FlipSide:Starting June 4th, 2001

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

Last Updated : unday, June 10, 2001 11:40:13 PM -0500

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Monday, June 4, 2001

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My son has developed a taste for trashy blondes. How do I know this? When sent to his room to put on his pajamas tonight, he went singing "What a boy wants, what a boy needs . . . " Oh my God, he's singing Christina Aquilera songs, and showing frightening familiarity with the song. Enough to know to change the word "girl" in the song to "boy". Hence the taste for trashy blondes. Perhaps he is intrigued by the belly button ring. If he is intrigued by belly button rings at 4, what, pray tell, will he be intrigued by at 15. I can hear the angry fathers pounding on my door now. Then, my daughter, my sweet little girl, looks me in the eye and says (with a smile) "Eat me, I'm a Brownie!" I have no words. Apparently more parental supervision of my children's free time is in order. I blame John for this, I certainly don't have a taste for trashy blondes. It must be his genes. Luckily, his taste in women has improved greatly. He has moved up to smart-mouthed redheads.

The CEO of our office won the DFL (Democrat Farmer Labor for those of you unfamiliar with Minnesota's twisted political climate) convention for St. Paul mayor. Now, he gets to campaign for the primary in September. There is no Republican opposition and just one Independent. If he makes it through the primary, and St. Paul is a very DFL town, so as the endorsed candidate, he should, he is pretty much assured a win (as much as you are assured anything in politics.) Always good to add another connection.

I swear to God my son lives to test his limits. The child will look me in the eye and contradict me. I will tell him the sky is blue and he will be adamant that it is green. (Of course, he does not have a monopoly on this behavior, his sister is quite good at doing the same thing.)

Okay, television has hit a new all-time low (soon to be topped, I'm sure.) NBC has a new show called Fear Factor. The whole point of this new reality/game show is that people will have to confront their greatest fear (i.e. you fear snakes, so you are buried in the dirt with snakes on top of you.) Yeesh. And people not only willing do this for money, they go on national TV to do it. Good God. What is this world coming to.

Tuesday, June 5, 2001

Apparently my husband was robbed. Don't ask me how the topic came up in conversation, 'cause I really am not sure. However, Alicia was telling me about her brother-in-law's upcoming nuptials. He made the completely asinine comment to his brother (Alicia's husband) that "he can go home and get it anytime he wanted it." Brian asked him just what planet he was living on. "She has to," he explained, "it's in the contract."

Apparently there is a clause in some of the marriage preparation worksheets in use that states that the wife agrees to "normal natural marital relations" with her husband "at his request". What ho?! And this is based on what in the Bible? I don't recall any passage in the Bible that basically says "Lay down, bitch" (or would that be "Layth down, bitch"). Upon some thought, Alicia says she signed the same contract, but she looked her beloved in the eye and said "Just try and enforce it." Brian, being no fool, after all, he has been married to an Italian woman for 13 years, agreed most heartily with his wife. Good thing I didn't get married in St. Cloud. I signed no such contract, or you can be sure I would have been made aware of it's existence long before this. (My husband, the recovering altar-boy, was very quick to point out the part of the Bible that admonishes wives to "be subservient" to their husbands. "You think they didn't mean sex?" he asked. After a look from me, he rapidly added that he didn't subscribe to the belief, "just quoting" sayth the man.)

Speaking of my husband, he greatly amused me last night. We were lying in bed, around 11 pm or so. I was reading my book and he was sleeping. Snoring, as a matter of fact. But I am used to the noises my husband makes and paid no attention. Then I heard a noise I couldn't identify. It sounded like a baby when they purse their lips and make little bubbles. I looked over at my husband, and sure enough, there he was, laying on his back, pursed lips and all, making spit bubbles in his sleep. I tried not to wake him by giggling too loudly. I needn't have worried. He woke himself by spitting all over his face. He kinda mumbled, wiped his face and rolled over. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. If he does it again, I'll take a picture. Strictly for research, you understand.

Luckily tonight Jack has not sung any more songs of questionable taste by women of dubious integrity and Rhiannon has made no references to herself as edible treats, so I consider the day a success.

Wednesday, June 6, 2001

Image yourself in a room full of actuaries for 4 hours discussing underlying frequency, ULAE (unallocated loss adjustment expense {aren't you glad I cleared that one up}), lifetime medical costs, multiclaimant occurrences, and fatality benefits. And that was the better part of my day. Today was the actuarial committee meeting to discuss preliminary pricing indications for 2002 (actuaries are a precise bunch) for which I have been preparing for the better part of 2 months. We all meet again in about 5 weeks to go through the final numbers. Sigh.

At first, I thought my day was made when the most argumentative committee member (who had a particular axe to grind this time and was probably going to use my committee to grind it in) called to say his flight from Chicago was cancelled and could he teleconference in. No problem, I said. I went around the office singing "ding dong the witch is dead, de da da da, de da da da". I rejoiced too soon. When my boss got in, he called her and wanted us to change the agenda to accommodate his new schedule. When that was not possible, he then wanted to be able to call in and out of the teleconference. Since there was another person teleconferencing in, this was not going to work on our Star Trek phone (hey, it looks like something from the old series with it's vaguely star shape and it's dulcet tones, "Scanning for life signs, captain. . .". But I digress . . .) So I figured I would set up an AT&T conference call, where he could call in and out with a minimum of disruption to the committee and no help from me. However, considering we would have to book it for 5 hours to make sure we wouldn't lose the line in the middle of the meeting, the cost was prohibitive to say the least, especially considering this committee member may not even be in the meeting for even half that time. So, at the suggestion of our HR Director, we hauled out another speaker phone (the Charlie's Angels "squawk box" type) and had the committee member call into our switchboard and be transferred in whenever he was available. Then, he proceeded to complain he couldn't hear. After much messing around, we solved that problem, he was happy for all of (literally) 3 minutes and he hung up. Since it took me a while to get all this set up, I was off my game the rest of the day. Luckily the rest of the meeting when smoothly and the committee was very appreciative of the effort I and the rest of the actuarial staff went through.

Ah, well, as they say, "Shake it off, baby". As many of you are no doubt aware, John and I did not post last night. We were having connectivity issues (as he would say). My explanation, the internet gods did not feel we had done the proper sacrifice, so we were not allowed to log on. (Yesterday's posts went up about 6:30 tonight, while my daughter was complaining that she was doing all the chores {putting away your clean clothes is such an onerous job} and I was just playing on the computer. Apparently I am supposed to do her chores or at least help her do her chores or I am lazy. Making her supper doesn't count, cleaning up after her in the bathroom doesn't count . . . okay okay, shake it off . . .)

It must be summer. I find myself watching a Bravo Profile of RuPaul. You know, the 7 foot tall black drag queen. I find him really really funny. John does too, but RuPaul makes him a little, well, queasy, I think. So far, there have been 2 absolutely wonderfully quotable lines. One, by RuPaul himself, "Your born naked and the rest is a drag". The other is Pamela Lee, queen of dumb trashy blondes, who said "I am a female drag queen". Okay, Pamela. Just put your hands up and move slowly to the dictionary.

Well, I still need to wash my hair and water my plants (assuming they have dried out from the previous days all day rain. Some day we will get summer. Unless, God forbid, our summer consisted of the 2 days of high 90s about 3 weeks ago. Oh my God, does that mean this is fall?!

Thursday, June 7, 2001

I have been informed I have "smurf turf" on my deck. I hate smurfs. You know, though, it does give me some small pleasure to think of thinly sliced smurfs carpeting my deck.

John has a new nickname. After reading my site today, Jodi has dubbed him "Mr. Bubble". I must admit, John is not overly thrilled with his new moniker. However, I think he would have to admit it beats "Goldie".

I had an interesting conversation on line today. John and I were having an email conversation back and forth, prompted by the single Mr. Doucette, regarding the relative pros and cons of marriage. I made the point that, statistically, married men live longer than single men. (Probably because of better nutrition. Or because single men have to eat their own cooking.) Married women don't fare as well, dying, on average, younger than their single friends. Except in my family. In my family, the women outlive the men (they stay up later too). My late grandmother, my mother, and my aunt all are widows. For some reason, this didn't persuade John that marriage is beneficial to men. In fact, he made some mumbled comment about sleeping without pillows . . .

A crime has been committed in my office. Yesterday, we had 2/3rds of platter of sub sandwiches left over from the lunch I fed the actuaries yesterday. Only a few people knew they were there, along with the left over 12 pack+ of soda pop. This morning, 3 sandwiches and 4 cans of soda remained. My initial thought was some staff members took a few home for dinner. But, those staff members who knew they were there came to ask me where the sandwiches were as they were going to eat them for breakfast. Curious. It gradually became clear that the janitors had had a picnic at our expense last night. Now, I can understand a janitor helping themselves to a candy bowl. After all it is in plain site. But to walk in, open the refrigerator and help yourself?! The building management was called. The Kmart cops came up, opened the refrigerator (what were they looking for, a signed confession?) milled about trying to look efficient and like they knew what they were doing, were rude to staff and finally left. Gee, so glad we called them. I suspect the cleaning crew, or whoever took the sandwiches, will find life rather uncomfortable when they come into work tonight.

Wow! A whole week has gone by and no complaints from the Hulkster (at least that have been communicated to us). Guess that case is closed. If he does complain, the office is going to tell him it is his turn to spend some from money. Speaking of which, I should go out and water my plants. It was warm and humid today, so I bet they are thirsty. Ciao, baby!

Friday, June 8, 2001

It's Friday, the sun is shining and the temperature is in the mid-70s. Looks like we will have a nice weekend for a change. Maybe if we can get the kids outside, things will be easier. Jack is becoming destructive. Tonight, when he was sent to his room for not cleaning up (yes, for the third day in a row) he ended up knocking clothes from their hangers, pulling shirts out of drawers (just one or two, apparently the kid is trying for subtlety) and, to complete that junk yard look, he poked holes in the screen with the piece of wood we use to hold up the window so it doesn't slip shut. Unlike his sister who throws herself on her bed in a storm of tears, then pouts when sent to her room, Jack always finds something to occupy himself. Usually something you would rather he didn't do. Most of the behavior is, I think, just a way to occupy himself, but I suspect that some of the destructive behavior is getting back at me for sending him to his room. I am at a loss as to what to do about it, other than punish him when I find the mess and express my disapproval. He doesn't like disapproval and always tries to charm his way back into my good graces.

So, the news is all full of reports about the upcoming execution of Timothy McVeigh. I am of such mixed feelings about this. Under normal circumstances I am . . . uncomfortable with the death penalty. In a small part on moral grounds, but mostly because of our flawed judicial system. Taken as a whole, our judicial system works very well, but when it comes to the death penalty, it is flawed. Or maybe, it is just the finality of it. We can set a man with a life sentence without parole free if evidence is produced that he is innocent. You can't resurrect an executed man. What do you say, "Oops?" "We'll get 'em next time?" Then, there's the fact that the majority of people on death row are poor minority men. You can't tell me that middle class and wealthy people don't commit capital crimes, they just an afford better legal representation. (And yes, I know they get years worth of appeals.) My main concern has been the number of cases where a person on death row has been released because new evidence comes to light, proving that they were innocent of the crime that put them on death row.

However, Timothy McVeigh does not fit this profile. He had a very good defense, he is not poor, he chose to end his appeals, and, in the recent book he cooperated with, he admits blowing up the Murrah Federal Building and even attempts to explain why he perpetrated such a heinous crime. I remember very clearly being home alone that evening, feeding Rhiannon, who was a little over a year old, watching the news as they pulled the bodies of babies from the rubble, tears streaming down my face. Rhiannon would look from the screen to me and back. The next day, she screamed and I cried as I left her at daycare. Timothy McVeigh had managed to rob my year old daughter of her feeling of safety and security, and for that alone there is a special place in hell for him. Upon talking to other mothers in the days and weeks afterwards, most of them had the same problems leaving their children.

But, despite all this, I can't feel good about taking this man's life. I really believe that, had my child been in that daycare, although I would hate him with a passion that I can't even begin to fathom, I would not want to witness his execution. I don't believe it would help ease my pain. Now, would I personally want to tear his still beating heart out of his chest with a letter opener and a rusty spoon? Sure. A normal human emotion. But I would like to believe that, when push came to shove, I would be able to remember my child and try to forget the monster that killed her. After all, isn't that what Tim McVeigh really wants, to be remembered. We should just let him pass away in anonymity and remember the victims.

Let's see if I can manage to lighten this up a little bit. Um, okay, here goes. Today, Jodi informed me that Mr. Saturday Night is allergic to cats. I don't know where it came from, and I am terribly ashamed and embarrassed, but I blurted out "What, did you say your boyfriend is allergic to ... ?" I know, I know, it's horrible and I am so ashamed. In fact, I don't even like that word. It ranks right up there with, well, let's just say it is another vulgarity referring to female anatomy. But, I was rewarded with Judy's head swiveling like it was going to come off, laughing, and Jodi prostrating herself on the front counter, giggling hysterically. Good thing no one chose that moment to come into the office or call on the phone. What a wonderfully professional office image we would have made, three women, leaning against various furniture, laughing hysterically. All I can say in my defense is it has been a very tiring and stressful week.

Speaking of laughter, have you ever noticed that everyone has their own characteristic laughs? It goes through stages, depending on how amused the person is. John starts with guffaws, works his way into chuckles, and when really amused, into a true belly laugh. Rhiannon giggles, then chuckles, until she peaks with more hysterical giggles. Then there's Jack. Jack giggles his way up to shrieks, then goes to silent laughter, and finally, snorts. I am sad to say, the silent laughter and snorts come from me. That's right, my name is Ann and I snort when I laugh. Just like a pig. Kinda changes your image of me, doesn't it.

Saturday, June 9, 2001

Today was a different kind of day for us. John and I went our separate ways, something we really don't do all that much. John went up to Lino Lakes (we're talking about 80 miles round trip, on the polar opposite side of the 'Cities) to be with his friend who is going through a divorce. You see, today he had to finish cleaning out his dream house that he and his soon to be ex wife built. They just moved into it in 2000. Now, with the divorce and setting up 2 households, he just can't afford it, so he has put it up for sale. While they were cleaning off the deck, John looked down and saw five sets of hand/foot prints set in cement. A print for each kid and mom and dad. It's just so sad.

Anyway, that left me to entertain the kids. Alone. So, what's a mom to do to entertain (and tire out) her kids when she has very limited funds (like a single five dollar bill)? When you have a zoo membership, you head to the zoo! The Minnesota Zoo has a Meerkat exhibit through Labor Day (you know the Timon half of Timon & Puumba from the Lion King) and the kids were anxious to see it. Since the weather was beautiful, we didn't even see most of the indoor exhibits. We walked around the acres upon acres of outdoor exhibits. Rhiannon wanted to visit the family farm exhibit. So, we head off to the Wells Fargo Family Farm. This exhibit brings home to me the fact that I am raising "City Kids". Now, although I didn't grow up on a farm, I did grow up in a rural area. My kids were fascinated by the cows, pigs, and goats on what was, essentially, a working farm. They were also repulsed by the smell. And amazed to actually see milk that didn't come out of a plastic milk jug.

Then we came home and had spaghetti for supper (kids love Mom's sauce, Dad is repulsed by the chunks of vegetables in it). Then John came home and told me about his day. Seems his friend apologized to him for not being in more contact with him over the past few years. He didn't feel his wife (now ex) was comfortable. However, I know better (and John told him as well) that it wasn't her not liking John, it was her not liking me. His friend agreed with that assessment. But it seems they have reconnected and will be seeing more of each other.

Some storms are supposed to be rolling in tonight and off and on tomorrow. Hopefully it won't ruin any outdoor plans we may have (okay, so we have no plans made yet, but my goal is always to get outside and MOVE).

Well, sorry for the mundane post, but my life is pretty mundane right now. Let's just hope John's job situation resolves itself, he gets a severance agreement that is a house downpayment, and, well, I don't know, as long as we are hoping for big things, let's hope his new job is a 30 percent raise from his current. And there'll be pork in the treetops by morning.

Nighty-night.

Sunday, June 10, 2001

It's five o'clock and my entire family is asleep. Ahhh, silence. Earlier today we took the kids to a park to play, but it was so humid they didn't have much energy. So after a while, I though we could go to McDonald's and have ice cream and they could play in the playland. Since Rhiannon had sandals on, we needed to go home for socks for her first. John decided he needed a little . . . ahem . . . delay for body function reasons, so asked the kids if they would like to swim first, then go out for ice cream after supper. Rhiannon pitched such a whirling hissy fit in the back seat that she got sent to her room when we got home. So much for that for more activity. That is why, right now, as I write, John and Jack are curled up on the couch together like a couple of sweaty snuggle bunnies and Rhiannon is out cold on her bed.

And I spent my peaceful afternoon (from 3 to 5 pm) planting the last of my flowers and then reading on my deck. There is something very peaceful about sitting in my deck jungle carpeted (even if it is carpeted with "smurf-turf").

Ohoh, the natives are stirring, guess I am going to have to feed them. Maybe we will still go for ice cream. We'll see. Now to decide what to feed them on this humid day . . .

And the beat goes on . . .

Well, the kids got their ice cream, so everyone was happy, for a while.

John and I got to talking about the topic of relationships today. Probably prompted by the failure of his friend's marriage. John and I were friends before we ever started dating and we remain friends today. We are each other's best friend and generally each other's first choice of companion for some escapade or another. A good basis for a marriage, I think. We then started talking about old friends, some that we haven't seen in years. Friendships ebb and flow over a lifetime. Some of the people who were of the greatest importance to me when I was 17 I don't even have a phone number for. Or, if I do occasionally talk to them, we find we don't have anything in common anymore. Friendships sometimes fill a specific need you have in your life at that time. Once that need is no longer there, the friendship goes too. It's not that I had words or a "falling out" with these people, we just went on with our lives.

Then there are other friends. The ones that I had when I was 17 or 21 or whatever and I still have. I may not talk to them daily like I once did, but when I do, we pick up right where we left off. In most cases, we have similar values, priorities, and are at similar stages in our lives. I really can't tell you why I still talk to Jean and Kari and Julie and Amy and Pammy and not to Rich or Sharla or Laura or Andi or Carla or Mike. (Okay, so I do know why I don't talk to Mike.) There doesn't seem to be a defining factor, no common denominator between those I see and those I don't. All I know is they all were and are my friends, just some aren't in my life right now. Who knows, in the future, maybe they will again be that special touchstone in my life. Just right now.

I'll leave you tonight with some food for thought. I heard an interesting quote from a commencement address by Al Roker this weekend. It was funny, yet poignant, having that certain ring of truth to it.

You will become your parents. So save the money you would have spent on therapy and buy a really nice home theatre system with DVD and a plasma video screen.

(So, honey, with Father's Day coming up, uh, should I start a list? Or rely on your own best judgment on the size of the hard drives and speed of the processor? -- jd. ;-)

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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