24 hours to go! Before leaving for Arizona, of course. There's still a day of work to get through, but I'm mostly ready. More than ready to get out of this lingering winter crap! Solid white everywhere again! Ick! Ick! ICK!
The boxes of southwest pottery I've been collecting are stacked in piles in the living room. They've been indexed on the computer, so when I get down there they can be labeled for display so they don't have to be handled for somebody to know originating pueblo and artist. Interspersed in the piles are travel food (jerky, peanut butter, gallons water, etc.), bathroom rugs and a shower curtain, X-mas presents needing a southern home, even a doggie blanket to keep Fred comfy for the return trip with Steve. Buried under and behind all that are the spare boxes of cedar boards to go in the closet, leftovers from lining my bedroom closet here. They won't get installed this spring, but just having them in the closets there will still discourage bugs while we're gone. A generous supply of sticky-boards goes down to trap invading mice. We already know we had one, so these will go out in all the likely spots before we close up the house. Not till after Fred's out of the way, though.
In the window is a box with a pair pf small ponytail palms to be planted next to the house down there. (The big 35-year-old one is still looking dead, neglected on the deck before the move last fall.) Like the water, with weather being as cold here as it is, they don't go into the car until tomorrow morning. The box has an open top so light can reach them for the trip.
My room holds my carry-on with clothes, toiletries, the latest pottery books to read, and tonight will have this laptop and charger added. Yes, it's heavy. Maybe I'll rethink some of those books. Next to it is the Nikon. Steve and I plan on a little touring with photo ops down there. My clothes for tomorrow are already laid out as well.
The boys will load the car tonight, so nobody has to wake early tomorrow besides me. Today before work I'll hit my favorite oil change place, taking care of both that and a tire rotation before I even log in to work. With all the late nights they're always closed before I can get free, and mornings are rush-rush. I'm just putting my foot down and taking the time this morning so I don't have to lose time tomorrow. Once home tonight I'll watch Blue Bloods and Grimm if possible, or if late, ask Steve to tape them for me to watch down there. I also want to get to bed early-ish.
My only goal tomorrow is to get as far away as fast as possible, away from the snow, closer to Steve!!!!!!!! If all goes well, there'll be a reunion Monday night. Chomp! Chomp!
Friday, April 12, 2013
Tuesday, April 9, 2013
Bad Address
Some times a bad address can come with a story.
Tonight it was a late drug run, coming out of a pharmacy that meant the recipient had hospice status. The good part, for me, is the destination was (rural) Chisago City, practically home. Better, in this season, I'd be able to locate the address before it got dark.
Pulling into the driveway, I noted a little bit of light in the kitchen window. The doorbell, however, brought no response, even after three rings. This could be a problem. The originating pharmacy closes at 7, and it was already a minute past when I left the car. (I hadn't checked the clock, but the theme music for the next program was playing on the radio as I shut it off.) We couldn't call them to find out whether it could be left in the door (usually not with meds), or needed to be returned. The latter meant a trip back into St. Paul. Tonight. Ick. In addition, our main dispatch was now closed, and though we had late dispatching options, things became more challenging.
While I'm standing at the top of the steps debating my options and reaching in my pocket for my phone, I finally hear noises near the door, then the bolt being drawn back. A cheerful, inquiring face greets me. I explain that I've meds for _________, which changes her expression to confusion. He isn't there. She had him - her husband - put in the nursing home on Sunday, the _______ home in Forest Lake.
Yes, I know the one. I've delivered meds there on several occasions.
She inquired what kind of meds I might be delivering? The real, unasked, question was just how urgent they were. I explained HIPPA rules while I showed her the mostly blank sealed tamper-proof white plastic envelope. Its only markings were an address label, with a Forest lake address crossed out and this one hand-written next to it. A closer look at the address made it recognizable as that of the nursing home where he now resided, though I double-checked that it was indeed where he now was.
Before I could even think to ask, she requested if I could take it there for her. Weather was expected momentarily, including both rain and sleet, and she didn't think she could safely make it there. No problem for me, with all the driving in the stuff I'd done as recently as this morning. And it was still dry. Plus I knew I could get approval and payment for the trip, as the sending pharmacy had made the screw-up by second guessing their address, wrongly. If the meds were necessary, they were needed where the patient was. And whatever they were, they were necessary.
At this point she apologized for taking so long to answer the door. She'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table over supper. She'd been the only one taking care of her 80-year-old husband until last Sunday, when she'd finally had to put him in the home, and she was still recovering her energy and strength. She would be 80 herself next month. I chatted briefly with her explaining why I know how tiring a job she'd had, and assuring her again it was not problem for me to wait for her to answer the door, before excusing myself to call dispatch, get the formal OK, and go deliver the meds to the nursing home.
I now had not just a new leg of the journey, but a piece of their story. Usually it's just a faceless name and an address. This delivery I will remember.
Tonight it was a late drug run, coming out of a pharmacy that meant the recipient had hospice status. The good part, for me, is the destination was (rural) Chisago City, practically home. Better, in this season, I'd be able to locate the address before it got dark.
Pulling into the driveway, I noted a little bit of light in the kitchen window. The doorbell, however, brought no response, even after three rings. This could be a problem. The originating pharmacy closes at 7, and it was already a minute past when I left the car. (I hadn't checked the clock, but the theme music for the next program was playing on the radio as I shut it off.) We couldn't call them to find out whether it could be left in the door (usually not with meds), or needed to be returned. The latter meant a trip back into St. Paul. Tonight. Ick. In addition, our main dispatch was now closed, and though we had late dispatching options, things became more challenging.
While I'm standing at the top of the steps debating my options and reaching in my pocket for my phone, I finally hear noises near the door, then the bolt being drawn back. A cheerful, inquiring face greets me. I explain that I've meds for _________, which changes her expression to confusion. He isn't there. She had him - her husband - put in the nursing home on Sunday, the _______ home in Forest Lake.
Yes, I know the one. I've delivered meds there on several occasions.
She inquired what kind of meds I might be delivering? The real, unasked, question was just how urgent they were. I explained HIPPA rules while I showed her the mostly blank sealed tamper-proof white plastic envelope. Its only markings were an address label, with a Forest lake address crossed out and this one hand-written next to it. A closer look at the address made it recognizable as that of the nursing home where he now resided, though I double-checked that it was indeed where he now was.
Before I could even think to ask, she requested if I could take it there for her. Weather was expected momentarily, including both rain and sleet, and she didn't think she could safely make it there. No problem for me, with all the driving in the stuff I'd done as recently as this morning. And it was still dry. Plus I knew I could get approval and payment for the trip, as the sending pharmacy had made the screw-up by second guessing their address, wrongly. If the meds were necessary, they were needed where the patient was. And whatever they were, they were necessary.
At this point she apologized for taking so long to answer the door. She'd fallen asleep at the kitchen table over supper. She'd been the only one taking care of her 80-year-old husband until last Sunday, when she'd finally had to put him in the home, and she was still recovering her energy and strength. She would be 80 herself next month. I chatted briefly with her explaining why I know how tiring a job she'd had, and assuring her again it was not problem for me to wait for her to answer the door, before excusing myself to call dispatch, get the formal OK, and go deliver the meds to the nursing home.
I now had not just a new leg of the journey, but a piece of their story. Usually it's just a faceless name and an address. This delivery I will remember.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Ghosts of Easters Past
While the first Easter I can remember happened when I was five (and a half), what I remember about it tells me a lot about how our family had been celebrating the holiday. As a kid, the holiday was all about bunnies, eggs and candy, of course. Religion entered the holiday later.
This particular holiday occurred while my mom was hospitalized for a "nervous breakdown". I had been staying with my Aunt Agnes and Uncle Larry in Minneapolis. Steve, being older and going to school, stayed up at the resort with Daddy. There wasn't kindergarten offered in Nevis at the time, so I was the only one of us to go to it. For some reason, I had been relocated down to Austin to stay with Aunt Jeanette and Uncle Virgil for the last few months until Mom returned home again. I remember little of that stay, other than watching Howdy Doody and Pinkee Lee on TV, something else we didn't have up north then. And Easter, of course.
My bed was located out on an enclosed porch. No more sharing a room with a cousin. When I woke, there was this huge Easter basket sitting on the floor next to my bed. I was amazed, and not sure I was allowed to touch it. This was the first Easter basket in my life. I already knew that our family wasn't rich enough for such fancy things. Was this really mine? Would I have to share? I hardly dared hope, and remember waiting to dig into it until I had permission.
Would there be an egg hunt too? I tried not to be disappointed when the answer was "no", since after all there was the miraculous Easter basket all mine. But still, that had always been part of the fun. The family (Daddy exempted) had cooked eggs, decorated them with white crayons to create design that wouldn't get dyed in the colored liquid smelling of vinegar. While we slept, the Easter Bunny hid our eggs for us to find the next morning, along with pieces of wrapped home-made fudge. I'm convinced the whole tradition was designed as a way to allow parents to sleep in while the kids were safely occupied finding their own breakfasts. That was the only disappointment about Easter of course, having to eat hard-boiled eggs. If we were really lucky, uneaten eggs would get turned into egg salad, but mostly we had to eat them plain.
This time no egg hunt. But there was also the even bigger surprise of new clothes. The only picture I have of myself at that age is of me in my new coat, Easter bonnet barely covering a multitude of blonde curls, and - wonder of wonders - patent leather shoes! I'm holding the basket for the picture, but recall it had to be left home while the family dressed up to go to church.
When my kids were growing up, the family traditions remained much the same: dying eggs and having the Easter Bunny hide them for a morning egg hunt. With funds being scarce, this also became a good time to add to the spring/summer wardrobe in the disguise of "presents". Two years stand out.
The years spent in Georgia offered the first chance for an outdoor egg hunt. Minnesota springs are seldom amenable to such events. Peachtree City offered a candy egg hunt in one of its parks, and Paul, being youngest, was just the right age. I was allowed to supervise him. When the gates opened, most of the kids charged straight in. We headed left, with much less competition for the eggs. There was a special prize, including your picture in the local paper, for the kids collecting the most eggs. We were still counting his when they tried to announce a winner, but hearing a total below what we already had, I stepped up and offered them a chance to make a correction. I recall his total being 102. I still have the newspaper clipping.
After returning to Minnesota, we lived in a 3-bedroom mobile home. One year I was both very tired and thinking I was being creative when I offered to let each kid hid the eggs for a sibling. All the eggs had been identified with white crayons for each kid, so they knew which ones were theirs. Everybody became the Easter Bunny, now that they no longer believed in a magical one.
There was just one problem. Richard was a much better hider than Paul, 4 years younger, was a finder. For that matter, he was a better hider than even he could remember. Some of those eggs were never found. After a while we started to smell them, still without being able to locate them. Eventually, like dead mice in the walls, the smell faded away.
Don't ask me how I know.
As a grandmother, I was allowed to participate in one of Jordan's Easters. She was five when I first was awarded court-ordered visitation, just in time for Easter. Visitation was still supervised, my being an unknown quantity to the courts, so it was held at her other grandmother's house. This was where she was staying temporarily, due to the CHIPS court proceedings which encouraged me to get into the court process in the first place. It was a warm day, and we set up at the picnic table in the back yard. I brought everything needed for dying two dozen eggs, all to be left for the Easter Bunny to hide. I was shocked to find out that she had never dyed nor hunted Easter eggs before. At the end of the afternoon I had hopes that a new tradition would be started by her other grandma, but no control over the process. But it was the beginning of a much treasured relationship.
This particular holiday occurred while my mom was hospitalized for a "nervous breakdown". I had been staying with my Aunt Agnes and Uncle Larry in Minneapolis. Steve, being older and going to school, stayed up at the resort with Daddy. There wasn't kindergarten offered in Nevis at the time, so I was the only one of us to go to it. For some reason, I had been relocated down to Austin to stay with Aunt Jeanette and Uncle Virgil for the last few months until Mom returned home again. I remember little of that stay, other than watching Howdy Doody and Pinkee Lee on TV, something else we didn't have up north then. And Easter, of course.
My bed was located out on an enclosed porch. No more sharing a room with a cousin. When I woke, there was this huge Easter basket sitting on the floor next to my bed. I was amazed, and not sure I was allowed to touch it. This was the first Easter basket in my life. I already knew that our family wasn't rich enough for such fancy things. Was this really mine? Would I have to share? I hardly dared hope, and remember waiting to dig into it until I had permission.
Would there be an egg hunt too? I tried not to be disappointed when the answer was "no", since after all there was the miraculous Easter basket all mine. But still, that had always been part of the fun. The family (Daddy exempted) had cooked eggs, decorated them with white crayons to create design that wouldn't get dyed in the colored liquid smelling of vinegar. While we slept, the Easter Bunny hid our eggs for us to find the next morning, along with pieces of wrapped home-made fudge. I'm convinced the whole tradition was designed as a way to allow parents to sleep in while the kids were safely occupied finding their own breakfasts. That was the only disappointment about Easter of course, having to eat hard-boiled eggs. If we were really lucky, uneaten eggs would get turned into egg salad, but mostly we had to eat them plain.
This time no egg hunt. But there was also the even bigger surprise of new clothes. The only picture I have of myself at that age is of me in my new coat, Easter bonnet barely covering a multitude of blonde curls, and - wonder of wonders - patent leather shoes! I'm holding the basket for the picture, but recall it had to be left home while the family dressed up to go to church.
When my kids were growing up, the family traditions remained much the same: dying eggs and having the Easter Bunny hide them for a morning egg hunt. With funds being scarce, this also became a good time to add to the spring/summer wardrobe in the disguise of "presents". Two years stand out.
The years spent in Georgia offered the first chance for an outdoor egg hunt. Minnesota springs are seldom amenable to such events. Peachtree City offered a candy egg hunt in one of its parks, and Paul, being youngest, was just the right age. I was allowed to supervise him. When the gates opened, most of the kids charged straight in. We headed left, with much less competition for the eggs. There was a special prize, including your picture in the local paper, for the kids collecting the most eggs. We were still counting his when they tried to announce a winner, but hearing a total below what we already had, I stepped up and offered them a chance to make a correction. I recall his total being 102. I still have the newspaper clipping.
After returning to Minnesota, we lived in a 3-bedroom mobile home. One year I was both very tired and thinking I was being creative when I offered to let each kid hid the eggs for a sibling. All the eggs had been identified with white crayons for each kid, so they knew which ones were theirs. Everybody became the Easter Bunny, now that they no longer believed in a magical one.
There was just one problem. Richard was a much better hider than Paul, 4 years younger, was a finder. For that matter, he was a better hider than even he could remember. Some of those eggs were never found. After a while we started to smell them, still without being able to locate them. Eventually, like dead mice in the walls, the smell faded away.
Don't ask me how I know.
As a grandmother, I was allowed to participate in one of Jordan's Easters. She was five when I first was awarded court-ordered visitation, just in time for Easter. Visitation was still supervised, my being an unknown quantity to the courts, so it was held at her other grandmother's house. This was where she was staying temporarily, due to the CHIPS court proceedings which encouraged me to get into the court process in the first place. It was a warm day, and we set up at the picnic table in the back yard. I brought everything needed for dying two dozen eggs, all to be left for the Easter Bunny to hide. I was shocked to find out that she had never dyed nor hunted Easter eggs before. At the end of the afternoon I had hopes that a new tradition would be started by her other grandma, but no control over the process. But it was the beginning of a much treasured relationship.
Thursday, March 28, 2013
Passover Reminder
Passover is that reminder that the current American version of the golden calf comes with 30-round clips. This time, how many years are we going to be wandering in this wilderness?
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Maybe Bree Just Wasn't That Into You
I'll take you whatever way I can get you Bree. LOL I'm drunk.
I didn't recognize the number on the text. I only get them on my work Blackberry, since they come along with what I need to use our company software on it, a plan including unlimited texting. I refuse to pay for texting on my regular cell, and long since had it disabled. As a result, I'm not all that familiar with all the customs and abbreviations the way the younger generations are. In spite of that, I've long since learned LOL, TY, YW, and other common usages. This morning when I turned on my Blackberry in my driveway, this text buzzed me.
Oh gee, happy day, my first drunk text. These, too, I had heard about. Needing to get to work, before pulling out I decided to be helpful, hopefully to both of us.
I'm not Bree. Sober up and try again.
I used the option of deleting the conversation, thinking - oh how naively - that it was over.
When I stopped at a gas station for a pit stop, I pulled the Blackberry out of my pocket and checked it. Three texts were waiting.
You're wrong and I'm right, Bree.
(Really unrepeatable suggestion about sharing our time.)
Go to bed now Bree.
Just how drunk was this clown anyway? I presumed he checked the number to see if he misdialed or transposed numbers, and discovered he hadn't. But this makes him think he knows better than I do just who I am? And what had he -or they - been doing all night to make him think that Bree would be just now getting home and heading for bed? It was several hours after bar closing time. I decided I wasn't really interested in an answer.
But I did let my imagination run with possible ways to try to set this guy straight. The first option was always to just ignore him, and with that in mind, again I deleted the conversation. I could still reply if I decided to do so, as the Blackberry keeps the number even after deleting the texts.
I could ask him if he was so drunk that he didn't write down Bree's number right. Or was Bree so drunk she didn't give it right? Heck, I've done that wide awake and sober. Or maybe - my favorite scenario - I could just text him with a reminder that he'd gotten the number wrong, and maybe Bree had done it on purpose because she wanted it to look like she wanted further contact later while getting out of having further contact at that time.
In other words, maybe Bree just wasn't that into you, you drunken lout. Maybe you're just not as charming a drunk as you think you are, eh?
And Bree, whoever you are, if you used my number just to get away peacefully, I forgive you. Completely.
Or come over to the ranch and have some cheese
Is that what the kids are calling it these days? I'm really out of touch! But it's clear he still thinks he's charming Miss Bree, so I decide I really need to try again to set him straight. The snark is fun to think about. I debate telling him not only am I not Bree, but none of my kids are Bree, nor is my granddaughter. Perhaps the shock of knowing he's being suggestive with a grandmother will be sobering, any puns intended. But in the end, I settle for short. And after some thought, polite.
I'm still not Bree. Go away please.
Sorry. 295
OK, I appreciate the apology, but what the heck is "295"? Anybody?
I didn't recognize the number on the text. I only get them on my work Blackberry, since they come along with what I need to use our company software on it, a plan including unlimited texting. I refuse to pay for texting on my regular cell, and long since had it disabled. As a result, I'm not all that familiar with all the customs and abbreviations the way the younger generations are. In spite of that, I've long since learned LOL, TY, YW, and other common usages. This morning when I turned on my Blackberry in my driveway, this text buzzed me.
Oh gee, happy day, my first drunk text. These, too, I had heard about. Needing to get to work, before pulling out I decided to be helpful, hopefully to both of us.
I'm not Bree. Sober up and try again.
I used the option of deleting the conversation, thinking - oh how naively - that it was over.
When I stopped at a gas station for a pit stop, I pulled the Blackberry out of my pocket and checked it. Three texts were waiting.
You're wrong and I'm right, Bree.
(Really unrepeatable suggestion about sharing our time.)
Go to bed now Bree.
Just how drunk was this clown anyway? I presumed he checked the number to see if he misdialed or transposed numbers, and discovered he hadn't. But this makes him think he knows better than I do just who I am? And what had he -or they - been doing all night to make him think that Bree would be just now getting home and heading for bed? It was several hours after bar closing time. I decided I wasn't really interested in an answer.
But I did let my imagination run with possible ways to try to set this guy straight. The first option was always to just ignore him, and with that in mind, again I deleted the conversation. I could still reply if I decided to do so, as the Blackberry keeps the number even after deleting the texts.
I could ask him if he was so drunk that he didn't write down Bree's number right. Or was Bree so drunk she didn't give it right? Heck, I've done that wide awake and sober. Or maybe - my favorite scenario - I could just text him with a reminder that he'd gotten the number wrong, and maybe Bree had done it on purpose because she wanted it to look like she wanted further contact later while getting out of having further contact at that time.
In other words, maybe Bree just wasn't that into you, you drunken lout. Maybe you're just not as charming a drunk as you think you are, eh?
And Bree, whoever you are, if you used my number just to get away peacefully, I forgive you. Completely.
Or come over to the ranch and have some cheese
Is that what the kids are calling it these days? I'm really out of touch! But it's clear he still thinks he's charming Miss Bree, so I decide I really need to try again to set him straight. The snark is fun to think about. I debate telling him not only am I not Bree, but none of my kids are Bree, nor is my granddaughter. Perhaps the shock of knowing he's being suggestive with a grandmother will be sobering, any puns intended. But in the end, I settle for short. And after some thought, polite.
I'm still not Bree. Go away please.
Sorry. 295
OK, I appreciate the apology, but what the heck is "295"? Anybody?
Friday, March 22, 2013
Compounding Their Error
You might recall my recent post about Sexual Harrassment. When I last checked in with my granddaughter, it seemed to be over.
Not so fast.
Apparently there is no issue that somebody can't make worse.
Yesterday I had a nice chat with my granddaughter again. Among the news items, she updated me on this one. The day before, she'd gotten her own performance review. She'd been written up for having been sexually harrassed!
Huh? How does that work? It's the victim's fault? They hire and promote the slimeball but his rotten behavior is her fault?
I'm proud of the girl. She basically said "F U" to her employer (not out loud) and decided it was time to go job hunting. There's an Arbys next door. When she dropped off her application there, the general manager was in, interviewed her while she was there, and hired her on the spot! Starting pay is same as she's getting now, shift is same so she can continue with college classes, hours increased to actual full time, and if she performs as they expect her to, she'll be fast-tracked into management!
She starts in two weeks.
Atta Girl!!!
Not so fast.
Apparently there is no issue that somebody can't make worse.
Yesterday I had a nice chat with my granddaughter again. Among the news items, she updated me on this one. The day before, she'd gotten her own performance review. She'd been written up for having been sexually harrassed!
Huh? How does that work? It's the victim's fault? They hire and promote the slimeball but his rotten behavior is her fault?
I'm proud of the girl. She basically said "F U" to her employer (not out loud) and decided it was time to go job hunting. There's an Arbys next door. When she dropped off her application there, the general manager was in, interviewed her while she was there, and hired her on the spot! Starting pay is same as she's getting now, shift is same so she can continue with college classes, hours increased to actual full time, and if she performs as they expect her to, she'll be fast-tracked into management!
She starts in two weeks.
Atta Girl!!!
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Bursting!
Ever have one of those moments when, having promised to keep a secret, once heard, you are just bursting to share it? That's me. Somebody of my acquaintance is pregnant! Not enough people who need to be informed by the new parents-to-be have been informed yet, and it should be done by them, not me. I can't tell anybody. I'm not telling you. Wish I could. I'm just... BURSTING!
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