FlipSide:Starting May 14th, 2001

A journal of the trials, tribulations, and triumphs in the life of a woman in the 21st century.

Well, another Monday has been survived. Actually got myself to Weight Watchers for the first time in four weeks. And, after 3 weeks of relatively unbridled eating I find I am only up about 2 pounds. It actually made me feel much better about myself. Could peanut butter cups be a new diet food?!

Spring was nice while it lasted. We have gone from beautiful spring days with highs of 75 to stinkin' hot summer. The high today was about 98 degrees. The only good thing I can say about it is that at least it wasn't humid yet. And the mosquitoes aren't out. Other than than, it was just plain hot. At this point, we are attempting to not put the air conditioning on yet. But, it is getting close . . .

From reading my husband's site yesterday, it appears he was only slightly more enthusiastic about going to the arboretum than about, say, the proctologist. He seemed to enjoy it while he was there. Apparently you can't tell by looking at him if he is happy or miserable.

It was Black Monday at John's office today. After John's boss put in his notice last week, the big boss came today. The upshot is, they are trying to get the number 2 guy in the office to take the job, which John doesn't think he'll do. If he doesn't take the job, they will shut down this office, but it could take up to 6 months to shut down. There would be a sliding scale severance package. If you make it this far into the transition, you get X% of the severance, if you make it to this date, you get XX%. If you make it all the way through, you get 100%. Now, if we play are cards right, we could actually come out of this smelling like a rose. (Keep in mind, I am not the optimist. That's another Netwidow. I am the sarcastic cynical . . . well, let's just leave it at sarcastic and cynical, shall we?) Assuming they do shut down, that severance could very well be our downpayment for a house. And at this point, that is the main reason we are not in a house. Keri Beland has volunteered to help John out in his job search (she used to work as a IT headhunter) although what she really wanted to do was help us to move to Seattle. (Where it is a much more civilized temperature today, I'm sure.)

Another little bit of good news, John finally talked to a human at his student loan servicing company. It seems they are very short-handed and apologized all over themselves for not getting back to us and only sending us demand letters rather than returning our phone calls and emails. (Explain to me why you would give out an email address if no one checks it???) They are going to consolidate his loan and my loans so we only make one payment each month. And they told us not to worry about those demand letters, they don't report to the credit bureau anyway. Okay, and my incentive to pay you is . . .

To my regular readers, I apologize. It is stinking hot here today and I am particularly uninspired. That happens when all I do is sweat. Anyway, just pretend I said something particularly smart and witty, and I will be back tomorrow. Hopefully, it will be cooler.

What were you doing when you were 19? I was finishing up my freshman year in college, desperately trying to get off academic probation, along with 2/3rds of my dorm (a few too many happy hours and too little studying, not an uncommon occurrence among freshman). I was deciding how I was going to spend my summer (more partying) and wondering how many of my high school friends were going to be back home for the summer. We talked about who was "doing" who and who was cheating on who and who was doing what things we didn't think they should. All the things that makes 19, well, 19. And then, there's Kaycee. At 19, she is gone. But in her 19 years, she showed the best and brightest that a person can be. She was optimistic, she was loving, she was giving, most of all, she was forgiving. She shared her struggles, her joys, her courage, and her sorrows with people she had never met. With bated breath, we watched her indomitable spirit transcend her physical limitations again and again so she could shared her sunshine with us. Through her words, she touched countless lives and through her example, she made us better people. Not a bad legacy.

Life continues to be a strange journey. I won't go into details, but "the divorce saga" continues to get weirder and weirder. And my husband feels his friend's pain. They have been friends from the second grade. He and this group of friends has been in each other's weddings and at baptisms and funerals. Sometimes these guys go awhile without talking, but when they get back together, it's like they haven't been apart. So this is tearing all of them apart. Not, mind you, that there is any question in their minds who's "side" they are on. I think the first reaction of some of them was "well, she just went and proved herself to be the bitch I always thought she was". I just hope this divorce doesn't get as ugly as it sounds like it could, but it seems to be heading that way right now. I just hope cooler head prevail.

Well, tomorrow is the annual, end of the year, Brownie picnic. Luckily the "stinking hot" weather has broken for the moment and we are back in the low to mid 70s that we are supposed to be in this time of year. Now, just so it doesn't rain.

Did you see the West Wing tonight? I was so sad they killed off Mrs. Landingham, but they gave her a wonderful send off. You know Bartlett is going to run again, don't you? He put his hands in his pockets, looked to the side and smiled, just like Mrs. Landingham said he did when he was a boy and came to a decision. However, I absolutely HATE when they do cliff-hangers like that. If I like a show, I am going to come back for the season premiere, you don't need to kill someone off and leave unanswered questions to get me to come back. Honest.

I went through like a good girl and snipped off all the strawberries and blossoms on my strawberry plants, just like Marcia, the recovering strawberry farm-girl recommended (thanks, Marcia, send me the therapy bill). She tells me by doing this, I will have larger strawberries next year. My flowers are doing very well, in fact, my flower bags are looking almost as good as the ones in Bachman's. Several of my tomato and pepper plants have blossoms on them and my peas are starting to climb. All and all, a good start to the growing season. It must mean a storm is coming to blow it all away. You think I joke. The last time I had a good start like this, that is exactly what happened. (It also took parts of the roof!) Well, my plants need some attention, so I should go, before I kill them from neglect. Then I will have traumatized Marcia for nothing (other than the pure sadistic joy of it, of course.) Speaking of sadistic joys, I went to lunch with Jodi today. She is always able to make me smile and laugh, even when I was bemoaning the saga. Well, I really really need to water my plants now, so Ciao!

Well, the boobs are back! (And the song goes through my head... "the boobs are back in town, the boobs are back in to-ow-ow-ow-own" - somehow, not what Thin Lizzy had in mind - though they might not be all that bothered by it. -- jd). In the lunchroom today, what started as a perfectly innocuous conversation regarding fashion lurched into Teton territory (And yes, Jodi was involved, but no concert from the girls). What started as a conversation regarding the poor fashion choices we had made in the '80s (our formative teenage years) ala prairie skirts and ruffled shirts (a bad fashion choice when you have broad shoulders and are not insignificantly endowed) degenerated rapidly.

Then we began discussing how at least our '80s fashions were not as appalling as some of the stuff we see teenagers where today. Like pants at half-mast so the wearer must walk like the Little Tramp so he doesn't completely lose his dignity. (Okay, I am using the work dignity rather loosely considering this person has his underwear showing.) Or bra straps showing, on purpose (a major faux paux in my day) (And a cheap thrill in mine - jd). Lori had made the amazing (at least to me) discovery that now they are selling bras with clear plastic straps, so one doesn't have to concern themselves with the strap poking out of your clothes (Lori has an 8th grade daughter). A brilliant idea, except for the fact that clear plastic straps sound sweaty and uncomfortable, but, as a teenager, that is not usually something you worry about when making clothing choices (No, we saved that for Saturday night. If we were lucky. -- jd). You doubt me, you try walking around with pants halfway down your ass and tell me how comfortable it is. The chaffing must be terrible (And the view's got nothing to commend it, either -- jd.).

This further lead to a discussion as to just how small they are making bras now. It seems they are actually making them for the grade school set. When I was in Wal-Mart over Easter vacation, they had a panty and pseudo-tank bra set in Rhiannon's size. She dearly wanted one, at which point her father completely lost his cool. No way was his 8 YEAR OLD DAUGHTER (the emphasis was his, believe me, I think they heard him in the hardware section at the other end of the store) was going to be parading around in a bra and panties!!! Now, Rhiannon didn't want them because it looked like a bra and panty set, she just wanted them because she thought they looked cool. They were pretty and flowered. Let the marketing begin.

Now when I started wearing bras, all there was was your basic white training bra, with a little bow or flower in the middle. Aw, how terribly cute and feminine. Gak. Now there is a term, training bra. What exactly are we supposed to be training here, the boobs? And what, pray tell, are we training them to do? Sit up and bark? Sing? Be perky? I dunno, but apparently my training bra failed miserable, 'cause gravity has been doing it's work on me just fine, thank you very much. Now that is where the conversation completely went to . . . well it went downhill from there. Let's just say the three women participating in the conversation were all in their early to mid thirties and have had children, so "perky" is just now how any of our body parts are going to be described. Even by our husbands. Then again, I never desired to be perky in anyway. I left that to the cheerleaders. I was in the band (and drama, can you tell, I'm a "drama queen").

Well, according to the most recent issue of Health magazine 6 percent of American men have an inflated opinion of themselves. It seems Trojan (yes, that Trojan) took a survey and found that 6% of American men thought condoms were too small. So, they are now producing the Magnum XL, a 30% larger condom. Now, your average condom will hold up to 4 gallons of air, so what's not large enough?! We're only talking on average a difference of what, a couple of inches or so between men? Family Health International muses that perhaps "the comfort with Magnums maybe more about mind than matter." Sheese, and they say men are better at spatial issues.

(ed - This would be one of those rare times I wish she were blonde. Then she'd understand air pressure. Four gallons of air, fine. Under what pressure? Were it four gallons of liquids, I'd be impressed - you can't compress liquids. But gasses? Heck yeah. Oh well. I shouldn't complain. Just call me "tiny" - jd.)

Thought for the day: Never sit at a window table when lunching with Jodi. She makes faces at the passers-by and frightens children by playing "see food".

For some reason, my children are intent on sucking up lately. I was reminding John last night that I had a hair appointment tonight at five, so I would be home late. Then Rhiannon says, "Oh Mommy, then you will be so beautiful." Not do be outdone in the sucking up department, Jack pipes in with "Mommy, I think you are beautiful NOW."

What do they want? Are they looking for cookies? Soda? Did they break something? All this sucking up makes me afraid to go in their room for fear of what I will find. You laugh and say I am overly suspicious. Don't let their angelic looks fool you, we were seriously considering Beelzebub and Asmodeus for baby names (I think Asmodeus is more feminine, don't you?) Hey, I don't refer to them as "demon spawn" for nothin' you know.

Okay, I think I am swearing watching any more season ending episodes of any show. West Wing killed off Mrs. Landingham. Charmed has a cliff hanger ending that makes it look like both Prue and Piper are dead, and ER killed off half of the population of Chicago. Sheese. I have had a feeling of impending doom since half-way through ER last night. Jeez. Then I made the mistake of letting my kids watch the last 20 minutes of Charmed. In the past, Charmed has always had the girls kick the butt of whatever demon and the last five minutes are domestic, sister kinda things.

Not last night. We got home from the Brownie picnic around 8:35 or so and I turned it on. Well, first they shoot Piper, but that is okay, because they got Tempest to reverse time (I won't even get into it, if you watch the show, you know, if you don't well, you know as much as you probably care to know) and then she wasn't dead anymore, but a demon comes flying out and throws both Prue and Piper out through a wall. The last scene shows them laying on the ground, bleeding, not looking very alive and Phoebe is trapped in the underworld. So, of course, my children had nightmares and both of them were in bed with me last night. And, of course, John wouldn't move over, so I had Jack on top of me and Rhiannon next to me. And no one to blame but myself 'cause I let them watch it. Man, whatever happened to happy endings?

I see from reading my husband's post he is intent on digging himself an early grave. As for his defamatory comments regarding my home state:

1. Iowa doesn't call every pothole a lake.
2. Iowa's school's consistently have higher test score's than Minnesota's.
3. Iowa has never elected a professional wrestler to any state office.
4. HE comes from a county that has a higher percentage of "inbreeding" than most of Appalachia.

From the Iowa Fish and Game Magazine:
Attention Visitors:
Iowa Tourism Council Bulletin: This list of rules will be handed to each person as they enter the state.

1. That slope-shouldered farm boy did more work before breakfast than you'll do all week at the gym. How'd you like to go home and tell your momma you got your butt kicked by a big guy in bib overalls?

2. It's called a 'gravel road.' No matter how slow you drive, you're going to get dust on your BMW. I have a four wheel drive because I need it. Drive it or get it out of the way.

3. We all started hunting and fishing when we were nine years old. Yeah, we saw Bambi. We got over it.

4. Any references to "corn fed" when talking about our women will get your butt kicked...by our women.

5. Go ahead and bring your $600 Orvis Fly Rod. Don't cry to us if a flathead breaks it off at the handle. We have a name for those little 13 inch trout you fish for...bait.

6. Pull your pants up. You look like an idiot.

7. If that cell phone rings while a bunch of mallards are making their final approach, we will shoot it. You might hope you don't have it up to your ear at the time.

8. That's right. Whiskey is only two bucks. We can buy a fifth for what you paid in the airport.

9. The Hawkeyes and the Cyclones are as important here as the Lakers and the Knicks...and a dang sight more fun to watch.

10. No, there's no "Vegetarian Special" on the menu. Order steak. Order it rare. Or, you can order the Chef's Salad and pick off the two pounds of ham and turkey. Yeah, we have sweet tea. It comes in a glass with two packets of sugar and a long spoon. Complain, and we'll kick you butt.

11. You bring Coke into my house, it better be brown, wet, and served over ice.

12. So you have a sixty thousand dollar car. We're real impressed. We have quarter of a million dollar combines that we use two weeks a year.

13. Let's get this straight. We have one stoplight in town. We stop when it's red. We may even stop when it's yellow. Honk, and we'll kick your butt.

14. They are pigs. That's what they smell like. Get over it. Don't like it? Interstate 80 goes two ways-35 goes the other two. Pick one. Fast.

15. The "Opener" refers to the first day of pheasant season. It's a religious holiday held the closest Saturday to the first of November. You can get breakfast at the church.

16. So every person in every pickup waves. It's called being friendly. Understand the concept or we'll kick your butt.

Now, enjoy your visit and then go home..

Now, you'll have to excuse me, I have some butt-kickin' to do. Bend over, honey...

If you ever read the comics pages in the newspaper, you probably have seen the comic Baby Blues. The family in the strip has 2 kids, a girl and a boy, roughly the same ages as mine. Two of the strips this week struck rather close to home. The first one this week showed the girl walking into the room where her younger brother is happily playing and she says "If you ever happen to walk in on Mommy in the bathroom, keep your comments to yourself." A voice comes out of the bathroom saying ". . . And they're not racing strips, their called stretch marks!" Personally, I like the idea of calling them racing stripes, it sounds so much sportier, like I meant for them to be there. Not because my tummy went through alternating periods of big and not so big. (Okay, I'd really prefer to say "small" here, but honesty {and photographic evidence} prevents me, I think God would smite me for that big of a lie. Speaking of that, just what does it mean to be smitten {or would that be smote}? Is it the pillar of salt thing? I've always wondered. John used to have this great teeshirt that showed a man in robes with flowing grey hair and beard sitting at a keyboard with a "smite" key. Would control-alt-smite cause the world to reboot? Was that what caused the flood?) Man, am I doing a major stream of consciousness thing here tonight or what?

Anyway, the other comic this week showed the little girl in her bedroom, singing and playing and generally raising a ruckus. Then you see her bleary-eyed father walk in the room and she looks innocently up at him and says "Gee, you can't sleep either?" That would be my son. Only he comes into my bedroom. Someday I expect him to walk up, pull up an eye lid and ask if I'm awake.

Now, it has come to my attention that my husband has again disparaged me on his page. My plants and my highlights are not dipping into his computer money. First of all, the plants (some of which he picked out for himself) were purchased before he mentioned he wanted some thingamajig for one of his many computers that sit around cluttering up the hallway/living area of our small cramped overflowing two bedroom apartment. Second of all, I consulted him before I made the appointment and he said no problem about getting my hair done. Yes, it was $25 more than expected. In our family, monetary expenditures of more than $20 require consultation with your partner and a long talk with Mr. Finances, who has been known to guffaw loudly or spit at humble requests for use of his reserves (yes, I suppose you could say that Mr. Finances is the name of one of the voices in my head, but he seems to live in John's too. Is it possible for us to have split personalities on the budget plan, we can't afford to have our own separate personalities, so we share them?) Anyway, my whole point would be . . . oh damn, I lost my point. If you find it, let me know, would ya?

Took the kids downtown Minneapolis today to the planetarium. They really enjoyed it, although Jack had a little trouble sitting still. And they both were a little put off by just how dark it got in there. You figure, they are city kids, dark to them is when they can't see what color stuff is. Not being able to see the hand in front of their face was more than a little disconcerting.

After the 1pm show, we walked around downtown Minneapolis' Nicollet Mall. Now, if you ever watched the Mary Tyler Moore show, you've seen Nicollet Mall (at least how it appeared 30 years ago). Nicollet Mall is where Mary was when she threw her hat into the air at the end of the opening credits. It is a shopping and business area. We wandered around the City Center Mall and ended up buying the kids shoes (yes, Marcia, shoes). They each got a pair of new tennies and a pair of sandals. Alas, Mom didn't see much for sandals for herself, so I still stand at about 8 pairs of shoes.

After that, we did that favorite family outing, grocery shopping. We haven't done a big run in quite awhile, what with vacation in Iowa and going every week there for awhile when our paydays were calibrated that way. So, this took a couple of hours (and a little cash outlay.) Then we came home. I had let the kids pick out frozen meals for their dinner, I had a lovely vegetarian stir fry with teriyaki noodles, and John made some chicken patty sandwiches. All and all, a tiring day. Right now, John is vegging on the couch playing with the remote, the kids are sleeping soundly (and hopefully will stay that way) and I, for once, have custody of the computer.

It appears Mr. Kershner was in a quandary this week regarding his wife's purchase of a futon. She wanted it, as she put it, so her family would have someplace to sleep when they visit. My mental image of this phone conversation is of Jim, doing one of those Carson-like stares with a thought bubble above his head saying ". . . and if I say no and they have no place to sleep, will they stay home?" Sad news, sir. If you hadn't gotten the futon, they would just sleep in your bed. Then again, they still might and put you out on the futon. Better make sure it is comfy. Then again, maybe Kathy figured it was a good place for you to sleep when you don't mind like you should and do your chores around the yard. Hehehehehehehehehe.

Oh, well, time for me to go to bed before I get myself into trouble. Nighty-night.

It has been an . . . enlightening day. Took the kids to the Minnesota Air National Guard museum so they (and I include John in the category of kids for this purpose. You doubt, check his site) could climb all over the air planes. It was open cockpit day. But first, we had to find it (it's like an Easter Egg, ya' gotta find it - sorry, flashbacks to a younger, more alcohol-laced period in my life, I'll tell ya' the story later.)

Anyway, first we pull up to the Air Force Reserve Guardhouse, where the nice boy in fatigues with the large sidearm kindly directed us to the Air National Guard. Got there and another nice boy, this time with a smaller sidearm, gave us a pass to get onto their base. I think John was antsier than the kids as we drove slowly (hey, those nice boys carried guns, who knows how seriously they take their speed limits?) toward the planes. Ahh, then they saw them. John was like a kid in a candy store. 'Course so were the kids. They all dashed off in the drizzle towards the planes. We climbed inside countless planes and helicopters. The kids (all three of them) got to sit at the controls. It was like one of those Visa commercials (Bull-whips to get everyone moving in unison out the door, $20, gas to get to the airbase, $1.67 a gallon, your husband acting like a 10 year old, frolicking among the combat fighters, PRICELESS.

	This is your captain and no, I am not old enough to drive, but this is a plane, not a car so sit down, shut up and enjoy your flight and let the flight attendant refresh your vodka.
	This pilot definitely does NOT inspire confidence, he isn't even looking where he is going!!! That and there is a distinct maniacal gleam in his eye. Hmmm. . . how many parachutes are on board?
	Daddy is not exactly waiting patiently for his turn. "I wanna play now!!!"
	I think I could hear him making vroom vroom noises from the cockpit. Or was he humming the Top Gun anthem?

These are very big planes and they make my children look very small.
	My daughter looks alarmed at the fact that her brother is in the pilot's seat. Smart girl, she gets that from her mother.

The enlightening part of my day came this evening, when John checked out Debbie's site. For those of you who have been following the story of Kaycee, this may come as a shock. Debbie admitted today that, although there was a Kaycee, some of the writings, (my guess is it is the later ones, perhaps the trip to Florida? But this is only a guess on my part here) were a merging of three different women who suffered from leukemia, breast cancer, and liver cancer, respectively. The woman who called herself Kaycee died of an aneurysm (a common complication of leukemia, I am told) and the any pictures on the site are of her. Debbie was not her mother, but loved her like one. I know John is left feeling very betrayed. It has not been a good week around our house, what with the divorce saga, and his job uncertainty and all, and this was kinda the last straw. I tried to explain to him that, from reading Debbie's site and Randy's site, I really don't think she meant any harm. I think perhaps she was trying to cope with the loss of someone she loved and, perhaps (again my conjecture) finish a journey that she felt her lost loved ones wanted completed. If you want a more complete picture or if you were feeling invested in Kaycee's story, please read their sites. (I'm not sure how much longer Debbie's will be up, as Randy has said he is bringing it down, so I will also remove my links after this week.) And please, try not to judge Debbie, I think she could still use our prayers and our forgiveness.

Had Jack in my bed again last night. On the advice of a friend, I tried giving him some chamomile tea before bedtime. No dice, he didn't care for it (nor did his sister, who absolutely must have whatever her brother has). We will try it iced tomorrow and see how that works.

Well, tomorrow is the last swimming lesson for this session and my WW weigh-in. Part of the week I did really good and part of the week was not so good (basically as more and more crap happened, the more poorly I dealt with it) so it is time to pay the piper and hope the good outweighs (or under-weighs) the bad. Night-night. What's that? Oh yes, I promised you the story of the "Easter Egg". Well, if I tell you, you have to promise you will go right to sleep, it's getting late, you know.

You see, back in my younger days, we had lots of parties. And yes, some alcohol was involved in these parties. Anyway, one fine summer evening, a friend of mine was hosting an all night party at a lake house his family had, so my friend, Leeann, parked her trusty little car at my house and we are carpooled over to the lakehouse. I will skip to the next day, you really don't want the gory details of the party, now do you? You do? Well, maybe some other time, I'm not sure the statute of limitations has expired yet. Anyway, a few friends of mine and I made it back to my house late the next morning, and before we crashed, decided to hide Leeann's car (we had a big yard). I popped it into gear (it was one of those older models that didn't need the key in the ignition to put the car into neutral) and Mikey and I pushed it into the back yard, where it sat, nestled picturesquely under a large oak tree. Aahh, I wish I had a picture. Late that afternoon, Leeann, Rich, and Mikey arrived at my house so Leeann could pick up her car. I come out to greet them and Leeann squeals "Where's my car?!" At that moment, Mikey grins (he had a really cute grin) and utters, with a lilt in his voice, that memorable line, "It's like an Easter Egg, ya' gotta find it!" To this day I am not sure if her laughter had a bit of hysteria to it or not. She found her car, but Rich had to drive it around front. Not long after that, Rich and Leeann broke up and I don't recall if I ever saw much of Leeann after that or not. Hmmmm. . . coincidence?

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Copyright © 2001 Ann Dominik. All rights reserved. Complaints about the technical details of this page can be directed to the abused geek who takes care of it for me, and is grossly underpaid for what he does, he thinks. No reproduction without written permission. The opinions and content of this site are my own, and not the responsibility of this site's host, my employer, my pets, my parents or anyone else you may care to blame. Please respect my opinions and I will do the same for you. I may on occasion publish e-mail to me; if you do not wish your mail to be published, please write CONFIDENTIAL or DO NOT PUBLISH at the top of the e-mail. If you would prefer to remain anonymous, please note that as well. If you're incapable of reasoned civilized discourse but feel compelled to correspond with me, I'll be happy to filter your mail out after a few choice comments regarding your ancestors, upbringing, and the likelihood of your family tree not forking in the past several generations. And thank you for checking out THE FLIP SIDE.