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? 

Fifty Shades of Beige

Owning and living in duplexes for nearly 30 years can be interesting—especially if you are a permanent resident. Sharing common spaces, landlord and tenant boundaries must be established. For the most part we’ve been very lucky. We’ve had a few interesting renters – the failed pediatrician who couldn’t keep her son (nearly naked Neal) clothed and who shopped at discount stores daily. The stunningly pretty but dim young lady who walked into our kitchen as Dan entered from the other way in his underwear. The Doctor from Italy who was appalled by the dust between the cracks of the hardwood floor although he never showered or wore deodorant, and felt he needed to be three inches from your nose to speak. The woman who was deeply disappointed with a beautiful replacement Kohler Brookfield kitchen sink (replacing the dinged up stainless steel) by the prospect of POT MARKS. After that heated exchange, I believe my comment to Dan was “the bitch is outta here.” And she was. The med student that went to Europe for the summer and made no arrangement to pay the rent for three months (surprise, you can’t live here anymore).

On the flip side, we’ve had some great long-term tenants as well. The very talented mom and daughter who are still great friends; a different med student who would study for days before bursting out of the flat to chase our 5 and 7 year old sons around outside, tickle them until they were breathless (he was missing his own little brothers at home) before “tying” them to a tree in the front yard. They loved it—and him. Once when we refinanced and our payment was halved we were able to reduce the rent for a young lady who was struggling with her bills. I can still feel that hug.

Within the last month our lower flat came open again. A quick ad on Craig’s list and we had several prospects. You interview, test the waters with a walk-through and application signing/chat at the kitchen table, conduct some background checks and pray that you’ve made the right choice. Our new tenant will be moving in next week.

We mentioned that we’d be painting the flat and he expressed an interest in picking out colors – something a bit warmer than the current gray, nothing extreme. We agreed to look at his preferences and hire a painter. The painter ended up being a bust – way too expensive, so we decided to do it ourselves, with volunteer help from our new tenant and his brother. The new guy dropped off the paint chips attached to printed digital photos of the different rooms and Dan called me at work to say they were all beige—joking that he could buy a five gallon bucket and call it a day. As all of my faithful 17 readers know, Dan is colorblind reds and greens. I would trust him with colors as much as I would trust Fox to predict an election or McDonalds to serve a gourmet meal. I asked him to hold tight until I got home.

Dan took off a few days to get some repair work done, and on Tuesday he started to paint. I got home from work and came downstairs to help. He had gotten quite a bit done, most of the big surfaces had one coat. The colors were wonderful. There were some instructions about specific applications of color to make features pop. Dan asked me a few questions about how to finish things off. In every case my response was the same, “if I was going to live here I’d want … , but let’s wait until tomorrow and check with the tenant.” 

On Wednesday, the tenant and his twin brother came by to help Dan. They had made quite a bit of progress when I arrived from work. We walked through and in every instance his design decision matched my initial reaction. We are all getting along fine. We painted for a while longer on Wednesday, then took a break for Thanksgiving.

We came downstairs on Friday and found Tom and his brother hard at work. Dan plugged in his “Everclear” station on Pandora radio. I ran to the paint store to pick up a bit more of one color and some white trim paint. When I returned the station had been changed to OLD country – Tom T. Hall. It seems They preferred new country and Dan’s compromise was country that told a story. Seriously—when’s the last time you heard “”Convoy”, or “He stopped lovin her today”, or “The Ballad of Bill Crump”, about a guy who builds his own coffin, or “Feleena,” the follow-up to Marty Robins famous El Paso? (Dan is an idiot savant for Westerns and old cowboy songs.) While I had to look this up to get it right, who the hell can paint to lyrics like this?

“He raised to kiss her and she heard him whisper

"Never forget me - Faleena it's over, goodbye."

Quickly she grabbed for, the six-gun that he wore

And screamin' in anger and placin' the gun to her breast

Bury us both deep and maybe we'll find peace

And pullin' the trigger, she fell 'cross the dead cowboy's chest.” 

Seriously, in another hour I’d need a gun, but make sure there are three bullets in it. I declared mutiny and changed it to something more modern (Sting, Genesis, 80’s, what’s not to love).

Dan’s dad came by to help and we put him to work cutting in color and trim in the back bedroom. Nearing the end of the pail, Dad came into the kitchen for a refill. We looked at the cans of paint to determine which shade he needed. Dan pointed to one can and declared this to be the correct color. Like adults smiling at a slow child, Tom and I shook our heads and pointed to another can. Dan insisted that the can with the dent was the can he was using earlier that day. Tom and I exchanged glances, and in that instant I accepted the pity he sent my way. Dan again explained that the can with the dent was the correct color, and in my mind I patted him on the head and sent him back to caulking grout. I refilled Dad’s paint cup. Tom, my new BFF, nodded his approval. Dan shrugged and left.

A little bit later I had a question for Dad about painting a cabinet. I stepped into the back bedroom and found him hard at work. I stared at the walls hoping it was a trick of the light. Or it was drying funny—yeah, that’s it! Or…or…not that it was the wrong paint and Dad was more than half done. It was like a sick, two-toned brown leopard, as Dad had dabbed the paint on all four walls. Maybe lower wattage bulbs? No, I would have to admit this to…Tom. Maybe he would have a plan. Dan was still caulking—he might not have to know. Yeah, that’s it. We just won’t let him in this room. I asked Dad to stop, and he said he was wondering why it was drying so funny. I wanted him to be quieter—Dan can’t know. To have to admit that the colorblind guy was right—and then sending him off to do Charlie* work scrubbing grout in the bottom of a shower stall…I went and got Tom.

Yes, he knew this was serious too. That relationship between landlord and tenant now had a new wrinkle. I had an alliance with Tom, yet we were both in the wrong. To now need to eat beige crow the day after Thanksgiving was appalling. And I could already see the little happy dance Dan was going to do. Dan walked into the kitchen.

Silence. Dan rinsed off his hands as Dad asked which paint can he should be using. Tom and I exchanged furtive glances, then quickly looked at the ceiling, studying the light fixture.

The bulb came on slowly in Dan’s head. I watched as his hand washing slowed, then stopped. He was looking straight ahead, processing the words “Which can of paint should I be using?” “Should I be using?” “Should…” He turned and looked at Tom and me. Tom faked a cell phone call (bastard) and left the room. Dan stared at me, then walked past his dad into the bedroom. While I expected laughter, there was silence. He emerged at least two inches taller and his dull eyes were gleaming. He walked up to the dented can and offered it to his dad. Dad resumed painting.

I had imaged a few different exchanges, but I was surprised. Dan simply said he was pretty sure he knew the difference between a dented can and an undented can, but when it came to final color selection he would always defer to me. Tom quit his fake call and returned to the kitchen. Dan picked up his now rinsed Charlie rag and returned to his grouting. Tom and I exchanged surprised glances and went back to our painting.

A few seconds later I noticed something that both Dad and Tom missed. There was a slight vibration—a shaking, as if someone was moving a heavy piece of furniture. While both Dad and Tom would have dismissed it had they noticed it, I knew it was Dan doing his happy dance all by himself in the bathroom.

*Charlie work, for anyone who doesn’t watch It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia, is the grunge work that no one else wants to do. 

Music that resonates:

Convoy – C.W. McCall 

White Trash Problems

There was an article today on page 24A of the Milwaukee Journal/Sentinel headlined “Obama wins Florida in close final tally.” Five days after the presidential election, Florida finally finishes it’s count. This is in an age of computer tabulation and instant results. In years past I would have viewed this with a bit of derision, commenting on Florida as a “third-world” state. But the parts of Florida we like are not really in the first world--they are part of the Caribbean. You are on island time. It is a different ethic. Normal is far from it, and it’s the reason we put up with 51 weeks in Wisconsin, so we can be there for one week in October. But I digress. This week other things came to light that cause me to realize I should not throw stones.

In a bid to refinance, the bank sent an assessor to our beloved 1882 Queen Anne. Head shaking, this arbiter of value proclaimed “you live in a duplex.  Nobody wants a duplex.” Considering the tone of his voice he could have been saying “trailer home.” The reclaimed tin ceiling—meh. The $15,000 new roof? “So what--I don’t like the looks of the 15-year-old cedar shingles on the turret.” In short, we won‘t be refinancing, at least not with those guys. Hey y’all, watch this.

Fully loaded dog-bus

Jumping ahead to today, Dan is outside running the gas out of our 30 year-old motorcycle. Our newest car is 10 years old with 127,000 miles. Our best car is 18 years old with 122,000 miles and is stored every winter. Dan chooses to drive a winter beater, a 1995 Aspire, with the back seat removed. He added a cheap faux Oriental rug from Hobo to help the dogs keep traction. The car refuses to idle and won’t go over 65. The dogs ride shotgun with Dan on errands and to the gym, always hoping with canine optimism that all trips will end at the dog park. I shake my head as Dan drives away in a 2086-lb car with 200 lbs of Doberman (250 if he has picked up Finn, the neighbor’s neurotic Yellow Lab), rolling down the street in what is affectionately and mercifully labeled, The Dog Bus.

I have driven enough trash in my life that, with rare exceptions (sorry Ashley), I refuse to drive it. I have driven cars that had home-made sunroofs. Strings you needed to pull to engage the choke. I refuse to ride in Dan’s pride and joy (our fourth car), his 53-year-old Ranchero with the solid steel dash and aftermarket lap belts. Once I had earned a college degree or two, I was done driving crap. But the crap is in our four car garage and I pay the registration and insurance. In short, I fund and enable Dan’s latent White Trash habit.

When we moved from the “Sout’ Side” we made a conscious effort to leave the vernacular of that part of town behind us. “Aina hey” was a term we grew up with and was used by beloved relatives. We taught our boys to say “that” and “there”; not “dat” and “dere”. While we reject much of the sout’ side legacy, we are acutely aware of one differentiator. Dan’s dad, a plumbing contractor who is still working as he approaches 80, told us when we moved from the Sout’ Side to Tosa: “North of Bluemound Road you are The Help, and you will not be offered a soda or coffee or a glass of water. South of Bluemound Road you are a peer, and you will be offered a sandwich or a coffee or whatever. Remember.” Since moving to Tosa, we have honored this, much to the surprise of more than a few contractors. Dan restocked the huge cooler daily as nine workers stripped six layers of roof off our three story home (two 30-yard dumpsters) and installed a pristine roof that would be looked at as worthless just two years later.

So, as I sit here trying to find a point to this blog, I need to ask: Are we defined by our degrees? Our zip codes? What we drive? Our ability to not end a sentence in a preposition? No, we are judged on how we treat each other. By how much we can laugh with our friends (especially about ourselves.) Do I want to throw stones at Florida’s inability to count votes? Not anymore (um, OK, maybe just a little). Some of our best friends hold opposing views, but we love them and I Just Don’t Care. My brother (and Dan’s brother) passed too soon and we learned from that. I refuse to let crap get in the way of us having fun in the days, weeks, months and years we have left on this far-too-cold rock.

To my friends who kinda wonder if we are a little trashy—I love you. To our friends who wonder if I look at them the same way-no, I don’t and I love you too. And I did end one sentence in this blog with a preposition. If you find it you win a free ride in the Mustang (our best car) – I’ll dump the clutch and squeal the tires for you!

Blood sport (and football)

November 4, 2012: I went to Lambeau field today, home of the Green Bay Packers, America’s team. They embody everything that is good and right. Having lived my whole life in Wisconsin it is easy to distinguish the good (Green and Gold) from evil (every other team’s colors). Aaron Rodgers is just…wholesome. Donald Driver is graceful under pressure. The Packers just exude goodness and purity. They proved their superiority by dominating 31 to 17 over the “bad guys.”

Sure, there was rough play, players were tackled to the ground. There were a few celebratory dances and leaps in the end-zone. But when someone got knocked down, they also were helped to their feet. You saw friendly conversations happening between the players. You saw a few tussles between the teams. The referees were respected (except when they made really bad calls, then the stadium booed). The players shook hands at the end of the game. We left the stadium, joyously triumphant, and appreciative of a game well-played.

November 6, 2012: I need to go to the polls and cast my vote for President of the United States. And pick a new Senator to replace retiring Herb Kohl. I am anxious for Tuesday. It’s been a long, dirty slog in the mud. There are pointed accusations, misinterpretations of intent and an underlying current of distrust. Unlike football, politics is not played fairly and this year, the vitriol feels amplified.

In politics, it feels like we lost our referees. Respected media markets are taking a pass on endorsements. The mostly right-leaning (Fox news) and mostly left-leaning (MSNBC) news channels would have us believe that the sky is falling, of course only if their man loses. We are divided, suspicious, disrespectful and scornful of anyone who expresses an opinion that varies from what we believe to be good and right. We are families divided, friends who don’t speak and workplaces with clenched teeth.

We are a nation that likes to win. But unlike the football game today where the players walked off the field shaking hands and sharing the camaraderie of a game well played, I fear that after Tuesday we will all be losers…no matter who wins.

Me time

I’ve been in a bit of a funk. Approaching my birthday, I think, it’s the double nickel. I am not sure how the years have gone by so quickly, but they have, and I’ve been thinking about it. It’s been on my mind so much that I downgraded my September Olympic triathlon to a Sprint distance. Fear. Stupid, irrational fear. That I’d come in last, or worse yet, be pulled off the race course because I was too slow. 

I was looking forward to this weekend. Dan and guy friends, along with the dog-faced boys were heading to the cottage to do some repairs and pull in the pontoon boat. I could go, or I could stay home and “recharge”. Work has been difficult, projects felt like they were out of my control and I chose “recharge”.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.  Let me recap my very dull weekend. After a frantic Friday afternoon at work (crisis averted due to very competent colleagues), I got home at about 5:30 to an empty house. Dan and the dog-faced boys had left for the cottage at about 4:00 pm.  I proceeded to forage for leftover food and ate a warmed up dinner. I settled down to watch the Wisconsin Senatorial debate (be still my beating heart), post some nonsense on JSonline and watch my “Perception” DVR backlog. I was in bed at midnight.

Saturday found me sitting in my pajama’s until noon, totally missing the farmer’s market that is two blocks from the house. I went shopping, and happily, found a few new dresses for my work wardrobe. Happy with my discoveries I found that I had got shopping wrong, as I didn’t have any coupons to bring the price down. All the other ladies in the Boston Store dress shop looked at me like I was “shopping challenged”. I begged the cashier not to make me feel bad. She took pity of me and scanned some other smart shopper’s coupons for me. Arriving at home I chatted with the neighbor and promised to call if I got bored. I found a can of soup and crackers for dinner and watched a gripping “This American Life” episode I had DVR’ed. It was 7:30 PM. Oh my, look, a NCIS marathon. That was good until 11:00 when again, I went to bed.

On Sunday, I went to the gym and lifted heavy things for no reason. I cruised JSOnline and posted a comment or two. I walked down to the ‘Tosa village for a little shopping and lunch. I returned home to find a message from Dan that he was en route from the cottage and would be home soon. Thank goodness.

Dan tells me that when my boys, Carl and Hunter, are around I light up. I know this to be true. I can also say that when Dan and the dog-faced boys are around I feel so much more alive. Sometimes irritated, but alive. Dan showered, we debriefed the weekend and walked down to Hectors to watch the Packer/Saints game. Dan wore his Saints shirt, hollered too much in the bar and I wondered if we would get out unscathed. It was invigorating.

Solitude is overrated. I wouldn’t do well on my own. I need the craziness of people (and the dogs) around me to keep me awake. I don’t really need me time, I just need someone to give me a reality check. October will be a fun month.  My birthday (I might as well embrace it, it’s happening anyway), two weeks in Florida for work and fun, and the beautiful colors of autumn. I don’t need anymore me time.  I realize now that my recharge really comes from “we time”. I’m glad to have had the reminder.

We came through in the clutch

Labor Day. A day off of work and the opportunity to relax. Dan and I set up a  motorcycle trip to Eagle, Wisconsin—less than an hour away--planning to meet a high-school friend for lunch. The 1983 Honda Sabre, always reliable, needed a bit of dusting off. Safety a top priority, we put on jeans, boots, denim jackets and our helmets.  Ninety minutes before our meeting time we take off down Bluemound road, Dan driving and me hanging on.

We used to ride the motorcycle a lot more, but then Dan had a nasty meet-up with some pavement just two-blocks from home while wearing shorts and a t-shirt,  and we’ve backed off on the riding. Considering that it’s September 3 and today’s ride was my first of the summer, I was looking forward to a casual drive through rolling hills. We got to the western end of Brookfield and Dan was suddenly shouting something at me. I lifted my visor and asked what was up.  “The clutch just went out. I need to get some brake fluid to fix it.” Dan, familiar with driving junk, knew the location of the closest car parts store. We ran in, bought a small bottle of fluid and Dan went to work.

Armed with his trusty Leatherman tool, he removed a small cover, poured in some fluid and watched to see if it would drain into the tubing. Nothing. He put the cover back on and tried the clutch. Nothing. At this point, we had a decision to make. Continue on, or leave me here, go back home to get a car, pick me up and proceed out to Eagle. I said it was up to him, he was driving. But I knew the decision was really mine to make. Dan was ready to keep going. We could do the safe, sensible thing—leave me at the McDonalds while Dan limped the bike home and picked up a car. We are in our 50’s. The time for doing stupid things should be so far in the rear view as to be invisible. I asked him what he wanted me to do. Sitting on a small hill, we started the bike in neutral, got it rolling, slammed it into first and took off. Dan shifted up and down through the six gears by sound and feel, with no need for a clutch. We had a few difficult patches starting from a dead stop, and timing our  approach to marked intersections required lots of forethought (something I have dissed Dan on countless times over the years.) But ten minutes early we arrived at our destination—a biker bar crowded with dozens of gleaming Harley’s, BMW’s and others—all with working clutches, I suspect. We parked half a block away, jerking to a stop. We had a delightful lunch and a long conversation. Dan bought me a cocktail. He had three diet cokes.

Back out to the motorcycle, and a rolling, jerky start, but we are moving. The goal is minimal stopping, which was up to Dan. He evaluated the options and choose a route that he knew was heavy on scenic while light on traffic lights. He did a masterful job of keeping us moving. We encountered the first stop light and he took a right turn, then another right, a U-turn, a quick left and back the way he came to catch the final right turn onto the highway. We hit I-94 at Oconomowoc, maintaining a steady 65 all the way into town. The Watertown Plank exit, a yield and no reason to stop. Slowing safely to time his approach to the next intersection and light change. Some slight acceleration got us to the last light before a quick right found us in front of the house.

When it was "new".

It is possible to drive 60 + miles on city and country roads and only stop for lunch. Sometimes we are so stuck in our daily rut that we simply follow the directions from point A to point B and never think about how we got there. IF we think about it, we have plenty of time to evaluate a red light before we get to it. We have lane choices if we are looking for them.

It takes more thought. It takes constantly evaluating where you are and where you are going. And in a way—and I thought about this as I clung to Dan on the freeway on the way home—that is the point of this blog. I’m done driving like a zombie through my life. I want to think about the turns way before I get there. I want to know that my Dan, my “Thinking Man’s MacGyver” will get us out of jams, and I will do the same for him. I want to show up at the biker bar on a bike—albeit without a clutch—instead of my little red SUV.

Did we evaluate all the options? Sure. But I am happy that we discounted the simpler, saner option. Today’s ride could have been a nice amble through the countryside. Instead, it was a bit of a white knuckler (especially for Dan) but far more importantly, it was another mental challenge overcome.

Clear as mud

This last weekend I joined four other beautiful women and got really dirty.  Specifically, we completed a Dirty Girl Mud Run. Can I just say it was awesome?  It was also the antithesis of every myth of my childhood, the dogma of my youth that continues to influence the me, and imposes a misplaced sense of self that was originally constructed by some other “wise” adult.

In my case, the wise adult who so profoundly influenced my thinking was my grandmother. Placed in the unexpected position of caring for a two year old girl and a three year old boy following my parents’ divorce, she did the best job she could. As a small child I remember waking up in the second bedroom of my grandma’s house (I never thought of it as grandpas, he just lived there). Grandma would come in and lift the shades in the morning to wake us, feed us a balanced breakfast of fruit and cereal. She washed all our clothes in the wringer washer and hung them to dry. She served sandwich lunches and comfort food dinners. She dusted and scrubbed the house. She made cinnamon rolls on Saturday and served them on Sunday. And with regularity she told me all the things I shouldn’t do.

• Don’t sit on the sidewalk; you’ll get a bladder infection.
• Change out of your wet swimsuit; you’ll get chafed.
• Don’t run; girls shouldn’t sweat.
• Don’t get dirty; girls should always look clean.

There were a myriad of other “don’ts” that have extended into my adult consciousness and I can’t possibly remember them all. When I started writing this blog entry my mind had formed a pre-written ending about busting my grandmother’s myths and proving that once again I could successfully break out of these invisible mental constraints.

But then something happened that completely changed my way of thinking.   Missouri house representative Todd Aiken said that a woman couldn’t get pregnant as the result of a “legitimate rape”. And then I read an article in Scientific American with a startling statistic “…it is rather normal to be a survivor of sexual assault if you are female. One out of six women in the United States have been the victim of rape or attempted rape, and that is using a rather tight definition that does not include many kinds of assault victims can experience. 64,080 women were raped in the US between 2004-2005. Sixty four thousand and eighty.”

Sixty four thousand and eighty, between 2004 and 2005. In an age where women are more likely to report the crime of rape. I couldn’t help but wonder about my grandmother’s reality, as she certainly didn’t grow up in a time of all sweetness and light. Just as today, the very fact of her gender could put her in harm’s way. Had she made it through her life without harm? Did she know of other women, friends or family members who barely whispered horrible secrets of shame and blame? Unlike today’s current environment, where we can call out Todd Aiken and his ridiculous comment, back in her day there were few words on the subject that could be spoken out loud. 

I realize now that every time she told me what I shouldn’t do, she was in fact expressing her fear for me. Maybe what she was really saying was, be careful, there’s danger in seemingly safe situations and you need to be aware. Maybe she was really saying “I love you.”

So this blog entry has a different ending. I’ve put a new lens on old phrases I'd heard countless times. I’ve also learned that running in the mud with friends is sometimes no more than just running in the mud with friends. 

The room Dan digs the most...

Is it possible to be jealous of a woman your husband never met? A woman who died in 2008? More to the point, can one be jealous of a room dedicated to her memory, and then come to love that room as much as your husband does? The short answer is…yes. That room was Dan’s dream.

Or dozens of them, actually. Dan is a dream talker. As he wakes up he begins to narrate all of the dreams he had the night before. This is usually 10 minutes before I need to get up, and the only dream I’m having at that moment is that he had become a mute overnight. Instead, over the last 33 plus years I have heard countless variations on the dream that he finds a hidden door. Or trapdoor. Or window. That leads us into a room or rooms that we didn’t know were there when we bought the house.

When we did buy the Villa Johnson in 1996 there was a roll of insulation stuffed in a hole in the basement wall. There were far too many projects that needed to be done (kids through high school, me through grad school, bedrooms and a bath on the third floor, etc.) for the odd bit of insulation to move to the front burner. But gradually the Big Projects were ticked off the list. Pointing him toward other pursuits—the play that he’s talked about for years, publishing the kids book he wrote in a flash and has done nothing with since, were in vain. Dan pulled out that piece of insulation, grabbed a flashlight, and crawled into a gross, cobweb-infested crawlspace under what we understand was a doctor’s office that was added to our house in the 1920’s.

In 1923, a young woman was born in Nashville. Betty Mae Page was The Pinup Model Of The Universe in the 1950’s, and enjoyed a resurgence of popularity in the 1980’s and 90’s. Dan was smitten on our first trip to New Orleans by a tee-shirt for sale in the French Market. Gradually, more and more of his casual wear featured this raven-haired woman. In those years I didn’t really give it much of a thought.

Back to 2005, Dan announced that he was cutting through the stone wall and would be excavating this room. The intent at the time was that this would be part of his workshop. Over the next few months Dan dug out 27 yards of dirt (70,200 pounds) along with large pieces of rock that had once been the foundation for a long-gone back porch. Concrete was poured, walls were power washed, and the room, with its cream city brick and stone walls was revealed. Now the intent of the room changed. It was too pretty for a workshop. And another half of the basement needed to be converted into a party room. And we needed a full bath down there as well. Someone had injected Dan’s boondoggle with steroids, and I was powerless to stop him.

In the spring of 2012 we went to visit Hunter and Megan in LA. I had a dozen touristy things I wanted to do, and Dan and the kids were fine with all of them. Dan had one request—to find the final resting place of Betty Page. The cemetery was NOT easy to find, and if not for the determination of Megan (in “full-on Megan Mode”) we would have missed the entrance—and Betty’s humble tombstone. Despite me giving him the evil eye at least twice, Dan insisted on buying flowers. As he laid them on her grave he broke into tears. But by then I understood.

By May of 2005 the rooms were nearly done, and the theme was Betty Page. Dan had covered the ceiling of the larger party room with 333 empty wine bottles—“half of 666” he likes to say. The dug-out room has lights that make the brick walls glow. The pool table is red satin with leopard bumpers. Dan made the light switch plates using photos of Betty. Banners and posters abound. The painting was done, bathroom complete, and he was trimming the carpet when I finally snapped. “Of all of the projects you have taken on, this is the dumbest. It has been a waste of your time and our money. If you think we will ever have a party down here you are mistaken.” With that I spun on my (not high) heel and left.

A month later, when we had a wildly successful wine tasting party in the newly-christened “Betty Room” I had to admit I was wrong. And the room is so wrong in so many regards. But I’ve come to realize this room may be more like me than my dining room filled with Gone with the Wind plates…or any other room in the house.

Betty was a good girl. A born again Christian who once punched a famous photographer for coming on to her during a bath tub photo shoot. She was a good girl who, occasionally, liked to put on costumes and have her picture taken.  That all came together for me one famous Friday night in Key West two years ago. I was covered up, wearing a black corset, garters, fishnets and leopard high heels. Our favorite hang out, Capt. Tony’s had a fake “dungeon” set up in the lower level. Couples or singles would pose with the equipment, and a few flashes would go off as people took their picture. On a lark, I walked up to a large wooden X. I grabbed the metal rings, lifted one high heel, and glanced back through my bangs at the crowd with a bit of a wicked smile. One flash. Ten. 100. A wall of white light as cameras snapped. I turned and walked back over to Dan and two friends with cameras who were near-by. Their mouths were hanging open. Dan finally blurted out: “Do you realize you just channeled Betty Page?”  In fact, there were so many flashes Dan’s camera didn’t get the picture. A friend’s did, and a large blow up of it hangs in the Betty Room unless we know we are getting company.

Since completion, the Betty Room has been the scene of a number of great parties. Our long time friends think about them and smile. Our newer friends think about them and wink. In the summer the thick stone walls make it a perfect retreat. In the winter it’s our private club that we can go to without stepping into the cold. All of our pictures from Fantasy Fests adorn the walls, and a couple of years ago we added a second-hand leopard high heel shoe chair. Other decorations don’t need to be mentioned here. It is an outrageous space, but for our house, and Betty, and in our relationship, it’s a costume that we can wear because the foundation is strong. Our beautiful old Queen Anne doesn’t mind the rebel room in the basement. Despite her demons in later life, Betty was always proud of the artistry she put into her modeling and photos. And while we’re only there one week a year, I like how we look in our costumes and paint in Key West. 

Jealous of Betty? Not any more. I’m happy she lets us share her space.


Music that resonates:
Boss's Daughter (aka Hell on Heels, Dan's favorite) - Pop Evil