Santa's Helpers

The last few days have been heady, the boys were home. This means a house filled with noise and activity. Their friends stop by and give us great hugs. Every flat surface seems to be covered with kid debris and every bath towel in the house is in play. The dogface boys are beside themselves with joy to cuddle up on a couch with an old friend. A bonus this year was the addition of Hunter’s lovely wife Megan, and Carl’s delightful girlfriend Ashley. We haven’t had a family Christmas in far too long and when the house is full it truly feels like home.

Of course, we’ve redefined “home” since the boys moved out and on to their adult lives. They walk in the door expecting nothing to have changed and anything different is amplified for them. Mostly they just comment on the changes. Sometimes they struggle mightily to return things to normalcy; they made a big effort to do that during this last visit.

We’ve had the same refrigerator for years, a standard freezer on top model. It’s in a corner of the kitchen and for years the door handle was on the right hand side, opening into the kitchen. The spacing of the corner did not allow for the door to swing wide open to the left, so one of the crisper drawers wouldn’t open all the way. At some point Dan determined that the access situation would be improved by moving the door handles from the right side to the left side. Voila, the door now swung all the way open, both crisper drawers opened fully and Dan was happy; me, not so much. I found the left hand access awkward as this required maneuvering the corner when putting groceries away or getting out ingredients for food prep. When the boys would visit they commented on the ergonomically incorrect placement of the handle. Dad’s “fix” confused (and annoyed) them.

At some point during the night of December 22, Christmas elves snuck into our house and made some ergonomic adjustments to the refrigerator. A cryptic note was left on the chalkboard about corrections that were needed. Apparently these were “cookie” elves, because my kitchen was returned to “code” and I was given permission to start baking. Dan saw the note first but could not make sense of it. When I got up he pointed to it and asked me if I knew what it meant. Having not baked a Christmas cookies in about, oh, 25 years I too was confused. Megan, up early, said she noticed something was different. I looked around again, saw the fridge handles back on the right and exclaimed “they fixed it!”

This is the magic and madness that happens when the whole family is together. The entire house is filled with a different kind of energy. We renegotiate our relationships in new and fun ways as we come to grips with these wonderful adults in our lives. Yes, something like the refrigerator can be “fixed”, but we can never return the boys to childhood. I appreciate the confident and competent men they have become, so confident that they can push their dad’s buttons and just laugh about it. I love the wonderful women they love so much. And when I think about relocating I know that no matter where we live, the love will follow.

Happy New Year everyone!

Doctor. Who?

We have friends who (pun intended) are really into Dr. Who. Yes, we saw the low-budget British show many years ago, and the long-scarfed hero is…interesting. But hey, there are people who don’t get Firefly. Or Fantasy Fest. But I digress. Since February my all-consuming deal has been The Itch. My skin has been on fire, and I was/am willing to go to almost any length to Just. Make. It. Stop. Which led me to my own high-tech Tardis. About the same shape and size, mine boasted enough fluorescent lighting to overpower six George Webbs. My travels started at under 50 seconds and went to just under two minutes. But instead of a long scarf and overcoat, I stood there naked, well, except for the nifty green goggles…

Three days a week I left work early to get to the cancer center at Froedert to meet my new BFF David, a stocky black guy who escorted me to my Tardis, gave me my goggles, and made sure I had them on before flipping the switch. Bug Zapper engaged, I stood with my arms over my head absorbing the light. Seconds or minutes later I was done, dressed and out of there—feeling fried. What’s interesting is that, even on our most whacky Key West days, the bottoms always stay on. Apparently they have protected me from the effects of UV rays over the years, because that is the one part of me that has never burned before (ouch).

What should have happened, instead of coming out with a crispy back end, was a transport to a new and strange place. Unfortunately, this is where science and science fiction diverge. As I recall, Dr. Who in his Tardis saved the universe countless times, neatly moving through time and space. I, on the other hand, always stepped out where I started and a bit disappointed that real life isn’t like any TV show.

Photo credit: Dan Johnson

At the last treatment David’s parting gift to me was a large bag of lotions, and sensitive skin friendly detergents. For my part I made him a Cream Cheese Pecan Pie for Thanksgiving, thinking he could warm it up in the Tardis.

Enough time has gone by where it doesn’t seem that odd that I only wear white cotton undergarments (my body armor) and only sleep between white cotton sheets. The phototherapy treatments have helped, and tomorrow I go to Madison for a battery of patch tests that should narrow down what’s going on. A week of no showers. Yeah, I’ll be pleasant by Thursday…

So, loyal 17 readers, that’s where things are today. If I had a real Tardis and could jump into the future to figure out what’s up with my “Itch” I’d love to do it. But this needs to be fixed the old fashioned way. And, just sayin', that scarf looks itchy.

Superhero!

It’s been almost month since my last post, which left me dressed in virginal white and still scratching. While that whole skin thing has yet to be resolved (stay tuned) I thought I’d share a side effect of my 9-month itch distraction. As my 17 loyal readers know, October finds us in Key West, for a wonderful weeklong party called Fantasy Fest. This year was no exception and we were excited about the theme "Superheroes, Villians and Beyond". Except we almost didn’t make it. I have always been the chief trip coordinator and navigator, and I’ve been off my game. I blame the contact dermatitis for my lack of focus and attention to detail. (OK, no reminders about Belgium either, thank you very much.) We reserved the accommodations last January. I shopped flights until July, when I finally pulled the trigger on cheap flights departing out of Midway…that was my first mistake. For the play-by-play I’m turning my blog over to occasional guest contributor, Dan.

To say Paula has been off her game is, well, analogies escape me. Paula has been nuts. Buggy. Scratching in her sleep. Mildly crazy. Able to turn any conversation into a discussion of her skin. “Hey, our neighbors bought a new toaster because they got a bagel stuck in theirs and it almost started on fire!” “Speaking of being on fire, have you seen the backs of my legs? And DON’T get me started about the small of my back.” You get the idea. 

Fantasy Fest 2013—and the strong steroids promised by her specialist--offered an oasis from the itching, and a chance for us to cut loose with good friends and relax. And relaxed is just how the trip started.

A 3:30 am cab ride to the bus stop came off without a hitch. We should have 20 minutes before the bus was ready to leave for Midway in Chicago—but wait. The driver was closing the doors as we pulled up. Exasperated, he opened them to stow our multiple large suitcases. Making light of the situation, I asked, since we were leaving early, what time we’d make it to Midway. To quote Don Henley, he looked at me like cows at a passing train and spat “This bus doesn’t go to Midway. It hasn’t for two years.” Stunned, I pointed out that the schedule we’d printed the week before showed that yes indeed it went to Midway, at which point he waved me off and said to talk to his boss.

I’ll leave most details out, but the previous two weeks at work for me had included two meetings with an industrial psychologist, a meeting with another co-worker that didn’t go well, and two clustering sessions for our management employees. This on top of the aforementioned skin issue. And did I mention I was really horny? “Which reminds me how my skin resembles the skin of the Great Horny Toad of Southwestern Arizona. My God, if that burns as much as mine…” You get the idea. And you know this skin thing started in February? Nuff said.

All of this came to a head at a bus stop at 3:45am on the way to the one week a year I Live For. I asked for a number to call a supervisor. The driver supplied one. The first three seconds of the call went well, until I asked about the discrepancy between the printed schedule and the reality on the ground. “Well we haven’t updated our website in two years,” was his reply (Wisconsin Coach Lines). Like the Eighth Air Force in WWII, the F-bombs began to rain. At the end of my one sided tirade, we were herded onto the bus with a promise of a shuttle from O’Hare to Midway. And that’s when Ms. Itchy looked at the airline boarding passes. Yeah, our 9:30 boarding time had been moved up to 7:20…

We arrived at O’Hare just before 6. Our Hobbit of a driver told us the shuttle would be there in about 15 minutes. It was a time for action. Eddie Murphy’s Reggie Hammond character in “48 Hours” had a line that, cleaned up, goes “Lack of (lovin’) makes you brave.” I bolted from the bus and sprinted for the terminal, asking where the cab stand was. We were pointed toward non-functioning escalators, which, with two rolling suitcases each were a challenge. Between her sobs, Paula’s cardio training paid off, and we thumped our way to the absolutely empty cab stand at one of the busiest airports in the world. Stunned, yelling, the young attendant asked if we were OK. “We are so very far from OK…” was my reply. She called for the Emergency Cab. From a pocket of some unseen clown, a Scion XB was deployed and screamed up to the stand.

Having done my time in a Toaster, I know the ins and outs of an XB. But the power of Reggie was strong. We filled the interior with suitcases and before we climbed in to this clowniest of clown cars, I told my new BFF Aziz “You need to get us to Midway As Fast As Possible.”

“What time is your flight?”

“7:20”

“I’ll try.”

Aziz strapped in and lit the candle of that base-Camry-motored car, and took off. I know at times we went slower than 85, but I mostly hid behind the headrest not wanting to see. Horns blared. Brights flashed. We slid from lane to lane. Suddenly we were at the Midway terminal. Aziz got a $20 tip for a $50 ride and we sprinted for the terminal. Ours were the last bags checked on to the plane, and we got into separate security lines. Mine went faster, and I ran to the gate.

“How many minutes until this door closes?” “12” “My wife is stuck in security—she’ll be right here.” “The door closes in 12 minutes.” Look of unspeakable horror. Attendants retreat from the door. Paula arrives five minutes later. We are the last two passengers who board, and we are waved onto the plane without comment. 

The rest of the trip was without incident. We arrived in Key West and caught a cab to our rental house.  Happily, the steroids worked and the itch vanished for the week. And in the future, no matter how distracted I am, I won’t forget that it’s worth the extra money to fly out of the closest airport and paper work must be reviewed for most current details at least 24 hours in advance. And if you are ever in Chicago, in a hurry, look for Scion XB taxi. Because not all superheros wear capes, some drive a taxi.


Music that resonates:
The Boys are Back in Town - The Busboys

Whitey Tighties

(Part 2 of the Itchy and Scratchy Show)

I’ve always thought I was allergic to exercise. Turns out that may not be too far from the mark, as I appear to have developed a sensitivity due to the accoutrements of exercise. At least that is the latest theory.

Last Friday I was able to see the “A-Team” of doctors who diagnose mysteriously itchy skin. Dan and I drove to Madison early in the morning hopeful that some answer would be forthcoming. Dan, by the way, has become my official note taker at these appointments, making sure all the critical details are carefully recorded for later review.

The first doctor who came in was a resident. He took a detailed history, asking questions, and the answers I provided caused him to ask even more questions. After a good 30 minutes of this he asked to see the problem areas. Face and neck involved? Yes. Back, arms, breasts, stomach, butt, thighs, calves…oh, but look, palms and feet are not involved. Hmmm, interesting. He excused himself to get the specialist.

The next doctor came in. She started with the responses I had given the resident. The history of the situation was critical and she was interested to hear in what order my skin had bloomed. She asked a lot of questions about the effectiveness of the various creams and lotions prescribed. What had helped the most? The least? And then an even deeper dive. What kind of environment do I work in? What do I wear to work? What do I wear to the gym? Am I better over the weekend? And on.

Finally, I was getting the time and attention to my condition I had hoped for. She announced that the next best step is patch testing, about 60 variants of substances that might be causing the problem, but with my skin in it’s current condition that was not an immediate option. A strategy was needed to clear up my back.

She asked me to wear a shield under all my clothes -- white cotton or white silk. This layer would provide a barrier from the current suspected irritant, my sports bras and dyes in my clothing. I haven’t worn a white cotton t-shirt since I was 12. I have friends (bless them) whose only undergarment is a tank top. This is not an option for me. I’m “Rubenesque” and body parts need to be held in place. I was never good at science, but I understand Newton’s first law of motion, and the more troubling effects of gravity. The practical implications for me are as follows: if I started jogging without a bra I’d likely lose an eye, and then immediately experience the cruel pull of gravity closing the distance between my untethered body and the ground (I saw my Grandma once, in the bathtub, and I’ll never erase that image from my mind).

Under armour.

Fast forward, I am now the proud owner of white cotton tees, white granny panties and some white muscle shirts. I’m on a serious hunt for white cotton bras, both daywear and sports (ladies, suggestions most welcome), and I’m pretty sure I’ve devised a strategy to keep on exercising without the offending garment causing problems. White cotton, a few new creams and a few weeks of Phototherapy should have my back clear enough to patch test.

But back to Dan, ever attentive during this entire visit. He asked the final pertinent questions, “Doctor, we will be in Key West in two weeks – will ocean water or a pool be a problem? How about sun exposure?” The doctor responded that hot tubs, pools or the ocean would not be a problem. She then added that I should get as much sun as possible without burning. She said this three times. Dan, studious like he never was in school made direct eye contact,  nodded and made the appropriate detailed notes.

On our way out to the car both Dan and I felt hopeful. Finally, someone who can help us get to the bottom of this. I asked Dan if he had captured all the key points. He turned to me and said “What I heard was that the doctor wants you to be topless as much as possible in Key West. That you are under Doctor’s orders to report to a white plastic lounge chair on the Southernmost Beach for massive doses of vitamin D daily, and I need to apply liberal doses of sun screen on a regular basis. These are orders from a specialist. ”

What’s next? A new note taker!

The Itchy and Scratchy Show

No matter what, you’ve got to hang on to your sense of what’s really important. I’m trying. I’m really trying. Since February I’ve been dealing with a skin condition. Annoying at first, it has become the focal point of my life. I admit, it’s not life threatening and by no means do I mean to diminish the concerns of people with real health issues, but I’ve had enough.

It’s gone from a fairly localized rash to the point where it covers, literally, my entire body. It itches intensely, it looks awful, it keeps me up at night and I feel sub-human. I look like a walking audition for a zombie movie. I’d make an awesome leper in a remake of Jesus Christ Superstar. 

The first doctor I saw, when the situation was still fairly contained, gave me creams and sent me on my way. When I returned for follow-up, still blooming, I was sent off to an allergist. Multiple skin and intra-dermal tests later I was told to take over the counter antihistamines and return to doctor number one. Doctor number one took a few invasive biopsies and sent them off to test for gluten sensitivity. Both tests were negative; green light to eat gluten. In the interim I was due for a physical. My GP reviewed all the paper work and proclaimed that doctor number one probably got it wrong, I should start a gluten free diet.

So gluten free it is, and bless him, Dan joins me. He found gluten free croutons to enhance the Caesar salad and a loaf of bread to make BLTs, because it is tomato season. The bread was an adventure. As Dan put it, more like bread crumbs who decided to get together in a bag and pretend they were friends. It was a less than satisfying sandwich experience.

On Saturday, we met my sister and her husband for Tosafest. There was a petting zoo and camel rides. My snarky brother-in-law suggested I ride the camel – it might be the cure! What other opportunities would I have? I rode the camel. There has been no change in my condition.

In my insane desire to get to the bottom of this skin mystery I turned to the miracle that is Google. There’s the usual WebMD and Mayo clinic. I’ve perused forums looking for whatever the doctor’s have missed. I’ve seen a lot of horrific pictures of people in worse shape than me. I even got sucked into watching a 6:18 minute video of some young ladies cleaning out their aunt’s impacted pore (not the best idea Aunt Grace, they should have at least worn rubber gloves.)

Today I saw specialist number three who took a detailed history and then, without even taking a look at my skin, proclaimed that I needed to see someone who knows even more about red itchy skin.  I am now patiently waiting to find out how many months it will take to get that appointment, in Madison no less. Specialist number three also said I was OK to eat gluten (Dan cheered) and I should bathe “as infrequently as possible.” I have two problems with this. The first is how much more attractive not bathing will make me feel. But second, and more importantly, a shower is as good as two hours of sleep. Seriously, doesn’t a shower refresh you and bring you to life in the morning? And if I exercise and shower at night, well that’s just like taking a nap before bed and I’ll never fall asleep.

This stupid rash has become the focal point of our lives. It is a constant distraction at work. It has affected my concentration in some other very important areas (nothing like adding an extra dollop of frustration onto my itch pie.) While Dan is rubbing me in with this goo or that, I know how bad it looks. But this too will pass. We’re past the days when there was $17 in the checking account on Wednesday and payday is Friday. Dan’s not wrapping beer cans around the exhaust anymore. The boys are happy and living fun lives far away. And I’ve got an itch. And Dan is still picking out costumes for Key West, which is coming up fast. (I'm thinking some sort of gooey mummy costume might work.)

Before we left doctor three’s office today I explained that we had a tropical vacation on the horizon, and she agreed to give me a prescription for powerful steroids that would clear my skin for week or so. I look forward to the break from the itch, and the vacation.

So, nothing really funny in this one, but it is a slice of life. Having seen dear friends and family go through much worse, I will not complain (occasionally, irrationally break down yes, complain no). And when this gets fixed, I will not take my skin for granted again!

And while I wait for my next appointment with doctor number four I am actively taking referrals for any of the following (living testimonials of success required):

Witch doctor

Voodoo priestess

Faith healer

Medicine man

Exorcist

Sorcerer

Gypsy queen
Wizard

Medium-rare, today please.

Having just celebrated our 34^th wedding anniversary on May 19, some of our differing opinions seem to have been amplified. In this case, I’m referring to our difference of opinion on grilled food.

For the last 34 years we’ve had a charcoal grill. For the sake of transparency, it’s all about me. I love the taste of charcoal grilled meats. Especially beef. Steak. New York Strip Steak to put a name to it.

Years ago, Dan worked for a local catering company who managed one of the food venues at Summerfest. After a slow afternoon the manager let some of the staff go home early. Dan, who was manning the grills, got caught in a dinner rush. The inhalation of excessive grill smoke caused some sinus damage and he’s had an unfair bias against charcoal ever since. I’ve held my ground.

Several weeks ago, after Dan’s 33+ years of complaining about charcoal I agreed that, yes, it might be time to get a gas grill. He leaped at the opportunity and bought a low-end propane model from Lowe’s. This was the answer to world peace! The maiden voyage of New York strip steaks was awesome. The extra filets he cooked up for Caesar Salad later in the week were perfection. The second grilling session was turkey breast. Again, wonderful! 

Yesterday, burgers. I, having just gotten up from a Friday night nap, had no idea that Dan was outside struggling with the grill. The oven timer on the fries alerted me that Dan needed to know the sides were done. I yelled out the window and he replied back (and I know this was extremely difficult) that the NEW GAS GRILL was NOT working. How could this be? A gas grill was the answer to world peace! It was, in Dan’s eyes, 42 (the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, The Universe, and Everything)!

He came in with three raw burgers (I do love raw beef with rye bread, raw onions and pepper) and threw them in the frying pan I’d hastily placed on top of the stove. Excuse me, I could not help but gloat that the gas grill was not perfection.

And then I remembered a story Dan had told me about his grandparents, Ray and Alma. His Grandpa Ray, along with great uncle Tony, had started digging a new well on the family farm. And Alma. along with her sister Martha, Tony’s wife, decided that they had had enough for one day and wanted their husbands to quit – and the men wouldn’t, because of course they knew best.  Dan’s grandma and sister proceed to pull the ladder out of the well and went into the house to cook up some dinner.  The two men shouted for awhile, then had to dig in some steps to climb out for the night.  Passionate opinions are the stuff of marriage.

I apologized to Dan for gloating that his gas grill was not the answer to world peace. After all these years he is still the love of my life and differences of opinion are the spice of a successful marriage. I didn’t leave him stranded in a well, but I’m expecting a fool-proof natural gas line to our outdoor grill in Key West, with a back-up Smokey Joe.

It’s f***ing Escape from New York!

Sometimes you just have to rant. I’ve witnessed the escalation of bad behavior for too long without saying something. I am so tired of people lacking any concern about how their behavior might affect someone else. I’ve got a f**king laundry list of examples – please pardon my poor behavior while I vent!

The directional? It’s that stick on the side of your steering wheel.  Use it because when you don’t you f**k with the overall flow of traffic and motorcyclists (aka human beings) get hit and get hurt.

The three-feet from a cyclist rule? Obey it. That’s because your f**king heavy vehicle will cause serious injury to the person riding the bicycle. Even if they are wearing a helmet.

The stop sign? It’s not a suggestion or a f**king guideline. It’s there for a reason. The pedestrian, walking their dog, depends on you to stop and doesn’t appreciate being brushed back to the walk.

The no left turn sign? That means DO NOT TURN LEFT onto this street. Because children play here and when you make the ILLEGAL left you f**king race up the street to get away from the scene of your crime. And that’s when kids and animals get hurt.

That awesome conversation? Not at the concert. Some people actually came to listen to the music, not be seen at an event. I don’t care that you’ve heard this before on whatever digital format you listen to. This is a LIVE experience and you are f**king it up for everyone around you.

The street is not a trash can. Who do you think has to pick up your sh*t when you throw it out your car window?

Please a bit of awareness about how your actions impact others…there is really no good excuse…

And then, today, at about 5:10 P.M., at one of the busiest intersections in town, I saw a man stop his car in traffic…and rescue a large turtle that was about to attempt crossing the road. He stopped his car and chased that turtle down without apparent thought that he might get hurt. And I took a deep breath and I applauded. Because I needed the reminder, from someone else, that most people have good hearts and do care about the least of us.

Music that resonates:
Welcome to the Jungle -- Guns N' Roses

The spy who loved me ... and other pirates

I met him two years ago. Handsome and quite tall, he spoke several languages. He was traveling with a friend and the two would stand off to the side speaking quietly to each other. They had a look of mystery about them. He wore top line dive gear and carried an amazing camera. When he ascended from a night dive the light on his rig lit up the ocean. On the dive boat, in my rental gear, I was intimidated. But not shy. When one collects pirates one simply can’t be shy.

International Spy, Jacques

I approached them both and asked if they were international spies tracking a criminal in Cozumel (spy movies are often set in exotic locales, aren’t they?), it seemed a reasonable question. They laughed pretty hard and we struck up a conversation. They both assured me that they were not international spies. (Yeah, right). Jacques (yes, that's his name) offered to share pictures from his dives. True to his word, I had them in my in-box about a week after vacation.

This last spring my office phone rang and a mysterious voice asked me to confirm the date our next vacation. Confused I asked who it was. “This is Jacques.” Really, how did you get my work number? “I’m a spy, remember?” Yes I do. We aligned our calendars and planned to meet in Cozumel in May. It’s awesome that his work takes him there so often – must be a hotbed of international criminal activity.

In the middle - Michael, James and Vince

I’ve met a few other interesting pirates in Cozumel as well. There is of course, Michael, a true pirate of the Caribbean. He’s even had me smuggle things into Mexico for him, like Everclear and Lipton Onion soup mix! (Never argue with a pirate). And Vince, the guy who talked Dan into his tattoo. And James – you’d know him if you saw him. He is the “world’s most interesting man.” And he borrowed my red bikini bottoms to wear as part of a costume. That’s a confident pirate.

Partying at the dive shop a couple years ago with Michael, Vince, James and the beautiful Laurie Ann, hilarity ensued until Vince said “In the years we’ve worked here you two are the freakiest women we have ever met. Let’s all go back to our house for dinner.”

Years ago there was pirate Bruce (before I even knew I collected pirates). A few of us were whooping it up one night at the long-gone Wimpy’s Hunt Club. Bruce and I were particularly boisterous. Wimpy approached Dan and said “If your wife and her friend can’t settle down you’re all out of here.”

Then there is my Wisconsin pirate, who we don’t see enough since he moved farther north. DJ, the most adorable bartender ever, had stories of Key West and run ins with police. His stories always stopped just short of disaster, but you knew he had lived a wild life. His margaritas remain the stuff of legend.

Three of my four current pirates have facial hair. As my seven loyal readers know, Dan shaves twice a day, and I remind him to shave when he’s stubbly. But when my pirates greet me I get a kiss and I don’t mind one bit.

A few weeks back Dan apparently missed his Friday evening shave. Saturday morning one thing led to another. Later Dan apologized for the stubble. No worries I told him. Show me a woman who doesn’t fantasize sometimes and I’ll show you a woman who stopped breathing six minutes ago. It’s good to have pirates. 

Hello Seattle, I'm Listening. Hello? Helllllooo?

A few months ago I was courted by a headhunter from a global corporation based in Seattle. Even after 34 years of marriage it is fun to be courted, so I played along, answering the questions and giving them the information they were after. Then they set up the first phone interview...and the interviewer forgot to call me. Yep, there I sat, with my party dress on and corsage wilting, and my date never got there. So I sent them an e-mail. “I am so sorry! Did I misunderstand the wildly simple instructions you sent me?”

Waves of apologies. We are So Sorry!!! A technical glitch. How about this date and time? SORRY!!! At the appointed hour I ducked into the dining room for the call. Nothing, nothing. If Dan had stood me up like this he’d still be single. Another “Am I that silly?” e-mail and another “We are soooooooo sorry” response. The appointment didn’t get to the manager’s e-mail schedule. Whatever.

This is a global internet company that you have heard of more than five times today. They ship anything and everything all over the world, and it must get there. How do you botch this twice? The interview eventually happens, and all goes well. So does the next one.

They ask how much money it will take to get me to Seattle. On Monday night I send them a number. On Tuesday morning they ask how soon I can be there… Then it’s time to fly me out to Seattle for a face-to-face.

Already underimpressed, it is no surprise that the travel arm of this company is unaware that it is attached to anything—my God—where did this torso come from? I am sent two options for travel, but no way to acknowledge either one. An internet search for the travel firm gives a telephone number. Eventually (about 24 hours before I need to be there) the trip is confirmed. Dan finds a semi-deal on tickets, just so he can be there to see this all go down.

Seattle is a fun and beautiful city. We were enveloped in warm air, saw sunny skies and met friendly people. No matter what, we got a great trip out of the deal.

They put us up at the Fairmont Hotel. VERY fancy! Dan pointed out that this is the name of Henry Ford’s home in Michigan, and the name of our first new car. He’s always good for color commentary—I‘m here for an interview.

The next morning Dan drives me over to the unmarked office. As a good Midwesterner, I am early to the interview, which starts the hilarity. They didn’t know I was coming. I was not on the schedule. This is a company you trust to deliver your shit on time, and they flew me across the country, and DIDN’T FRACKIN KNOW I WAS COMING. I’m asked to have a seat. Eventually someone showed up who had borrowed a clue, and the interview process began.

I am a mom. No matter what the rest of my life holds, I will always be a mom. This company needs a mom. And, as teenagers, they don’t know it. I am in (as prescribed) business casual, while I am surrounded by interviewers in shorts and flip flops. No issue there, but in interviews with seven different people, no one talked about the job I had applied for or provided any details about what they wanted me to do. “So, you have rolled out new HR platforms to a bazillion countries in half a bazillion languages. But are you OK with casual and do you have flip flops?” Do I smell a joint?

Dan picks me up at 5 and whisks me back to the hotel for a fresh crab and shrimp cocktail, and glass (bottle) of wine. He spent five hours walking around Seattle and drinking beer. He is in a great mood. I am more introspective. The company I work for is over 100 years old and highly regarded in each of its market segments. I am in HR, and know we would never treat a candidate the way I was treated.

Hello Seattle? I’m listening. But I won’t be moving. Thanks for calling! B bye now. B bye! 

Let it Ride on 37 Black

The lead up to a trip is always full of expectations. Our last long weekend was no exception. We planned a four day trip to Las Vegas. We had a direct flight from Milwaukee; Carl and his girlfriend Ashley flew in from Philadelphia; Hunter and his wife Megan drove in from Los Angeles. We expected a Johnson’s take Vegas type weekend full of family silliness. And I know that Dan was hopeful for some sort unexpected “Hangover” action. None of us had ever been to Las Vegas, so at minimum we expected to be blown away by the city.

Dan and I certainly had heard the Vegas stories over the years. We were expecting free drinks, inexpensive and plentiful buffets, tours and entertainment aplenty. Dan scoured websites for Las Vegas tips and came away with lists of “specials.” Carl, expecting his father would over-plan the weekend, called me in advance to make sure he could have one whole day at the pool. I expected to spend quality time with the kids and take a day trip to the Hoover Dam or see a bit of the city.

We all arrived on Friday morning, checked into the hotel and headed out for lunch. The sticker shock of that first lunch tab sent Dan to his list of food bargains. He expected that we could eat more, for less. The next morning we decided to test it out. Dan pulled up directions on his iPhone and declared that the cheapest breakfast buffet was a mere 1.7 miles away. We were going to walk, not a problem for our family as we enjoy a good walk. I should point out here that, unlike the rest of the Johnsons, I need food first thing in the morning. When I am not fed on a regular basis I grow another head – a snarly, growly head.

We left our hotel, the Paris, and started out for Circus Circus and the cheapest buffet on the strip. After about 1 ½ miles of walking I was getting pretty hungry and started commenting on the distance. Dan, trying to calm me down said something to the effect that he really didn’t want this to be a death march. Really Dan? Because when you take a group of hungry people on a 1.7 mile walk across the desert I don’t know how you expect that it would be anything but a death march! Oh, I guess I said that out loud.

We finally arrived, were seated and went to the buffet. It was awful. Really awful. And filled with people who had no business in an all-you-can-eat buffet. I can assure you we were the only family who walked any portion of a mile to get to that meal. Dan commented that if anyone cared about these people’s health they would sink two steel poles into the concrete about 36” apart. If someone couldn’t fit in-between, then no buffet for you. On the walk back we stopped at a Walgreen’s. I treated the family to some Imodium to combat what Carl dubbed our rented breakfast.

Let’s face it: Las Vegas is full of expectations and light on delivery. It’s enormous, and as Ashley said, completely “faux”. It feels like a house of cards, built on a deck of cards. Initially, you are dazzled, amazed, awe-inspired – it is truly larger than life. And then you start to really look around. You see the emotionless people, with a player’s plastic card tethered to the slot machine like an umbilical cord. You hear the man on the elevator tell his wife that he only lost another $100. We played a few slots, actually could have cashed out with about $3 more than our initial investment, but of course, we expected the next draw to win, even more, until there was nothing left.

The expectation to win on “37 black” came to Dan in a dream a few nights before we left to meet the boys in Las Vegas. He mentioned it to me a few times in the lead up to our departure. He expected it to win. Big. When we met the kids at the hotel Dan immediately told them of his plan to put $50 on 37 black; they laughed. Walking confidently up to the table, it seems a roulette wheel only has 36 spots. Dan did bring home something unexpected however--a case of pink eye. He’s been to Las Vegas twice in his life and both times he’s come home with pink eye (I kid you not). Las Vegas is no place for a man susceptible to communicable diseases!

Our expectations for family time were met. We laughed a lot. We enjoyed each other’s company. Oh, and there was one unspoken expectation of mine that was met – the show guys are as gorgeous as I’d thought they’d be… 

Music that resonates:
Viva Las Vegas - ZZ Top (and no, Carl is not in the music video)

Silly Rabbit

Canned green beans are my favorite vegetable. I mention this because last night as Dan and I were discussing dinner options for tonight we circled around the choices in the freezer, me throwing out hints for red meat, Dan throwing out hints for dinner out at Hectors, and I mentioned that I'd like to have a side of green beans. The look on his face told me he wasn't pleased with my suggestion. We settled on a main course of cod. Dan mentioned that we didn’t have any breading and before he could finish his sentence (silly rabbit) I explained that he could make his own breading with bread crumbs and a little seasoning. With a slightly forced smile he said yes, he knew that. He was just mentioning that we didn’t have any prepared oven breading. Silly rabbit. He dug out the cod and put it in the fridge, and found a can of green beans and left them on the counter.

Tonight Dan skipped the gym. We have dear friends coming for the weekend with their kids and Dan was getting things squared away. I got home and dinner was 15 minutes from done. After a quick shower I came down to supervise final preparation. Dan was about to nuke the canned green beans, that I had purchased, and mushrooms before I explained that (silly rabbit) the slivered almonds need to be sautéed in olive oil, then the other ingredients need to be sautéed as well. Yes, they are mushy canned vegetables. No, sautéing them will not improve their texture. But it’s what I want, damn it. Dan complied.

After a minute of stirring the almonds in hot oil, they turned brown. “Are those burned? They look burned.” I saw the forced smile and Dan continued stirring.

Dan found a recipe for home made tartar sauce that involved capers, shallots and scallions. As he mixed in the last of the ingredients, I mentioned that if he had patted the pickles dry before chopping them the sauce would be less runny. The smile shrank.

The timer went off on the fish. Dan said it should have about five minutes to go—he had set it for the middle of the 17-25 minutes the recipe called for. As it wasn’t done, I explained that he needed to account for the thickness of the fish. The smile was now a small straight line.

With everything finally done a few minutes later, we retired to the Betty Room for dinner. I took a bite of beans and wondered what in the world he had done wrong. I blurted out “did you mix up the vinegar and olive oil?” (We buy our vinegar and oil from a specialty shop and the only indicator, besides consistency, is the color of the top wrapper – red or green. With Dan’s color blind disability it was an easy leap to think he had confused them.  Silly rabbit.) Dan explained that it was the green beans I had purchased, a can of mushrooms, slivered almonds and no, he knows the difference between vinegar and oil. After another bite or two, he got up and retrieved the can from the recycling. I’d bought dilled green beans—who would have thought?

And the almonds were perfect. And the tartar sauce was really good, too. And we have one more can of the dilled green beans. Damn it. 

Bag of Excuses

Recently Dan spent much of a Sunday afternoon whining about why he wouldn’t be able to go to a two-hour exercise class at 4:00. I reached the threshold of listening to his whining before I took out a paper bag. With a wide-tipped marker I wrote Bag of Excuses on the outside and handed it to him. “Here, take this along and hand it to the instructors. I’m sure they’ll care.” Conversation over, we moved on with the afternoon, went to class to get beat up and left feeling a sense of accomplishment.

Let’s face it, we all have a bag of excuses we bring out on occasion. Lately I’ve been rummaging through mine as I find myself being coaxed down the path of a potential Big Decision. And what is it that drives big decisions? For me, especially at this time in my life, it’s the hope that something will be better. But is it? I’m torn, and suspect it’s located in the bottom of that bag—the excuse “I’ve matured beyond thinking that different is better. It’s not, it's just different.” I gotta call bullshit on myself. Different has at least a 50% chance of being better. And when you factor in a climate that gets a lot less snow, you are talking a passing grade* no matter what. Except the friends. We’d miss the friends. But that’s a blog for another day.

Like most folks I spend 50-60+ hours a week in gainful employment. Lately, I’ve been experiencing “cognitive dissonance” with my job. I believe that the core of what I do to make money also makes a difference in the lives of many others. My job provides critical information that helps my employer improve the workplace and connect in meaningful ways with thousands of employees. And yet, as I complete the tasks to support this lofty goal, I feel like I was left behind. Apparently I’ve achieved a level of competence that does not require feedback; I’m fine when left to my own devices and decisions. The irony of the situation is not lost on me.

Nature abhors a vacuum. (As do the dog-faced boys, but again, another blog…) So does the brain. Lack of feedback from people I imagine should care leaves the brain to fill the blanks. In my case, the space is filled, at first with a sense of confidence, followed closely by self doubt, then the feeling of being an annoyance to others. This became the ideal incubator for someone to slip in with an offer of something better. As I walk down this new path and explain all the things I can do the encouragement I’m getting is a like wonder drug. Yes, I am that good. (Note that I left out the F'ing word between “that” and “good.”)

Ultimately, should this come to fruition, it would require Dan and I to pack up and move across the country. Which is the point of this blog – figuring out how to pack up and move to a whole new place. But I wasn’t planning to do that this year. I expected to move years from now--not anytime soon. While I’m not faced with any offer or decision just yet, this has been a wake-up call. Everything I pull out of my bag of excuses challenges me and asks if I’m ready to make a move. As I examine my bag of excuses I’m not sure how or if they will be different five years from now. “I won’t know anyone.” “It will be a strange city.” Blah. Blah blah.

I am reminded of a recent Dan story—on a field visit Dan didn’t push hard enough on a pipe installation, and a young construction employee came up, took the pipe out of his hands and slammed it home. “Put your purse down, Sally” was his comment as he walked away. Dan was happy to know his folks were comfortable enough to tease him, and has used this as a metaphor for making sure we are pushing ourselves as we look ahead.

Put that purse/bag down, Sally. Making a move would be a tremendous mental challenge. Dan will need to stay behind to sell the house. What about the dogs? What about the parents? The cars? The refrigerators? All my dishes!?! God, that stupid bag of excuses is getting heavy! Time to set it down and walk away…Sally. We’ll see. 

*In Grad school I was silly enough to call Dan to complain about my first A- on an test. The phone went dead, and I thought we’d been disconnected. When I called back, Dan said he’d hung up. He still had flat spots on his knees from falling down and thanking God for a C-. Hearing someone whine about an A- was abhorrent. Message received. 

In defense of Nickelback - Dan speaks up!

I have not done this before, but I am hijacking Paula’s blog for one of my own. This is Dan, and two things occurred this week that require comment. The first was that we (I) installed the Sonos wireless sound system in our house, which allows us to stream music everywhere. It is a slick system—long overdue. The second was that Nickleback was rated in the realms of lice, Genghis Khan and congress. Having just re-read Bill Bryson’s “A Short History of Nearly Everything” I have a renewed respect for lice. Congress is congress—we get the government we deserve. It could be so much worse. We could be Italy. Or Greece. Or China’s Coal Mine (Australia.)  But we are here, and that’s cool. Now, to Nickelback…

Music is uber-subjective. There are people who think the Red Hot Chili Peppers or Linkin Park or The Dave Matthews Band are not some promoter’s joke about “I can pack 560 pounds of crap in a 10 pound bag and get people to pay to see it.” To me, on the new Sonos system, they get the big Thumbs Down immediately. But somewhere in the internetosphere they are loved. As It Should Be. But back to Nickleback…

I love music that tells a story. Whether that is Gil Scott Heron or Marty Robbins or Warren Zevon or Bruce Cockburn or Poison (Poison just got a huge bump here) if it’s a good short story, I’m in. Nickelback does that, and it is now a Sonos favorite (along with Warren and Bruce). 

But we as MUSICIANS hate Nickelback! Chill. Those of us with real jobs are OK with them. I think about a world run by and for musicians…and smile. It would be a race to see if you died of dysentery or froze to death as (we in the utility industry like to say) you enjoyed “the splendor of God’s darkness.” You are the soundtrack for us to keep the wheels on. It’s not the other way around.

Sure, we have seen the aging, balding and paunchy (I am reminded to Milwaukee’s Wild Cherry, the great 80’s hair metal cover band, but there are so many others) who belch out teenage angst with the crowd getting a contact high from the Rogaine. There is a monstrous chasm between popular and important, and those who don’t see it are lost in their own fog. Back to Nickelback. Genghis Kahn had the largest contiguous empire in history and promoted religious tolerance across all of it. Lice keep us from suffocating in clouds of our own dead skin cells. Congress is congress. And Nickelback is just that. Look at this photograph…

Easy Peasy

We bought our first computer in 1983. It was an Macintosh 512, upgraded in the store from the original 128k. That store installed tag, which fell off some years later, is still in our bathroom of antiques. For about 15 minutes we were cutting edge. Dan beamed as he exclaimed “this is all the computer I’ll ever need.” Years later we paid $1,000 for a used 1 MB hard drive. People asked two questions: How did you get it that cheap, and what will you ever do with 1 mb? Yeah. Forced to upgrade over the years by the ever evolving technology and need for greater computing capacity, I sit here typing on a 24” iMac with a Mountain Lion OS (or is it Springing Cheetah)?

We’re not big fans of technology. Our four cars are a combined 99 years old. We deprived our sons of a normal childhood by not owning any video game systems and they didn’t get cell phones until they were in their late teens. Dan bought a Sharper Image radio/CD combo for the upstairs bathroom and it’s been blinking 12:00 since he installed it. On work nights I ask him what time he needs to be up because he doesn’t know how to set the alarm clock. Employers have forced us to learn how to use an iPhone (Dan) and a Blackberry (me). Dan is often heard chewing out Siri because she’s not delivering the goods.

During the holidays we had a few friends over to watch The Ref. Dan attempted to route the sound through our 35-year-old Scott receiver for an enhanced listening experience. Our old receiver wasn’t up to the task; a scratchy sound emanated from the speakers and the volume dial had to be carefully manipulated to clear it up. Dusty transformers perhaps? That bit of rerouting turned off the sound on the TV when the DVD player was in use, and for the next several days we had to turn things off and on to watch TV. We had a technology crisis requiring intervention, and some sales person was in for a treat.

We walked into the store armed with questions. Matt was up to the task. We had two goals: get music from the computer to the speakers; get TV that would stream so we could cancel Time Warner cable. We left the store with wave one, a Sonos sound system that could send music throughout the house. Dan took an evening (I took yoga) to set it up. Pretty seamless installation and we were listening to a variety of stations in no time.  We excitedly shared information about our new acquisition with a good friend; Dan describing his success and plans to install the rest of the wireless technology. He described how he would run a cable under the carpet from the wireless router to the new DVD player and have it working in no time. This is when the bigger discussion started.

Dan, if it’s wireless, why do you need a cable?
It’s not wireless from the router to the DVD, it’s wireless from the DVD to the TV.
Pretty sure if it’s wireless. You don’t need any kind of cable.
It’ll be easy to run the cable.
What time on Saturday should I send my 17 year old over to help?

Turns out both the TV and the DVD player are wireless. Once the TV was hung we embarked on the correct method of connecting to the computer.

I need a code, is there a code on the box? Was there a code in the start up menu? 

No.

Are you sure? Did you look at the box?

Yes.

Well then where is the F!!@@#$%%^code?

I F!!@@#$%%^ don’t know!

Now I need a F!!@@#$%%^ password.

It’s the usual password. 

That’s not working, what’s the new password?

And on…  We hit a boiling point, I left to get a massage, Dan to the Stairmaster, then to interrogate the sales person.

When I returned home the final installation was done; rabbit ears acquired and I was able to link in Hulu. My sister and brother-in-law came over to watch the Packers on our wonderful new set-up. The Packers lost. Dan will be hauling the TV out to the trash later today. Not.

So, carried off with the trash on Friday went the old Scott receiver, DVD player and cassette to cassette deck (yeah, those won’t be coming back.) And, via Craigslist, the old monster 46” projection TV is also off to a new home. We used Dan’s grandfather’s 1937 radio as a base for the new LED flat screen TV.  The long and short of it is we have downsized a few hundred pounds of stuff this week on our way to the Keys. Now what was that password again?