculpture inspired by one of the quotations and fountains.

Here are just a few of the quotes I remember:

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. "

"Love is the only force capable of transforming an enemy into friend. "

"Everybody can be great... because anybody can serve. You don't have to have a college degree to serve. You don't have to make your subject and verb agree to serve. You only need a heart full of grace. A soul generated by love. "


I know that citing deep philosophies of educated men is much easier than figuring out how to implement them on a personal level, let alone a municipal or national level. Even so, in a city so close to Mexico, in a time when our border policies are in turmoil, it seems we could all use a little more of Dr. King's philosophies surrounding us.

I have finally replaced my walking sneakers. I got a snazzy new red and white pair that I wore home from the store like a kid. Suddenly the gray and yellow ones that have cushioned my feet for hundreds of miles seemed hideous. I'll save them for yard work now.

I remember in Jr. High that new white sneakers were embarrassing. I would scuff them up intentionally. I think the whole world's attitude toward athletic footwear has changed in the last 25 years.

I bought my old sneakers over a year ago in Texas with my friend Julie because we were training together for the Avon Marathon Walk. We bought matching shoes. What an event that was. Besides the weekend with my dear friend and hours of uninterrupted time to visit, what made the Avon Walk memorable was the rain.

It was raining at dawn when we were gathering at the starting point, listening to the poignant speeches of people walking in honor of breast cancer survivors and victims. It was raining as we slogged through so many puddles that we quit trying to walk around them. It was pouring as we ate our boxed lunches like hobos hunched under plastic rain ponchos. The rain let up for a few hours in the afternoon when we hobbled into the medic tent, Julie with a stress fracture to her foot and me with my throbbing knee. We limped into the tent city at Catholic University with ice packs taped to our injuries and were assigned a puddle as our tent site. After showers in a truck and dinner in the mess tent, we turned in for an early evening just as the rain returned. The wind rattled our tent and the rain soon began dripping in. Our injuries stiffened and we made a pathetic, limping dash to the latrines in the night in the downpour. The latrines were dry and warm. I started to fall asleep in there. Julie opened my door to check on me. How bad is it when the latrine in more comfortable than the tent? Thank goodness we had air mattresses because we woke with standing water in our tent and spongy sleeping bags.

So those are the sneakers I've replaced. The salesgirl scolded me for having used them so hard. She told me to never go that long without replacing again. Even though they were completely used, I hate to get rid of them entirely. Those shoes have walked through some great stories.

Do you guys get e-mail badgering enough? You know the ones that I mean. They have been triple forwarded or worse. And then they tell you that if you love them you will send it back to them and forward it to at least ten friends or else bad luck will befall you.

I do send these back to my daughter because she feels underfed with e-mails. Sometimes they contain lovely sentiments or thought provoking information. Even so, I risk the bad luck and do not mass forward them. I risk the friendship of the person who sent them to me and do not send it back to them. So far, they are all still my friends. I don't think they are the ones adding those menacing forward lines.

I don’t understand why someone wants the e-mail to cruise through the internet exponentially. There is no financial gain that I can figure out. I don’t see how it would make anyone famous.

Then there are the jokes that have been circulating for years. Some of them I get repeatedly because all my friends think I’ll enjoy it. Like the Andy Rooney one about why women over 40 are better than younger women. Some of them are really raunchy, but funny. Those are usually the ones with the sentence tacked on the end requesting prayers for their son in Iraq.

Or how about when they drag Jesus into it? I got one recently that said if I loved Jesus I would forward it to everyone on my list. If I didn’t love Jesus I would just delete it. I don’t know. Do you think Jesus would forward emotional blackmailing e-mails? WWJF? What Would Jesus Forward?

Doesn't it seem that the more of a rush you are in, the slower all the people around you go?

Yesterday, I realized when I got my son to his baseball game that the first aid tape holding the gauze on his newly injured elbow was not going to stay put for the game. I needed to get better tape and try to get back before the game started. The drug store was closer than my house, so I decided to just buy new, stickier tape.

The cars in the parking lot were cruising around slow, waiting for parking spaces. The lanes were narrow so passing wasn't always possible. I finally parked far, hurried in and found my supplies. Then I proceeded to the check out.

Although one register had a line four people long, the other line had only one guy in it. Rather than question the people in the long line, I happily took my place in the short one. Then I realized why no one was in this line.

The older gentleman in the line in front of me was at the stage in life where rushing is no longer an option. He had a little chauffeur-style cap covering his gray hair and suspenders holding up his plaid pants. I'm sure he thought he was being modern by not using cash, but he wrote a check. Of course, he did not start writing the check until all the ringing up was completed. When his granddaughter wanted to discuss candy options, he had to stop writing. No multi-tasking at that age. The teenage cashier was obviously inexperienced with checks that are now rarely used - expect by people in front of me. So he had to call over support to help him figure out how to force the computerized register to accept the darn thing.

So I finally got in the other line. No I don't have a store card. No I don't want to fill out an application. I dared to get cash back off my debit card and didn't realize I had to hit the zeroes. So I got back 35 cents, which the cashier dropped.

Don't those moments make you want to yell at everyone? I thought I could do it in under 15 minutes. With the trafficy parking lot & intersection plus the crackerjack service, it was almost 30. I know the whole world is not obligated to rush around for me, but I would sure appreciate it if they did.