Standing for something

For the last few years, off and on, I've been fascinated by a Stephen King novel, "The Stand." If you haven't read it, I'll try a quick plot summary. A secret lab in the southwestern U.S. accidentally releases a superflu virus that kills 99.6% of Americans over about two weeks (and later the world population too). The survivors all begin having similar dreams at night, either of a dark faceless man (guess who he is) or of an old black woman. Gradually, the survivors band together and travel west to either Las Vegas (guess who's taken up residence there--thanks for the heavy symbolism, Stephen) or to Boulder, Colorado. The followers of the dark man are plotting to kill off all of the Boulderites and then something big and dramatic happens and a bunch more people die. Happy ending still follows.

They made the book into a miniseries a few years ago, starring Rob Lowe, Gary Sinise, Molly Ringwald (gotta have Molly Ringwald), and few other lesser stars. I caught part of Part 3 the other night on some channel or other, which compelled me to get the book out again and reread parts of it.

Greg sighs when he sees me reading it again and frankly, I can't exactly explain why it so captures my attention. I think it's just thinking about what it would be like if you were one of maybe two people (in a town my town's size) to survive such a plague. All of your family members would be dead. Depending on when your family caught the flu, you might have to bury them. The plague also kills dogs and horses, but not cats, so I guess you'd still have companionship. The electricity would go out eventually, but there's lots of camping gear available and you could certainly pick and choose which house to live in. Scavenging for food would be easy and I guess no one is going to complain if you chop down your neighbor's tree for firewood. I don't know how you would handle the bodies everywhere, but if you got past that, then what? How would you live the rest of your life? How would you keep from going crazy.

A lot of the flu survivors committed suicide, but many of the Boulderites got busy clearing the roads, burying the bodies, learning how to be farmers, and fixing the power plant. Reestablishing civilization. But "civilization" and technology is how we got the superflu in the first place--oooo, deep.

A story

Sometimes you hear something that you just have to share:

George was sitting having Thanksgiving dinner with his wife, his daughter-in-law, his son, and their 9-month-old daughter. The baby was sitting on George's wife's lap, and she was feeding the baby mashed potatoes and gravy. The baby was loving it. She grabbed with one hand at the plate and got a handful of stuffing, which promptly went into her mouth. The stuffing had big chunks of onion in it. The baby choked and stopped breathing.

George's wife pounded her on the back. Nothing happened. The baby still wasn't breathing. The daughter-in-law took the baby and pounded her on the back. Nothing happened. The baby was turning blue.

George said all he was thinking was, we're never going to make it to the hospital in time. George took the baby, turned her over, and thrust into her diaphragm while pushing on her back. The chunk of onion flew out of her mouth and she started breathing. She started crying.

George knows he saved her life. He says he thanks God for the first aid course he was required to take as a manufacturing supervisor at our company, the course that he credits with giving him the tool to save his granddaughter's life.

What an amazing story. And yet things like this happen every day. They just don't always have a happy ending. Happy Thanksgiving, George! Thank god.

Thanksgiving

Ah, yes. It's once again the holiday of eating.

We're having turkey, garlic mashed potatoes, squash gratin, carrots, baked beans, stuffing, apple slaw, rolls, shrimp cocktail and little smokies for appetizers (because there wasn't already enough food involved in this day), pumpkin pie and pecan pie.

If no one's stomach explodes and Greg doesn't have a coronary while stressing over the deep-fried turkey, we'll have a wonderful day.

I need to go make apple slaw now. Happy Turkey Day!

Dust bunnies my ass

My home is dusty. I am not, and never have been, one of those people who dusts every week or who runs around with a cloth, swiping everything in sight. Nothing against those people who do do that, it just doesn't appear to be in my genetic makeup. As a result, we usually dust only when there's company coming (yes, we used to have a cleaning lady but that was like, two years ago--keep up, people).

When we clean house for company, as we've been doing for the last few days because my in-laws are coming for Thanksgiving, we take care of the most used rooms first. Bathrooms, basement (because someone is usually sleeping in our finished basement and we don't spend a lot of time down there otherwise), and living room/kitchen. We hit the bedrooms least of all, and our master bedroom definitely gets the short end of the stick because there is no reason for guests to go in there.

The unfortunate result is that the room where I spend the most hours at home is also the most dusty. Not awake hours, sleeping hours, but still.

It's worse at work. Oh, we have janitors (so-called) but they only pick up garbage and do very very cursory vacuuming. Because I'm in my office when they do the vacuuming, they never actually push the vacuum anywhere inside my doorway. As a result, I don't think the carpeting in my office has been completely vacuumed since it was installed, which was--let me think--about five years ago. The top of my desk hasn't been completely cleared and wiped since I moved into this office. That was two years ago.

Fortunately for appearances, my office is inside a factory. No one cares how my carpeting looks. It's not unusual to have undercoating (a tar-like substance) somewhere in the hallway. Most upholstered chairs have stains that have come from the clothing of visiting employees, especially paint. You just kind of get used to it. And despite improvements in the air quality outside my windows (which overlook the manufacturing floor), eventually weld dust gets inside everywhere. Did I mention the air conditioning system? It runs year round because we're located over the cafeteria and we get a lot of heat from the kitchen below and from the vending machines. Every once in awhile, the maintenance department must attempt to partially clear the ducts or something by back blowing, because I'll come in and my conference room table is covered with bits of black grit (it's right under the vent).

All in all, it's a good thing I'm not asthmatic. Not yet, anyway.

4:36

4:36 is a good time if it's afternoon on a weekday. The workday is almost done and it's time to head home, where hopefully Greg will have a wonderful dinner waiting that's not meatloaf.

4:36 is not a good time if it's morning. That's what time it was today when Rabies the cat started playing with his toy mouse downstairs. I know, I know--we are grateful it's a toy mouse, especially given a news story in the paper this morning about how 'tis the season for mice to move in to your warm, lovely abode and given Dan's story recently about mice visitors. Nonetheless.

I lifted my head off the pillow when he first started playing, making sure it wasn't a burglar or something. Simon the cat was laying on the bed with us, so I knew he wasn't the guilty party. It quickly became clear that it wasn't a burglar because they would never make so much noise.

He made so much noise that I couldn't get back to sleep. Of course, I wasn't inclined to actually get up and try to take the mouse away from him. That would have meant leaving my warm and toasty bed (we turn the thermostat down pretty far at night). Besides, the cats love these mousies.

Greg and the girls cleaned up the living room last night and Greg took the plastic and cardboard package of mice off the mantel, where it's been living for the last month. The cats were so interested in playing with the contents that they started sliding the container around the floor, batting at a package. I couldn't deny my cat some small measure of fun, could I?

The next time he does it at that time of the day, it's the basement for him!

For my family

A not-so-secret message: If any of you have time, it would be wonderful if you could pick up a pair of tights for Allie. She wants to wear a dress on Saturday and I didn't realize that she's outgrown all of her tights until we were packing tonight. She's wearing size 8ish now. Thank you very much.

And for the other three of you that read my blog, how's it going. Good, good. Yeah, me too--I just hate that old time change. Hope you're staying healthy. Have a great Thanksgiving! Talk to you all soon.

Life lessons

My family gathered around the TV this evening. No, we don't always have the TV on. As a matter of fact, Allie was finishing her homework and Julia was playing with her Polly Pocket doll on the end table. But we were physically in close proximity to the TV and Greg and I were watching it. We were watching "Bizarre Foods with Andrew Zimmern" on the Travel Channel. This is a show where a chef guy does nothing but travel to locations far and wide and eat weird shit.

It's rather fascinating to see someone who regularly eats around cartilage and tendons, who likes organ meats (especially hearts) and enjoys fish parts that most people throw away, not to mention that he likes bugs. He shows the "food" (and I use that term lightly) to the camera, then stuffs it into his maw, crunching (usually the stuff is crunchy, unless it's really really chewy) and then comments on how it tastes. Unimaginably gross, I would guess. Tonight, he actually commented on how delicious some cow intestines were, saying that he's eaten cow intestines before that weren't well washed and were from the lower intestine and not coincidentally, that those tasted, as he said, like "you know what." He also ate a tarantula, pulling off the legs one by one and then saying that the mushy abdomen tasted like the inside of a lobster. We all cringed when he ate a whole Madagascar hissing cockroach, flavored with teriyaki. Those suckers are huge. He liked the cockroach too.

Eventually, there was a commercial and I hit the mute while we all silently gave thanks that we had finished dinner more than an hour before. That's when Greg noticed that Julia's Polly Pocket was having a makeout session with a Spiderman figure. Polly and Spiderman were really getting in to the kissing thing, so much so that I'm sure if there had been more people around, someone trying to be clever would have suggested that they get a room.

I asked Julia if Spiderman was Polly's boyfriend and if they were going to get married. Greg asked if they were going to have a baby and I promptly inserted that they had to get married before they could have a baby. It's never too late to start indoctrinating the children, you know. And it's never too early to start convincing them that there are better ways to make money than going on a show like "Fear Factor." Even if I do like to watch it.

My cat is actually a dog

How do I know this?

o His new favorite toy is a stick

o He chases his tail

o He's desperate to get outside

o He puts up with Allie dragging him around the house in a most uncatlike manner

o He chews on rubber things

o He attacks other cats

o He carries socks and other things from room to room and floor to floor

OK, so it's not much to go on. But I'm pretty sure he's got some mixed-up dog genes in there somewhere.

Waving goodbye

If you've read my blog or Greg's blog for awhile, you know that my family has a cast-in-stone tradition every work morning. Greg most often leaves for work before the girls and I leave the house, so every morning, we wave goodbye to him from the window in our dining room. The "we" is usually me, Allie, and Simon the cat, who almost never misses. Julia, who you may be wondering about, can't normally tear herself away from the opportunity for two more minutes of children's cartoons before she has to go to daycare, so she only infrequently shows up to wave. Rabies the cat is indifferent to the routine.

You may not know why we have this tradition. It dates back almost 10 years now. When Greg and I were newlyweds, we packed up house and home and moved to Wisconsin, my home state and for Greg, the first time he'd ever lived in another state. We didn't know a soul in this town. To say that Greg was conflicted about the move was an understatement. He loved the new job he quickly (very quickly, damn his eyes) found, but he was tortured by how well he was doing at it (very well, obviously, since he's still there). So I started the waving tradition from the inside front steps of the townhouse apartment we lived in at the time. I was joined by a cat then too, the dearly departed Pig, but that's another story.

When I gave birth to Allie, she started joining me at the window, first with her little hand being waved from a blanket-wrapped bundle in my arms. Then she grew up enough to stand next to me, holding on to the window frame so she wouldn't fall over. Then she spent a long series of mornings waving while jumping up and down (something about preschooler energy). It got a little more complicated when she started school, because there was more to get done in the morning, like packing her backpack and making sure she combed her hair. But we always showed up to wave.

Now, Allie is almost 8. Her head reaches almost exactly the midpoint between my chest and my chin. She understands the subtleties of the glances her father and I exchange sometimes. She laughs at the right times at jokes that rely on surprising word play or puns. She knows a lot of big words. This child not only understands what the word "sophisticated" means, she uses it in correct context. But she's still a little girl.

Yesterday morning, I called her and told her Daddy was leaving. She normally takes a last bite of cereal, gets up, and comes to the window to wave. I called her again from the window as I started waving goodbye to Greg. She shrieked and ran but by the time she made it, Greg had already started to turn the corner in front of the house and he wasn't looking anymore. Allie looked up at me and huge tears welled in her eyes as her face crumpled.

"I didn't get to wave goodbye!" It was the end of the world.

Thank goodness for cell phones. She calmed down when she got to call Daddy (by now six blocks away) and tell him she was sorry she hadn't made it to wave goodbye.

I'm just thinking of how much longer she's going to want to do this tradition. And I wonder how soon I'm going to be waving goodbye to her being a little girl. Some days, it doesn't feel like too long from now.

I'm hating it

Most packaging these days is designed to be easy to open once purchased. There are some exceptions, like every frickin' children's toy in existence. With the approach of Christmas, I'm already thinking that our family needs to stock up on new scissors, hedge clippers, pry bars, chain saws, and blowtorches, just so we can open the toys that Santa places under our tree.

It's truly exhausting. You and your child can see the toy. You can see all of the amazing and tiny pieces of the toy (especially if your child is over 3 and they supposedly will no longer ingest said toy pieces the minute they're placed in their hands). You just can't get to the toy. Nuh uh. No way. You're going to have to struggle and sweat and deal with the tugging on your sleeve, the pleading, the huge eyes welling with tears as your child waits longer for the new toy than they've ever had to wait for anything in their short life.

Everyone talks about happy memories of the season and the joy of Christmas Day. No one ever speaks of the horror. Oh, the horror.

Ch-ch-ch-chilly

Allie's doing a project for school this entire week when she's supposed to record the phases of the moon and the weather outside. Unfortunately for her and her class, it's been cloudy and cold, sometimes windy, for three entire days (and nights) now. We first saw snow flurries on Monday, though thank god nothing stayed on the ground, and it's perfectly clear that Indian summer ain't coming around this year.

The good news is that we can now burn some wood in our fireplace. We thought that the fireplace was one of the nicest things about our house when we first saw it, but quite shortly after we moved in, we started having kids. Kids and fireplaces don't mix all that well, so we've had several winters when we used our fireplace only once or twice.

Two years ago, we bought a firewood rack (but didn't buy any wood for it) and this year, we finally purchased a face cord of firewood. We actually ended up with more than a face cord, because the guy brought a trailer full and we got the trailer full. Nonetheless, we've had two fires now, including tonight.

Outside, it's cold (30s) and windy, but inside by the fire, we're toasty. We're enjoying staring into the fire (especially the cats, who are utterly fascinated). I'm proving my fire prowess by poking the thing every five minutes or so to keep it flaming instead of smoldering. Everything is well. At least, in the living room, it's well.

Upstairs, we're paying the price for the downstairs thermostat being completely screwed up by how warm the fire has made the room. It's pretty chilly up here. I'm going to wrap up this typing, find my long underwear, and try to warm up the sheets for sleep. Lucky Greg will find things pre-toasted under our comforter when he comes to bed, and eventually the temperature will equalize and the furnace will once again work appropriately.

We're warm and toasty and cold and shivery. Sounds like a Wisconsin winter to me.

Alrighty then

I'm not sure what to say about this. I guess parties including these are all the rage in the U.K.

Dan and Kerry, I'm really hurt that you didn't throw one of those while we were visiting. (Sniff, stifled sob) No, really. It's (sniff) OK. I'm sure we can do it another time, like ten years from now when we (sob, sniff) visit you again.

At our home today

Julia (in tears): Allie is mean.

Me: Allie is taking a turn with your toy and then you can have it, Julia.

Julia: I don't like Allie. I don't want a sister.

Me (smiling behind her back): Do you love Allie?

Julia: No, I don't love Allie.

Reminds me of fighting with my two older sisters when I was a kid. Don't worry, Julia. In about 14 years, I'm sure the two of you will be the best of friends.

Giggles galore

I took the girls to the grocery store this afternoon and they conned me into taking the big red kid-transporter cart around the store. You know, the one with the cart on the front and the big plastic attachment on the back so two kids can sit comfortably and even stretch out their legs. It's incredibly difficult to steer, but the girls like it because they can hop in and out and sometimes Mommy drives in fun patterns if the aisle is wide and uncrowded.

We went through the produce section, then both girls got free cookies at the bakery, so they were happy chewing and riding for a little while. Of course, that didn't last. They started standing when they were supposed to be sitting and hopping in and out a little too frequently. Then they started giggling.

I'm sure to the casual observer, they looked awfully cute. They were giggling together and complaining loudly about the things I wasn't buying them and it was all very charming until they started to play hit each other. They thought it was incredibly funny, but they got louder and louder and I told them to cut it out more than once.

I asked them if it looked like I was serious about them calming down. I told them if they ever wanted to see their Halloween candy again, they needed to stop hitting each other. I asked them politely to quiet down.

Meanwhile people in the store kept smiling at them and the noise they were making. Of course, Allie especially just loves to perform, so on they went. I'm sure they're regretting things now that all of their candy has become mine. Thank goodness my evil plan has come to fruition. It's mine, all mine!

280 this year

That's how many trick-or-treaters (or, as Greg calls them, Halloweenies) we had visit our house in a 2 hour period last night. Yes, we do count them, something my family has always done. I know a lot of people who get no trick-or-treaters at all, or who get maybe 20-40 kids. We get a LOT of kids, partially because we live on a cul de sac and partially because we live in the depths of suburbia. Nonetheless, we were glad to see them.

Greg did his normal decorating job outside, black light for the porch light, strobes, creepy music, fog machine, and full size mummy. Thanks to Cindy, we gave away hundreds of Beanie Babies before we started giving out candy.

The reactions to my announcement that we were giving away Beanie Babies this year were priceless. Greg was a little afraid that the older kids and boys would not be thrilled to get a toy instead of candy, but he was grossly mistaken. At times, we had 10 or so kids just standing under the lights at the end of the front walkway, exclaiming and comparing which Beanie Baby they had gotten. Thank you very much, Cindy. It was very cool to share those with all of those happy kids.

Our two children did a satisfactory job bringing home an assortment of sugar-filled items. Now we just have to wait until the sugar rush wears off each evening and they fall into exhausted sleep, then IT'S FAIR GAME ON THE MILKY WAYS!