More "Normal" Talk: Who Needs Lasers Edition

It's Sunday so, of course, I found myself in the company of my brother's kids again which, of course, found us in the car at some point which, of course, once again led to silly little boy talk.  (It's better than the radio on a good day.  On a bad day, not so much.)

We were driving down a country road as Fourteen-year-old Sister blissfully watched the scenery of pretty houses go by and began to describe her own dream home.  This led Ten-year-old (previously referred to as "9YO" but, he just had a birthday, so you'll have to adapt) to ramble on about his own dream residence. (Funnily enough, each of their dream homes have only one bedroom.)  Which left the coda to this fantasy-spilling session to the six-year-old (yes, previously "5YO" and also with a recent birthday.)

"I just want a normal house.  Normal normal normal.  One bedroom, one bathroom, one kitchen and one laser to keep the bad guys out."

You could almost audibly hear him ponder whether or not a house with the security of a sizzling laser-zapping system was allowed under his definition of "normal", so he quickly corrected himself:

"No, wait.  No laser.  Just a normal house with one bedroom, one bathroom and one cat.  If a bad guy comes in I'll just ask him, 'Will you please leave now and stop terrorizing my cat?' If he doesn't listen I'll give him one knuckle.  If he still doesn't listen I'll give him another knuckle.  If he still doesn't listen it's a knuckle to the balls and then I beat him up." (five second pause) "Oh.  And, I'll have one dog too."

The price of admission to my Trailblazer has just gone up.

Not Normal

The fifteen minute drive between my brother's house and mine turns out to be the ripest setting for amusing conversations between my nephews, ages five and nine.

Today's was no different:

9YO: "When I grow up, I'm going to have five jobs. 1.) a D.J. I'm going to look so cool! I'll have awesome sunglasses, you know? The kind with the stripes. I'm going to wear a green jacket and have ginormous headphones, 2.) a zookeeper, 3.) a paleontologist, 4.) a fifth grade teacher and 5.) Ummm... a mega party animal, I guess."

5YO: "I'm going to be a gator wrestler when I grow up."

9YO: "No!"

5YO: "Yes. I'm going to have one job.  Wrestling gators and I'm going to wrestle them down!"

9YO:  "Well, when you die from a gator attack, I guess I'll see you at your funeral!"

5YO:  [thinks it over for another moment or two] "No.  Never mind.  I'm just going to be normal.  No wife.  No kids.  No job.  Normal."

ME:  [finding the perfect timing to interject with a teaching moment] "No, no, no... Normal people have jobs."

5YO:  "Fine.  I'll have one job, but no wife.  No girlfriend.  Just normal."

9YO:  "Don't you know that normal people are the most boring thing in the world?!  If there's one thing this family is not, it's normal.  We're too hyper.  We're not boring, we are not normal.  Normal people just sit up straight and watch way too much TV with either a dog or a cat sitting next to them.  Boring!"

5YO:  "Yeah, you're right.  Normal people are pretty boring.  That's not us.  We have fun."

9YO:  [launches into a three-minute diatribe against the lameness of normalcy and ends it with...] "Kimmy?"

ME:  "Yes?"

9YO:  "Just so you know, you don't have to worry... we're not talking about you.  You are NOT normal."

ME: "Thanks?"

9YO: [stares out the car window, watching the traffic going by and seeming content with his speech for the moment.  Then he dreamily footnotes:] "Normal people have the nicest cars."

Things Unemployment Has Taught Me

Upon entering my fifth month of unemployment, I have decided the following things:

• I will never make judgemental comments about anyone on unemployment ever again. 
• I will never look down on fast food workers again.  Even accidentally.  Even if they forget my fries.
• I am not quite ready to work at McDonald's yet.
• Saving money is easier than I thought back when I was still making some.  Never realized how many unnecessary things I used to purchase each week until I stopped doing so.  Grateful to have learned that lesson before the severance checks stopped.  My bank account now thanks me!
• Politicians who make any mention of the unemployment rates have no idea what they are talking about.  If you really want to include that in your platform, refuse your pay and insurance for the better part of a year, live off your savings, pay your doctor's bills in cash, manage to still keep your home and cars somehow, and then you may speak.
• Although I'm desperate for work, I will not act desperate.  Just because I may need your job does not mean you do not need me.  I am still a valued worker.  Don't treat me as less than that.
• Single parents who work three part time jobs to feed their families deserve applause.  (And insurance.)
• For every job I don't get, I'm genuinely happy for the person who does.
• Magazines can be read for free at the library.
• They've got free books to read there too!
• Fresh air is a necessity.
• New clothes are a luxury.
• Taking thirty seconds to enter the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes every day is still a valuable use of time.
• Anyone paying off student loans while having to apply for the jobs ads listing "Bachelor's Degree required. Pay rate $10/hr." has my deepest sympathies.
• Money does not equal happiness.  Although, it could buy a little peace of mind.
• Maybe I'm not quite ready to retire.  Twenty-four free hours can be long ones to fill!
• I will still daydream about retiring one day, though.  It can not be helped.
• I am not a loser. 
• You are not a loser.

Business vs. Bizness

Let me tell you the frustrating thing about job-hunting in 2012.  I don't even understand what half of these companies sell!

It's not at all like looking for a job in 2001, which is the last time I was out there searching.  There doesn't seem to be that many businesses out there that sell tangible products anymore.  There's no, "This is a shirt. See, it has sleeves?  We're gonna sell it to someone with arms." or, "This is a car. You drive it from place to place so you can get there much faster than you could walking.  What our company does is sell these to people with long ways to go." or, "See that sick person?  He's our customer. See that other person going home? We made him better.  This is what we do."

Business has become "bizness".  Not only are today's products not tangible, but they're not even comprehensible.  When I'm on the job search sites and click on a company's wesbsite to better understand what it is that they do (another thing no one did during my last stint with unemployment), I usually wind up even more confused.  I find that these companies are marketing invisible things like information, media, data, talent, technologies and ideas.  There are accompanying pictures of young energetic people with very white teeth in very uncomfortable-looking suits.  What they do with these products you can't touch is beyond me, but they seem to make money doing it.  I guess a perk to selling an invisible inventory is no heavy lifting.  So, their employees might possess much healthier backs and knees than I, but still.  I don't know how I can administratively assist a company whose product I can't physically see.  It's very, very... SO VERY confusing to me.

I have a recurring daymare (that's a nightmare you have while you're awake, daydreaming) that I'm in a job interview, in the "bizness" industry, and I ask them what kind of business it is that they do.  I don't understand their technically overt lingo and am naive enough to tell them that maybe they need to explain it more plainly on their website because the layman can't understand what type of company they are.  Their mission statement is just a jumble of buzz words pieced together, trying to sound important, smarty pants and high tech.  They mistake my naive honesty for brazenness and appoint me CEO.  Months later, I sit behind a mahogany desk and realize that it still hasn't been explained to me what my company sells.  I'm beginning to suspect that nobody else knows either and that I've been hired as a scapegoat until the bottom falls out.  So, I promptly resign and get a job at Pet Supplies Plus selling dog food.  Because I know of dogs and exactly what food is.

I'm looking for a job that when people asks what industry I work in, I can say, "______" and they know what that is.  Even grandmothers.  Let's not confuse my grandmother!  Companies need products that can be put into boxes.  Loaded onto trucks, boats, planes and trains.  Touched and felt.  That have on buttons and off switches.  That can be put together with other products to build something. That can be seen or read or smelled or eaten.

Maybe that means I'll have to settle for less money working for one of these old-fashioned corporations, but at least I won't go home confused at the end of the day.  If somebody tells me they'd like me to work for their office specializing in communications,  data management, intelligence or "peace of mind", I'll be sure to ask them if that comes gift wrapped.

I'd rather work for the one who sells the bees than the one who sells the buzz.

The Hunter

I'm currently on what's called a "job hunt", although that may overstating things a bit because my hunt is half-hearted at best.

When I think of a hunt, I think of stalking something with hungry fervor.  The deer hunter likes the taste of venison and will literally devour its prey (after proper processing procedures take place, of course) and mount the inedible parts to his rec room walls as trophy.  The lady on a man hunt (believe me, she's no lady...) will stop at nothing to track all males with naked left ring fingers until the day she finds a large diamond hanging off her own.  A treasure hunt is a thrilling search for riches.  A witch hunt, a manic quest to rid the world of impurity.

So, I find it extremely hard to apply the term "hunt" to something that nobody really wants to discover: Work. 

My hunt is not predatory, my hunt is not zealous, my hunt is not even worthy of camouflage fatigues.  I can't even find the appropriate word to describe feverishly chasing after something you don't even desire.  But, whatever that word is, in whichever dialect it exists, that's what I've been doing.

I don't really even know what it is that I want to "do".  But, twenty years in the working world has told me what I don't:

• Talking.  Nothing drains an introvert more than having to yap eight hours a day.  It's the way we're programmed and there's no way around it.  And, it's probably the one thing every extroverted boss will never understand.  Our energy levels drain around people and social interaction.  Our energy is restored with quiet time.  So, just toss the likes of me into an office with a pile of paperwork, close the door and watch us emerge eight hours later with ten hour's worth of work completed.  Just unplug the phone first.  We prefer emails.  Jobs on the no-list: Telemarketing, customer service call center representative, sales, public relations, teaching.
• Corporate Environments: Now this is probably stretching it considering the white-collaredness of today's America, but I can not stand corporate phoniness.  Yes, I worked a desk job for the past eleven years and enjoyed it for the early eight or nine.  But, I was fortunate enough to work in a small, fifteen-person, satellite branch of a major company.  Billion-dollar backing, zero corporate stooges on site.  That's the only white collar way to go!  The minute any higher-ups from larger offices would brave to don their winter coats and fly up to the Michigan branch for a visit, the mood would suddenly turn Stepford.  Too much small talk.  Too much smoke blown up the nether regions.  Too many fake laughs and phony smiles.  I don't do small talk well.  I always get hung up on the weather and circle around that topic for as long as the listener can bear.  And, the closest I can mimic a fake smile, is constipation.  It's just not me.  Jobs on the no-list: Anything with the word "executive" in its title.
• Lying to my face or being forced to lie myself: If you have to lie to me to "get the job done", it's not a job worth doing.  If you expect me to lie for you, you've hired the wrong person.  I also do not tolerate being screamed at.  If you're hiring me to have someone to shout at, just do me a favor and leave me unemployed.  Been there, done that, got a headache from it.  Jobs on the no-list: Anything with the words "legal" or "political" in its title.  And, if I notice red ears, sweaty foreheads, flaring nostrils or smoke emitting from ears during an interview, I will take these as signs of a screamer and I will run... run the other way.
• Overwhelming sounds or smells:  I'm not the type to handle over-stimulation well.  I prefer sight and the touch of my typing fingers to be the senses I use on the job.  Which eliminates taste, hearing and smell.  Jobs on the no-list: Food industry, noisy environments such as casinos, schools and the Wall Street Stock Exchange floor, and anything within a 50 foot radius of a Perfumania store.  Sadly, my allergies also eliminate any job where I'd be working with and/or smelling animals.
• Germs: This goes without saying.  Jobs on the no-list: Any place I'm likely to be sneezed at or on.
• Grave danger: I'm no super hero.  I don't want to be shot at, swung at, cussed out or robbed on the job.  Jobs on the no-list: Police officer, rent-a-cop, bill collector, meter maid, process server, bank teller.

Don't get me wrong.  I am a very hard worker once I find work and have been put to it.  But, just take a moment to dream with me of the perfect work situation.

Does your check list also include?

• Part-time hours for full-time pay.
• Happy faces that ease into a genuine smile at your presence.  No shouting, no cattiness, no gossip behind anyone's back.
• Extra money added to pay for every laugh provoked.  Money taken away for every complaint.
• Pats on the head at the most-needed times.  (Not literal pats though... please don't touch me.)
• Make your own hours, just get the job done.
• Feel free to take your work outside, if it's nice out and will make you perform better.
• Colors everywhere!  No beige.  Pleasant colors, not blinding ones.
• Quietness, whenever you want it.
• Background music, when you don't want quiet.
• Laugh and laugh and laugh all you want.  You won't get scolded for it!
• Don't bother judging others, because they won't be judging you.
• A short-haired office cat that won't make you sneeze.
• Read a book or a magazine for as long as you'd like.  You need to escape and be entertained.
• No dress code.  Wear whatever you please.
• Two final words: Nap. Room.

Well, I'm not sure if the perfect work situation exists for anyone... but it sure is nice to dream.  Judging from my check-list I'd be best suited for work as a golden retriever or Dr. Suess illustration.

Then again, those Dr. Suess drawings seem awfully noisy!

When I Grow Up

I recently found my copy of Dr. Seuss's My Book About Me in the family basement.  My Book About Me was a popular Seuss-illustrated book, that most of us kids in the 1980's owned, in which you filled in the blanks about your life. 

It asked you such questions as how many doors and beds are in your house, how many buttons you own and what sort of noises you are capable of making (complete with checklist containing the options of "rooster", "dog", "cat", etc.  I checked off all of the options and added in "person", "robot", "cow", "duck", "horse" and "weirdo".)

There's a page titled "I Like to Write Stories: Here is one I wrote" accompanied by two lined pages for the child to complete their story.  On the first page I wrote, "MY Book about ME.   My book a bout me.  I ♥ Ricky Schroeder." On the second page I drew a self-portrait in which I'm wearing an orange shirt with the word "Cat" on it, blue jeans and brown shoes.

There are pages to trace your hand and foot on.  A page for favorite foods ("Peanut butter, chicken mcnuggets - only McDonald's, nachos, pizza, popcorn, etc."  All still dietary staples.)  A page devoted to drawing your hair, on which I inexplicably did this to myself:

 (No I didn't have orange hair as a child.  What I apparently did have was a lack of mousy brown crayons.)

There's a page looking into how you handle your anger.  It's titled "Sometimes I Get Mad at Some People" and provides a yes/no checklist.  I checked "yes" to sometimes getting angry and moved on to the section that's a psychoanalyst's dream.  The further options given are "I kicked someone", "I pushed someone", "I hit someone" and "I yanked hair".  I checked "yes" to all of the above, including a "yes" next to the box which states "I'm sorry I did it." (And, yes, my veins do contain Irish blood.)

Then toward the end of the book, is the "When I Grow Up, I Want to Be ________ " section, filled with two pages of helpful suggestions, in case you needed ideas.  I filled in the blank with the word "nothing".

Work was never an appealing concept to me.  I re-completed this book several times over my elementary school years, and eventually came to circle the options "T.V. star", "Frogman", "Writer", "Mother", "Artist", "Dog Trainer", "Millionaire", "Singer", "Cartoonist" and "Yak Trainer".   (I also scribbled out the options "Nun", "Burglar" and "Rabbi" with very deep no. 2 pencil markings.)

Thirty years later, and I still have no answer to that question.  In a week's time I will be joining the ranks of Michigan's unemployed as a result of the company I work for's need to close two of its smaller offices.  I will have seventeen severance-paid weeks to figure out this answer, or to at least find the nerve to reenlist in another soul-snatching job that simply pays the bills (as has been the pattern set in the twenty years since I've graduated high school.)

It's always interesting to look back at the goals you had as a child during these fork-in-the-road moments in life.  The hilarious choice of doing "nothing", certainly still seems appealing, though won't exactly make ends meet.  (Although my ever-ready hopes of the Publisher's Clearinghouse win does seem to fall both under the childhood wish of doing nothing and becoming a millionaire pursuit.  So, let's call that Plan B for now.)

T.V. star and singer should now be the choices scribbled out with deep no. 2 markings.  I have since come to terms with the fact that the good Lord graced me with the singing voice of someone who is simutaneously blowing a train whistle while trying to shoot peas out of their nose.

I'm not sure what the duties of a Frogman or Yak Trainer involve, and am no longer curious, so it's probably safe to scratch those options off of the list as well.  I never had children of my own, which places Mother out of the running.  Allergies that have developed over the years eliminates Dog Trainer. (Although, I'm pretty sure I never wanted to train the dogs, so much as just play with them and scratch behind their ears.)

Which leaves us with Artist, Writer and Cartoonist.  All still hobbies of mine.  Although, I haven't practiced drawing in close to a decade and I remain completely clueless on how to make a living at any of these things.  I'm also one of those fools that likes to keep hobbies as hobbies, as not to tarnish my love for them with deadlines and such.  So, I guess what this all means is that you'll probably hear of me back in another office setting some time within the coming months.

A seventeen-week deadline to figuring life out?  Yuck.  I think I'll try to have a little fun first and leave Dr. Suess with a big ol' "Thanks for nothing!"  Unless, of course, I come across an ad for a hot-tempered, robot-noise-making, peanut butter-eating frogman.  Then I'll know for sure that destiny is calling!

Inner Child 101

I'm beginning to realize why I get along with kids so well.  I loved being a kid and, well, I pretty much still have all the same interests and habits.

Here's a peek at my Inner Child Checklist:

• Children's Vitamins:  I still take one chewable Circus Animal Vitamin each and every morning.  Yeah, I tried the whole woman's multivitamin thingy, but I kept forgetting to take them.  You just swallow those.  There's nothing memorable about that!  I grew up on Flintstones vitamins.  They were the only drug addiction I've been afflicted with in my lifetime.  80's television marketing had me convinced that, if I took my vitamins, I'd become big, strong, fast and pretty much ripped.  I took this concept quite literally and one night I downed about ten Barney Rubbles and then punched my bedroom wall repeatedly, in anticipation for the Popeye strength that was sure to start kicking in soon.  Well, the anchor-tattooed biceps never did emerge, but I came to realize one sure thing.  That kiddie vitamins taste really good!  There's no way I'll forget to take that fruity mini-snack I get to enjoy first thing in the morning. Yum!  (And, this applies to all meds.  Why take nasty grown-up cold syrup when the kiddie grape option tastes so much better?  Read the back of the bottle, there's adult dosages on there as well.  It was meant to be!)
• Why untie shoes?:  I can't be the only one who still ties shoes loose enough so that they can be easily slipped on and off without the need to sit down.  I can probably count on one hand the number of tie-able shoes I own that can't use the slip-on trick.  But, I try not to buy shoes with laces anyway, if I can help it.
• Daydream, frequently:  Much too frequently.  My current fave is still the "Planning for the Publisher's Clearinghouse Win" one.  But, hero fantasies can also be exhilarating.  I remember after 9-11, having the recurring (day)dream of being on a hijacked plane while everyone around me is panicking.  I manage to calm everyone down, lead them in a prayer session and get down to brass tacks.  I trip one terrorist as he walks down the aisle way and slit another one's trachea with a Bic pen.  (All while yelling bad ass dialogue that I haven't quite scripted yet.)  My fellow passengers gag and bind the hijackers with pairs of pantyhose donated from an older woman's carry-on.  Then we storm the cockpit!  After we commandeer the plane, I announce over the P.A., "Are there any passengers on board who know how to fly a plane?  Anybody?"  Nope?  Well, I guess is up to me to figure out how to land this bird.  We restore connectivity with air traffic control and they walk me through a clumsy landing.  All the good guys survive and a round of ground-kissing commences.  U.S.A.!  U.S.A.! 
• Remember to still ask "why?" sometimes:  I don't like doing dumb things.  Especially for no good reason.
• The shopping cart waltz:

Jump to 2:15.  Yes, Anderson, I still do it too.

• Take the log instead of the trail: It's not always the shorter route, but it's usually funner!

• Smush the bread: I've always smushed my bread before I could take a bite out of any sandwich or bunned item.  It not only condenses things, but it also somehow give bread a better taste.  I can't be alone in this either, because now I'm able to purchase pre-smushed bread!

• Pick off the green things: Why ruin a good meal?
• Sometimes animals just are more important: It's easier some days to love the one who always wags its tail and is happy to see you, then to get along with the humans who bicker back.  I'm convinced that's why sometimes a pet's loss is harder to cope with than a human's in many ways.  Human relationships always contain a certain extent of complications.  There's always that harsh word that was once spoken eons ago, forgiven, but never be forgotten.  But, our relationships with animals are often the one true sense of unconditional love we've experienced.  And, that's why sometimes a purr or nuzzle can feel sweeter to the heart than a spoken word.  Kids get this.  I hope I'll always continue to as well.
• Sports are more fun with no rules:  I was always good at sports as a kid, but never enjoyed playing on teams.  I experience more joy when there's a lack of time limits, innings, or scores to keep.  And, sometimes made-up games are the best.  When my brother's family lived with us, we'd never laugh harder than when playing a improv game of Hit My Nephew With a Nerfball.  My brother and I would simply throw Nerf footballs around, trying to bean my nephew (who was around three at the time) while he ran circles around the backyard, cracking up.  My seven-year nephew once made an entire afternoon out of Block the Toy Box.  He stood in the backyard toy box playing goalie while we tried to toss every sort of ball we could find into it.  A ball in the box, we score.  A ball blocked, he did.  He's now a great defensive lineman on his peewee football team!
• Sing, Sing a Song: Don't worry if it's not good enough for anyone else to hear.  It's hard to stifle a song in the heart when it's raging to get out, so why try?  Singing is a sign of a joyful heart.  Kids make up songs about nothing.  I still do too.  Run out of lyrics?  Just sing about whatever it is you're doing, even if it's just laundry.  It's one of the quickest ways to trick yourself into a good mood.
• Sometimes a zerbert is better than a kiss: I heard once that a woman requires somewhere around a dozen touches a day to feel content.  That doesn't mean we need men playing grabsie at us all day.  Many times a five-year-old's zerbert will do just the trick!
• Avoid the grown-up table:  A visit to the kiddie table this holiday season will not only find you much less small talk, but way better silly talk.
• Laugh when something goes wrong instead of screaming about it:  Most things we scream about, really are funny when you stop and think about them.  Lighten up!
• Pigtails:  Any time, any place.
• Go. Out. Side.:  Now!
• And, never pass up a silly photo op:

My Favorite Places: Detroit Institute of Arts Part II

A picture speaks a thousand words.  You know it's true.  Remember this on your next trip to the Detroit Institute of Arts  (or any other art museum you may wind up in) and you can play along with my favorite art-watcher's game: What's Happening Here?

The rules are obvious, so I'll just start out by completely overwhelming you:

I introduce you to "The Court of Death", by Rembrandt Peale.  A huge HUGE painting (left-side pictured above, right-side pictured below.  Click pictures to enlarge, if that helps.)  If a picture speaks a thousand words, than this painting is an epic saga.  At least a 3-hour movie or four-part miniseries.  You see the executioner, right?  You see dead bodies.  Some people are screaming.  Some people are mourning.  Some people look utterly content and its hard to understand why.  Is the man above (to the left of the green dress) self-inflicting?  Or, hanging on to dear life while trying to remove the death weapon from his ribcage?  Why the cherub?  Or is that a baby?  Who's really human and who is not?

Well, this painting is a Level III in my game.  The novice version is much more fun.  So, on a lighter note, here's what I found was "happening here" on my last visit:

The New Scholar, Franics Edmunds

This kid's got my heart.  I feel ya buddy!  The first day of his school career and he's got the right idea.  His dog isn't sure about the teacher and I trust him even less!  The mother, like most grown-ups, has much too much faith in authority figures.  But, the youth and animals, who've yet to lose their innocence, have that undeniable radar of something being amiss.  That teacher, I'll tell ya.  He's got the face and presence of one who keeps the kids after class a little too often and doles out the spankings a little too freely.  I see a window in the corner, kid.  Plan your escape now!

Mrs. Bradford Ripley Alden and her Children, Robert Walter Weir

I love this tricky snapshot of motherhood.  Your eye is first drawn to the children sweetly kissing.  Faking an image of serenity.  Then you look around the room.  Toys a mess. Mother looking weary.  A sword and a chair tangled up in the curtain.  And, anyone who's ever owned a dog recognizes Lassie's posture here.  She's not down for a nap either.  That's the stance of a dog who's been running amok with the children until mother convinced them to settle down for a nap.  (And, they're only down for a nap because they've decided they've run out of steam!)  The dog is not lying there because mother commanded, "Sit! Stay!"  He's taking his cues from the children.  That tail is still swishing back and forth and his legs are ready to pounce back up the second one of those kids gets their second wind.  And, mother...  Poor frazzled mother.  If that's a Bible she's trying to read to them, it looks like she's turned to the mid-New Testament.  What she needs to do is flip back to the "Thou Shalt Not"s!

The Merrymakers, Carolus-Duran

I was scared to look at this too hard at first because I found it simply delightful and I was worried if I concentrated too much I'd see the "true meaning" of the work.  I'd seen enough European art that day to know birds don't always fair well in it.  They're usually a sign of death, or if you look closely, alot of them are just literally dead.  I saw the the overly anxious child (thoughts of Lenny from Of Mice and Men) and then the butter knife on the table and winced.  But, once I cracked one eye back open and noticed the butter knife is placed a safe position, pointing away.  And, the bird is just a pet (and a hilarious one, from the looks of things.)  The nanny knows what she's doing and is probably the best one in town.  And, everyone is just having a marvelous time while the men are at work. (Oh.  And the woman, touching her chest in exaggerated laughter, is trying to get the artist's attention.  Believe me!)

The Cottagers, Joshua Reynolds

There's a little companion guide that goes with this one near the bench that faces it.  It explains that these women are mother (in red, with hair in rags), daughter (feeding chickens) and neighbor (head full of hay.)  It explains that they are of wealth and it doesn't make traditional sense for them to be wearing these clothes or doing these chores. Then it goes on to ask you challenging questions about what's going on.  Yeah, yeah, I'm already playing that game...  The neighbor doesn't even belong there.  She's not only the town busy-body, but also the town Knicker-Dropper (if you catch my drift...)  She heard the handsome male portrait artist was going to be next door and decide to run over and have her dress fall half off.  She knows what they say about men who spend all day painting ladies while their husbands are away... Well, nobody really says anything about him yet, but she's ready and willing to start that rumor.  Mother is the neighbor's gossip buddy.  She would have probably showed up that day anyhow.  The empty spinning wheel suggests that the pamphlet is probably correct in assuming these aren't these ladies' regular chores.  Mother obviously doesn't even know how to work a spinning wheel, but she has figured out how to feign exhaustion while sitting next to one.  Neighbor wouldn't be hauling straw in that dress because all those loose little straw bits are now falling down into her cleavage.  Daughter is probably sincere in her chicken feeding though.  Someone else gets paid to officially do it, but she gets bored and lonely during the women's gossip sessions and has made friends with the chickens on her own time.  The biggest clue that this scene is staged is, like always, look to the dog.  If the women were really just toiling away about their everyday chores, the dog wouldn't be just sitting there with playful joy on his face.  It'd be routine, he'd be bored with it.  He'd be either rounding up the chickens, running around, off in the sheep pasture, or sleeping under a shade tree.  Every signal on his face signifies that there is laughter going on.  "Let's play like we're working, when my husband sees this he won't mind you coming over here everyday.  He'll think we actually doing something while he's away at work!"  Hee hee hee hee hee.  Oh yeah, and they're also speaking in fake Cockney accents while the actual maid with the actual Cockney accent is in the barn, within earshot, scraping up cow poop.  (Ten bucks says the artist worked this scam all over town.  He'll paint the rich women as if they're working, get them in good with their husbands, and in return they invite over their naughty neighbors whose dresses are promised to fall off by the end of the session.)

Burgomeister With Key, Ivan Albright

Burgermeister Meisterburger.  That toy-hating bully from Santa Claus is Coming to Town is my only experience with burgomeisters.  I thought this guy was a jail keeper, because of the key, but now I've learned that the title Burgomeister means "Master of the Town" or "Master of the Fortress".  Or, something like, what we call these days, a mayor.  Key to the city, then?  I didn't extend his story any further because I became too distracted by the fact that he needs some serious eye drops in his left eye. 

And, lastly, I bring you a little portrait named Mrs. William Allen, by John Hesselius:

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! 

I can't look at this one without that visceral reaction.  How much this painting is worth would probably astound me then repulse me, so please nobody do the research... I don't want to know!  This one is so awkward to me, because the only part of the painting that looks three-dimensional at all is the head.  Therefore, is has that awkward Face-in-a-Hole feel to it, that's utterly distracting and hilarious at the same time.   You know what a Face-in-a-Hole is, right?   One of these:

When I saw this in person for the first time, I was hoping my amusement didn't make me a bad person. So, I called my mom from around the corner to take a peek and therefore gauge the inappropriateness of my own response.  She said, "What?" and then I motioned to her "what", she followed up with a noise something like a suprised, "Ack!" and then a smirky smile.  Phew.  It's not just me!  We'd tried to stifle our laughter from the security guard roaming nearby as it took me a little while to tear myself away.

Conclusion: Either a.) "Mrs." Allen was one of history's very first drag queens, b.) Mrs. Allen was indeed a woman, and I'm a very despicable person for implying otherwise, c.) John Hesselius was just a horrible portrait artist and the DIA acquired this work only because Mr. Allen came home, saw what he had wasted his money on, apologized to his wife, and then threw it the window or d.) This actually is a  Face-in-a-Hole and, since cameras weren't invented yet, John Hesselius was forced to do his own self portrait of his own face in said hole over many long nights and by way of mirror and candlelight.

Hmmm... a multiple choice story.  This one is complicated.  I think we've found the, unplayed until now, Level IV of my game!

Good luck with it.  You are now ready to go pro!

Down Wit the Farm

I picked up a new read last night and was so excited to get started on it!  I'm a sucker for "city folk relocating to farm" memoirs.  (See also, It Takes a Village Idiot, by Jim Mullen and of course The Pioneer Woman http://thepioneerwoman.com/)  They all seem to follow the same script.  But I, for some reason, never seem to care. 

These usually start out in the "big city" with a high-powered/high-tech/high-paying job that the writer will begin to feel unfulfilled with by the end of the first chapter.

A weekend trip to the country is what generally begins the inner stirrings.  One half of the married couple will suddenly resign from their high-paced occupation and suggest the permanent move to the other.  There's usually one party involved that takes a little more persuading.  Sometimes there are also children involved.

Most often the writer is capable of easily finding a home in the rural town of their choice and is easily able to unload their prior real estate.  There might be a quirky country-bumpkin realtor involved, but it's always a breezy transaction nonetheless.  New job searches are never mentioned.  There seems to be an abundance of cash flow in these books.  (Of this I am jealous.)

The first week in their new digs is usually the most entertaining.  The new residents never know how to repair their new houses' quirks, who in town they can trust (that answer eventually ending up to be "everyone!"), when the small town stores' hours of operations are or where to find a decent bagel.  There's usually the same (shocking!) discovery of oddly contrasting items being sold in same shop.  Tractor wheels and hairspray.  Fishing tackle and linen table cloths.  Hunting  bows and cashmere sweaters.  You get it...

The remaining chapters will always involve daffy new neighbors, farm animals running amok, unexpected down home hospitality, a bird/bat/rodent/snake found alive somewhere loose in the house and eventually a gradual adjustment to slower paced living and new found familial closeness.

I think I'm a closet city-to-farmer wannabe.  My paternal grandparents lived on a farm while I was growing up and visiting their place was always an adventure.  I loved running through the cornfields and "slopping" the pigs the best!  But, daydreaming aside, I don't think I could end up permanently toughing it out.

Every weekend trip to Amish country, for me, is a full-on experience of relaxing and unwinding.  The steady sound of horse buggies clip-clopping through the streets always causes my mind to wander for a bit.  It's such a different lifestyle in comparison to my home in metro-Detroit.  (The newscast on my last visit to Amish Indiana amused us with its innocence. The most shocking police reports on that particular weekend's broadcast were 1. Someone rudely shoving into another with a box at the local post office.  And, 2. a drunken man found wandering in the street until some kind folks stopped him---worrying for his safety--and called to procure him a safe ride home.)  But, in the end, these getaways always end with me pining for a grease spout attached somewhere to my body to drain my arteries and pores with.  The fantasy always dies with me realizing that I miss my local Target, I require more dining options and I don't really care to live in a house that's forever scented of onions and manure.

Poor me.  I love farm animals so much too.  I'm not squeamish at all about squeezing an udder.  I don't squeal in horror when a hog rubs its cute muddy nose up on me.  I just keep very different hours than these creatures.  They wouldn't want me as an owner.  And, I'd have the worst time trying to eventually eat them.

I do want a mule however.  Not of the equestrian variety, but one of those vehicles you see farmers zipping across the fields on.  Whizzing around from the house to the barn and then to go check on the cattle with.  They look like a work vehicle, but are secretly ATVs.  You know, these things:

I can easily picture myself with a mule-full of nieces and nephews (and possibly cats) cruising around the meadowy terrain. Stopping to pick berries and flowers along the property line and then chasing down the pesky fox that's been terrorizing the chickens.

But, mules and relaxing clip-clops aside, I guess I'm glad to live near the city.  Yeah, I get burnt out in my job too.  And, some days there are too many sirens in the background to hear the tea kettle signal.  But, I have convenience at my fingertips and tourist attractions within a half-hour's drive.  On those days I long for the country, I can always take a short drive to it.  Or, even easier yet, pick up a book!

Publisher's Clearinghouse

Everyone has their Internet routines.  Check email, check Facebook, check the news or stock reports?  My routine goes: Facebook, email, enter Publisher's Clearinghouse.  Every single day.

The best convenience the information superhighway has brought to my life is sparing me from salvaging the Publisher's Clearinghouse envelope from the junk mail pile every couple of months.  Entering online takes seconds a day. So much quicker than digging through a bunch of ads and trying to find the proper stickers and seals that you will be ordered to affix to another piece of paper hidden within the flotsam and jetsam that spills out of that yellow envelope.

It wasn't until recently that I realized this company is actually selling products in the process.  I guess I must have just thought Ed McMahon had a bottomless money bag that he got his rocks off on giving away to unsuspecting members of society.

When entering online you can scroll right past these ads, as not to tempt yourself.  You don't want to accidentally purchase this:

Or, for goodness sakes this:

Just keep on scrolling and you'll be to the submit button at the bottom of the page in no time.  You don't want to accidentally discover the appeal of a manual foot scrubber.  You don't need this stuff!

I talk about winning the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes all the time.  So, it's safe to say I've formally claimed the prize already.  I've heard that Jim Carrey once wrote himself a check for $10 million during a time when he was struggling financially and post-dated it a few years into the future.  By the time the check's date was valid, this was Jim's current salary per film.  I'm not spooky or superstitious at all, but if Jim Carrey can claim his future paycheck, I can claim myself a sweepstakes winner.  He worked hard towards his dream, I do my best to earn mine (by taking the 30 seconds to enter the contest every day.)

Hey, in a paycheck-to-paycheck world where I was born dead in the center of Generation X, the Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes seems a more plausible retirement plan than Social Security.  Scoff if you will, but I have a dream!

If I were to win, I vow not to blindly throw money in the direction of every lazy member of my circle of influence.  I will do good with it, but I'm not giving it away if it's not a charitable or proper investment.  I'd like to buy up property in the local neighborhoods and put the underemployed construction workers back to work.  My neighborhood alone has multiple foreclosures on every street.  Every street has as least one family that has been ejected from their home. Many streets have more than one.  I will scoop up these abandoned properties, restore them and sell them at close to value.  I want to redeem the property value of my neighborhood and help make it a nice place to live. 

I will buy myself a modest home and try to move as many siblings as I can closer to my own dwelling.  Mainly, I just want to decorate (this goes with the prior paragraph as well.)  My sole purpose for craving home ownership is not for the independence or privacy... it's for the furniture, paint and window treatment fun.  I'm sure the first unusual noise I hear coming from the furnace/water heater/neighbor's garage door opener will have me scrambling to the phone, "Any nieces or nephews want to sleep over tonight?!"  This is why it is good to have them close by.  I will have one boys bedroom and one girls bedroom for this purpose.  The boys bedroom will be stuffed with all of my Disney relics.  I'd also like a small library, if that's not to much to ask.  And, a second car.  And, maybe a pontoon boat. Oh, and a camper!

I will not take a lump sum payout.  I don't want to be overwhelmed with how to invest it and risk losing everything at once.  I will take a monthly payout, guaranteeing myself that I cannot blow it all in one place.  When every ingrate I ever met comes up to me and expects me to give them a million dollars, I can then honestly tell them that I don't have a million to give.  But, if they seem in dire straights I will say, "Here is a gift card for the local Kroger store."

PCH contests include prizes like a one million dollars and $5,000/week for life.  These seem reasonable.  I don't need $200 million from the state lottery.  I'm not that greedy.  Just enough to quit my day job, do a bit of traveling and live out some dreams. (I would also like two cats.  And, a Wii.)  You can dream about the state lottery or big casino win.  I'm practicing my "surprise" face for the people in the minivan with the helium balloons and oversized check. (If that's my big dream, I guess my big nightmare would be seeing that van pull up and having someone come to my door to ask me if I know what time my neighbor will be home. Ugh! That would suck!!!)

Do I really expect to win one day?  Eh, I've got a 401K in place just in case.  I've just given a lot of thought to what I'd do with it because it's a fun dream to have.  And, maybe if I have a good plan in place someone upstairs might want to give me a chance to prove it (please, please, pretty please?!)  'Cause, you know, I really would like some cats.

Dream Me Up, Scottie!

Okay, that last post was a total cop out, but I've had a nap now and will soldier on.

Oddly, enough, even though I only napped for an hour, I hopped right into the REM stage and actually dreamed. I dreamed my sister was living on a farm and I was talking to the ducks and geese in the pond. I walked to the yard, then came back to the pond and noticed it had drifted about 10 feet closer, covering a large portion of the lawn. I told the ducks, "Wow! You guys get high tides!" Because apparently, in dreamland, ponds experience tides.  (And, ducks and geese will listen to you.)  Periodically throughout the dream I would also find myself in front of a computer.  This can probably attest to my doing the same just before falling asleep... trying to dream up a blog idea no less.  Mission accomplished!

I have the blessing/curse of a very vivid and active dream life.  My worst ones being about spiders and snakes.  My most recurring (and also topping the worst list) would be the one where I'm working at this video store that I really did work at in my teens and early twenties. Part-way through the dream I always realized that I don't work there anymore and want to leave, but there are customers still in the store. I keep locking the doors, but they keep walking through them.  I lock all four deadbolts and again, no use. I try dialing 911, but they keep telling me it's a wrong number.  I try setting the alarm, but keep forgetting the alarm code.  Do I just walk out with no one to mind the register?  I check the schedule and they're still putting my name on it.  Don't they realize I quit over a decade ago?  I'm going to quit again as soon as someone shows up to resign to formally.  Then, of course, I wake up before that can happen. 

I used to have a similar dream where I was still in high school and I don't know any of the lessons, I'm not sure where my classes or locker are and I'm just sitting in random classes.  I'd realize again, partway through, that "Oh, I'm a grown-up and don't need to be here." The rest of the dream is me trying to figure out if I'd be able to just up and leave and drive out of the parking lot without the parking attendant trying to stop me. 

Then, there's always the "I can't find a toilet, but have to pee" dream.  Every time I bring this one up, people either instantly relate, "You too! I hate that one! Was there a bathroom with glass walls in yours?" (Answer usually "yes".)  Or, they have no idea what I'm talking about, but will feel comfortable asking me if I wake up with a wet bed after these. (Let me clearly state, the answer to that one is always "NO!")

I even still remember my first nightmare as clear as a well-watched home movie.  I was in kindergarten when I had it. In it, I was riding the bus home from school and everything was in black and white.  A friend (that only exists in dreamland) and I saw a man sitting under a tree. He was eating a dandelion.  The yellow of the dandelion was the only color in the dream. (I'm still impressed how avante garde my five-year-old subconscious was.) My friend quietly told me he was a murderer.  She didn't use the word "murderer" though, she used some other word that in dreamworld means "murderer". (Sometimes dreamworld speaks its own dialect.) This man kept popping up in the scenery of the entire bus ride home. He looked like that cartoon character that flies the biplane with the grumbling dog as his side-kick.  It appeared the bus driver was able to finally dodge him. But, to be safe, she dropped me off at my driveway instead of at my usual bus stop on the corner.  All I had to do was run up the driveway and into the house.  I make it to the porch, where I find my cat, Snoopy, cleaning his leg with his tongue.  I'm home safe.  Snoopy's fur suddenly unzips and out pops the cartoon murderer with a dandelion stuck between his teeth.  I scare myself awake.  [And, scene.]

My good dreams are great though.  I'd love to expand upon that but, as luck would have it, those are the ones that fade from memory within the hour.  *Sad face* I know they're very colorful and real though.  Usually heartbreaking to wake up from, whatever they are.  But, mostly my dreams are just plain weird.

When I was younger and more ambitious I used to keep a notebook by the nightstand so I could scribble these funny dreams down before they'd disappear.  I found this notebook in the basement a few months ago. The most I can say is, it's good for a laugh.

Here's one excerpt:

"...There's a van in the driveway. (My brother) bought (my sister) a van because her car didn't work. She didn't really like it though... In the backyard there's a buffalo nailed to a tree by it's tail. I asked what it's doing there and they tell me some guy came that morning, hammered it there and said he'd be back for it later.  They thought he hunted it and that it was dead, but I saw it open its eyes.  Then, in the front yard, there's a moose hooked to a tree on the cat's leash. (My brother) has decided that it's our new pet.  I started to take it for a walk, but there was a skunk that was going to spray us, so I just ran back home. (Home in these dreams, is always my childhood home.)  Suddenly, I'm walking on a dirt road. I keep getting lost and finding weird things.  Like an eye doctor's office made of cardboard. I climbed up on it and it fell down... At some point in this dream me and (my sister) took a trip to Africa. We went with someone else... it might have been Joe McIntyre because he was in the dream too.  We kept asking him, "Why aren't you on that show anymore?" -- I guess he was on some TV show. Then we were being chased through this palace, like in Aladdin. It had really cool rooms, but the whole kingdom was chasing us for some reason.  We ran across the lawn and got away." 

Yes, that was all one dream from one night in 1998. Phew!

I used to be overly analytical about these things.  Especially after I had died twice in two separate dreams after I had heard that was impossible.  Or, when my teeth kept falling out in them.  Or, when I kept going blind.  Or, when I'd wake up continuously with long flowing Rapunzel hair, only to wake up once more... this time for real.  None of the dream symbols I'd find in books made any sense in comparison to my life, so I stopped trying to make any sense of such silliness.

I've definitely had those warning dreams. Where something happens in a dream, that then happens in real life.  But, besides those rare ones... who can say? 

Maybe strange dreams are just meant for entertainment.  Maybe they're our muses or the sign of an overly bizarre imagination.  Maybe we can flip the channel, like a bad movie when we get bored, and so can travel from Michigan to Africa to Saudi Arabia in one night.

All I know is, I'm about to go empty my bladder before I crawl into bed.  And, then I'm going to try not think of spiders.

August is Just Fine by Me

Autumn is my favorite season, but I'm starting to cheat on it with August a little bit.

I'll quit, I promise!  I could never leave my first love.  In its absence, however, I'm tempted by the misguided concept of "loving the one your with".  How unfair the seduction this first week of the month has been.  

Each day this week I have spent my lunch break reading in my car with the windows down, in order to simply touch my skin to this most perfect weather for as long as possible before returning to the manufactured air so poisonously pumped through the office corridors. I've found I have just enough time to finish one chapter of reading leaving a few minutes remaining to close my eyes and mind-travel.

Monday was a little humid, but with it was brought a sultry tropical breeze. When I closed my eyes I could practically smell the coconut oil and hear the palm leaves swish against one another. As the hallucination of swishing palm branches distracted me from reality, another balmy breeze caught me by surprise, salt of the sea most definitely in the air. I left reality for a moment let out a horribly audible sigh. Startling my own eyes open, I noticed a woman from a neighboring office shuffling down the sidewalk and stopping to look wildly around to see who was breathing so violently at her. Shoo shoo, office lady. I'm on a pretend vacation and you are not on the companion ticket.

The next day the air was more as one would expect here in Michigan. Lake-y. But, being tens of miles from the nearest sizable body of water, I guessed this could be attributed to the wormy puddles that had collected in the parking lot due to the previous evening's rain shower. Nonetheless, I had five minutes of daydreaming left and so my eyes closed, unwilled.  Imagined lake shore air immediately impeded by the strong scent of the Chinese restaurant up the block. Mmm... fried food. I can still work with this.  Let's call it a summer carnival on the shore instead until the clock changes to that unwanted hour and it's time to turn off my imagination and earn my keep once again.

And, so each afternoon has gone. Each productive morning interrupted by an unscheduled lunchtime rendezvous. The return walk to the office building feeling more and more like a death march with each lazy step. Oh, world, how do we do it?

I'm not usually one to stray.  Affairs seem exhaustively pointless to me. I do love the fall.  It's my sworn companion for life.  But, for today, August is just fine by me.

Teen Crushes: Let it ride

I've got a couple of nieces with Beiber Fever. (One, with something more akin to the Beib-onic Plague!)  Each of you probably has a fellow loved one who will squeal at deafening units of loudness when that song comes on the radio.

As much as I may roll my eyes to fit in with the older ranks, it wouldn't be honest to pretend I can't empathize with these teeny-boppers.  Probably because I grew up with a little band called:

New

Kids

On

The

Block!

Yep, those same guys limping around on tour this summer with the Backstreet Boys.  (I just assume they're limping around because I am at this age. I can't imagine them still swinging their legs around to the "Oh-oh-oh-oh oh!" of the Right Stuff, but more power to them if they can!) I loved those boys and probably still wouldn't turn one away from my doorstep.

When I hear my niece squealing, getting mad at Selena Gomez or as I watch her add another poster to the wall, I'm sitting back and feeling fine. While other grown-ups are catching the hives from their daughter's/niece's/granddaughter's fever, I'm remembering the saving grace of teeny-bopper crushes: Saving yourself for _______.  (In my case, Joey McIntyre.)

Your little girl will, most likely, not have her innocence stolen by The Biebs.  She's just hoping she will. And, as an indirect result every pimply-faced boy at school will suffer in comparison and not have a chance in Hades of stealing her attention away.  No need to buy her an expensive chastity ring. A simple Beiber button from the 7-11 will suffice.

Never mind her spending all her allowance on posters, magazines, concert tickets and dolls.  I did the same thing.  See:

She may spend hours doing this:

...and this: 

But, remember those are hours she could have spent learning to roll joints behind the neighborhood dumpster.  She's just honing her creative skills. (And, that's my younger brother's arm you see in these. Bonus: Teen crushes may also breed sibling comraderie!)

Yes, you may find altered magazine clippings around the house:

That's okay, she's also practicing her editing skills.

So, you may as well look up that blonde-banged too-hip-to-be-hop pipsqueak's fan club address and put it somewhere for safe keeping. Trust me on this.  Because, in a few years when your daughter turns 16 and not pregnant, you're going to owe that Beiber a thank you card.