FlipSide:Starting July 23, 2001

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

Well, I've had my mind blown for the day. At work, we were discussing the fact that George Harrison may or may not, dying of cancer, depending on who you believe. (Yes, I do do actual work at my office, it is just boring to write about. Do you really want me to talk about pricing workers' compensation reinsurance? I didn't think so.) At 58 years old, he is the youngest Beatle by about 2 years. Paul and John were about 2 years older. so they would be about 60, and Ringo about 64. Yoko was older than John by about 8 years or so, so she would be in her mid to late 60s. My mother is 70. She is of the same generation as the Beatles. My mother is less than 10 years older than Ringo. OH MY GOD! Somehow, my mother and the Beatles just never seemed to be from the same planet, let alone in the same peer group.

Then, there's Jodi. After reading my post of yesterday, she spent her front desk time today searching out pictures of insects and emailing them to me. Nice, huh? Apparently I need to be more careful in publishing my phobias. Thanks so very much, as if I weren't messed up enough, now Jodi is trying intensify my irrational fears. Hell, I think she's trying to create a few more neuroses in me. Like I don't have enough of them. Then she is picking on my son, asking if he has 2 left feet or two right feet. Sniff. Picking on my poor defenseless son. (Hey, people reading me for the first time might buy that my son (aka Major Damage) is defenseless! Just 'cause you know better doesn't mean you can snigger!)

John has written a more complete account of our trip, so I will leave it to him to let you know all the things we did this weekend. The water park was fun, though. However, waterslides are not made to accommodate 34 year old large busted women. The more weight you have, the faster you go down that damn slide. Every time I hit the water with a splash, landing several feet away from the end of the slide, sputtering and getting re-oriented. And then I went and got back on. I just can't be taught, I guess. Glutton for punishment. Fun though.

First of all, I had it pointed out by the ever-vigilant (and apparently font of all useful information) Mr. Thompson that George is not the youngest Beatle, merely behind the others in school by one year. Bob, have you ever considered a career as a fact-checker for the Encyclopedia Brittanica? However, my point still stands, my mother is way to close in age to the Beatles for my comfort level.

Jodi has continued in her quest to drive me into a bug-induced trauma by continuing to send me pictures of bugs and has suggested a inflatable sumo-wrestling suit for my son's protection.

I have spent some time today looking at houses in small towns near the Twin Cities metro on the internet. Prices in Northfield and Faribault are much cheaper than in the City. However, they would put us another 1/2 hour out. Hmmm . . . as much as I would like a Victorian style house for (what passes for) a reasonable price, I'm not sure an extra 1/2 hour's drive time is worth it. Plus I believe we would be out of the metro calling area (which takes some doing up here, we have the largest local calling area in the country). We will have to discuss this.

Today our household was slowly beginning to funtion more normally. (Perhaps we will actually have a real dinner tonight instead of what-can-I-grab night around the TV.) We were only a little late this morning, resulting in John taking the kids to daycare. Since I have spoken to John today, I think I can safely assume that all three of them survived the experience intact. I think daycare would have called me if that weren't the case. Besides, John would have 'fessed up had he done some harm. He knows I would notice if one of the kids were missing. I have found that when I am tired, I am unable to resist temptation. Especially the temptation of peanut butter cups. Remember the old Frito Lay's tag line, "Bet ya' can't eat just one"? It also applies to mini peanut butter cups. It is unfortunate, as I was doing really well in my eating. I need to get myself motivated again.

Everytime I made a stride forward in the sleep department, something conspires to send me about 2 steps back. Last night, the conspiree was Jack. About 4 am, Jack came into the bedroom and in a very sad sleepy little voice said "Mama, I'm wet." (Now, explain to me why my husband, who can hear his computer reboot at 2 am, can't hear a forlorn child at his bedside? Is it something on the X chromosome that men don't have?) Considering I was sleeping pretty soundly, it took me a few moments to sythesize this information, not to mention to get my eyes to blink in unison and recognize the blur beside my bed as my son. So Jack rephrases, "Mama, I had an accident." "Okay", I tell him, now that my brain is functioning enough for me to be capable of speech, "go back to your room and put on a dry shirt and underwear." So, he trots out. I slowly, oh so slowly, pull my sorry butt out of bed and drag it into his bedroom. "Jack, did you make it out of bed before you had your accident?" He just looks mournfully at me, not awake enough to even be able to negociate his way out of his wet clothes, let alone answer a question. By this time, I am functioning at a high enough level to be able to go to the bed and feel (and smell). At first I only find a damp spot by the edge. Oh good, I think, maybe I can get away with just a towel covering the damp spot and deal with this tomorrow. But, you know, the smell seems a little strong for that. Unfortunately, I found the big wet spot. Sopping wet. So I proceed to strip the sheet and mattress pad from the pad. I finally get the bed put back together, Jack in some dry clothes and back to my bed. And my clock tells me alarms will start going off in an hour. Some days it just doesn't pay.

Well, apparently someone is looking out for me today. Despite my daughter doing her level best to make sure I miss any and all buses going north today, I actually made my normal 7:20 bus. (Of course, it helped that said bus didn't show up until 7:25 and it takes 10 minutes to load.) Explain to me how my daughter can get out of bed before most everyone in the household and be the absolute last one dressed and ready to leave. Now that, my friends, is the art of putzing. She is the Queen of Putz. She has learned it at her grandmother's knee. My mother can putz like no one I know (except, of course for my daughter). Okay, John can be a putz too, but with him, it tends to be an occaissional, computer related thing. With Rhiannon, it is a high art. My mother, however, has raised it to a science. She can take any 10 minute project, like going to the grocery store to buy milk, and turn it into a full 2 hour production. And the grocery store is only 3 minutes from her apartment. If there is traffic. You doubt me? Allow me to explain. First, she must change her clothes. It doesn't matter that what she has been wearing around the house is perfectly presentable, she must be wearing leaving-the-house clothes. Then, she must put on another coat of powder and lipstick (most likely her third or fourth of the day, as she is always leaving the house to go somewhere). Then, she must locate her stamp sheets, as milk is always on sale with her frequent shopper stamp sheets. Then she needs to sit down to put on her shoes. Then she realizes, after a bit, that the shoes by her chair are not the right shoes, so she has to go get her everyday-leaving-the-house shoes (not to be confused with her more-dressy-leaving-the-house-shoes or her going-to-church shoes.) After locating her purse, she is finally prepared to leave the apartment. She finally gets to the car and drives to the store. As she knows everyone in town, she must talk to a few people in the parking lot. Then, after she enters the store, she has to run by the deli to see if her friend Kathy is working. "Oh, the deli makes such good (whatever), so I need to pick up some of that for dinner. And, you know, I also need this and this and this and this." She makes her way through the store, checks out, chats with the check-out girl for a while, has the groceries carried to her car by the carry-out boy who is my cousin who I used to babysit but he doesn't remember me but she updates him on my life and her grandchildren anyway. Drives home, unloads the groceries. Realizes she forgot the milk. Goes back for the milk. Chats some more with a neighbor she hasn't seen in a while. Comes home, unloads the milk. Changes back into her in-house clothes, sits back in her chair and takes a snooze. This is where Rhiannon gets it.

Today would be my father's birthday. He would have been 71. My dad's birthday was always around fair time, the most stinkin' hot time of the year. The traveling carnival comes to Maquoketa the last week of July every year. It starts on a Wednesday with the Fair Parade. It was the social event of our summer season. We would all load up in the car and head to my grandparent's house, which was just a couple blocks off the parade route. We would park at Grandma's and carry our lawn chairs to Main street, just downhill from the Junior High School to watch the parade, always at the same spot, just up from Maple Street. My dad would join us when he got off work, usually a little after the parade had kicked off at 6:30. He would always call to the people on the floats who were throwing candy, so they would throw a little more our way. (I am sure my mother was just thrilled at Dad sugaring us up like that.) The parade was long, it usually lasted until about 8 or 8:30, when my mother would take us home for bed. Thursday was always "Kid's Day" at the fair, with all you can ride braclets for a special price, so that was our day to go to the fair. I would ride the "Rocko-Planes" (kinda like a faris wheel, except it had enclosed cages you could spin and it went frontwards and backwards pretty fast) and the Tilt-A-Whirl until I was ready to puke. Somehow the county fair has alot more charm than Camp Snoopy and the other big amusement parks. Sometimes I really miss small town life.

I was talking to my former cube-mate, Jennifer today. It is too quiet now that I am in an office and she is still in her cube. I miss our talking to ourselves in unison.

One of John's friends today suggested that about 6 of us should take our families camping next year. God help the campground we pick, 'cause that's alot of kids. Volkmuth's have 5, we have 2, Kainz has 3, Dewey has 3. Yikes! We're out numbered! Time to change from man-to-man defense to zone.

Actuaries are very precise people. For those of you who have never met an actuary and have no idea what they do, allow me to explain. Actuaries work primarily in insurance. They spend their days working with data (in our case, workers' compensation claims) and manipulating that data with mathematical models to attempt to project the number and amount of claims their company can expect to pay out in the future so they can set their rates and reserve adequate funds to pay future claims. This profession tends to attract fairly intense, detail-oriented, introverted men, although a few women are in the field as well. In other words, they sweat the small stuff. (Of course, not my boss. She is, of course, the model of efficiency and balance.)

Today, I was in a room with 9 actuaries, a couple of CPAs, and assorted workers' compensation claims people. Party. They spent 20 minutes discussing, no arguing, in quiet and polite tones, of course, the feasibility of our company receiving newly reported claims 60 years after they occurred. (For the record, since we are reinsurance {we insure the insurance company} we generally will not hear about claims as soon as they occur, as they need to hit the insurance company's deductible. Between that and advances in medical technology, 60 years is not that out of line.) Actuaries can be ferocious in defending their own pet theories and tend to nit-pick the work of other actuaries. All in quiet tones, of course. After that little discussion, it was time to feed the number crunchers. They are more agreeable on a full stomach. Like magic after lunch, all much more agreeable. Man, I tell you, 3 1/2 hours is waaaaay to long to spend with anal-retentive introverts. Especially for an extrovert (although I have been accused, with some justice, of being a tad bit anal myself.)

Sometimes I really really hate my name. Ever since I was a little kids, I find myself jumping when people use certain words with emphasis. Like AND. I'll be sitting in a meeting, minding my own business, perhaps zoning out a little, and someone will say "AAAAANNNND". I jump. It comes out sounding remarkably like someone, very annoyed, saying my name. Then I look around a bit sheepishly, to see if anyone notice my jump.

Well, last night I finally got to sleep through the night. No small ones in my bed in the middle of the night. No breathing problems. No beds that need sheets changed at 4 am. Thank God for small favors. I never would have survived the actuaries if I were short on sleep. My boss would have been stuck trying to explain why her assistant was snoring over the tape recorder. That wouldn't have been pretty.

As a parent, I am grateful for the work of John Walsh and Patty Wetterling. Both these individuals have made the world a safer place for my children through their selfless work in the face of tragedy. Today is 20 years to the day that Adam Walsh, a happy 6 year old in Florida, was taken from a department store where he was shopping with his mother, and was molested, killed, and dismembered. I believe all they ever found of him was his head. When Adam disappeared, police departments had 24 hour wait-and-see policies towards missing persons. They would wait 24 hours to see if the missing person returned home on their own before beginning a search. In 24 hours, most children kidnapped by a stranger are probably dead. The FBI didn't get involved in missing children cases and most local police departments had no idea how to deal with a case of this nature. Adam Walsh's case was bungled from the beginning. The chief suspect's car was lost, along the bloody carpet where he had (as he later admitted) dismembered the little boy's body. This suspect was never charged with Adam's murder, although he died on death row in Florida (where he was for another crime) some years ago of AIDS.

Such a thing would have destroyed many people. It would have me. I don't begin to know how I would reacted to such a tragedy happening in my family, but I don't think that I would be able to channel my pain into the positive action that John Walsh did. He fought to change the laws so that now police no longer wait 24 hours to look for a missing child. The FBI can immediately be called in. Stores now have a policy called "Code Adam". When a parent reports a child lost in a store (as I have had to do once for each of my children), the store declares a "Code Adam" on the PA system. Store personnel, sometimes in uniform, sometimes not, are posted at all entrances and exits with a description of the child and all the workers go on the lookout for this child. I don't know if these polices saved my children's lives on the times the have wandered away, but I do know that anyone would have had a hard time getting out of Walmart or Cub with them. And this is because of John Walsh. After Rhiannon had been returned to me and the Code Adam called off, I was still questioned by an alert Walmart checker as I was leaving the store. John Walsh now hosts the Fox television show America's Most Wanted, where, with the help of millions of TV viewers, he helps hunt down predators like the one who killed his son.

Patti Wetterling lost her 12 year old son, Jacob, in October of 1989, in the tiny little town of St. Joseph, Minnesota. I know the story well, I know the town well, as I went to college in that sleepy little town. On a Saturday night in October, Jacob, his younger brother, and a friend were given permission, for the first time, to ride their bikes to the Tom Thumb convenience store, about a mile away from their home and get a video. On a rather lonely stretch of road (which is still technically in town) a man with a gun made the three boys get off their bikes, looked at each of them closely, and took Jacob. He was never seen again, his body has never been found. No one has ever been prosecuted. Patty Wetterling founded the Jacob Wetterling Foundation, which helps families with missing children, lobbies state legislatures and Congress for laws to protect our children, and always, when a child is reported missing on the news in Minnesota or western Wisconsin, you see Patty Wetterling with the family, helping them search, helping them cope. God, how that must reopen her wounds every times she does it, but still she is there. And she has never given up hope that her son is alive.

I, and every parent, owe John Walsh and Patty Wetterling a debt of gratitude. Because of their strength to overcome their own tragedies, they have made sure our children are a little safer. There is a speical place in heaven for them. Where they will finally be able to hold their missing children again.

Then, there are the idiots who never should have been allowed to have children. Yesterday, a man who left his 4 month old baby in his minivan while he was at work because he forgot was indicted for 2nd degree murder. How do you forget you have a child with you? No matter how tired or preoccupied or worried I have ever ever been, I have never for a moment forgotten my children. I always look for a second at my car as I get out of it in the morning. How do you forget a baby in your car. I heart aches for this baby, who suffered from over 100 degree heat in that car and dehydration. Crying for his daddy, who had forgotten him. In a sense, I feel sorry for this man. But, isn't anyone responsible for their actions any more? Some of his neighbors claim he has suffered enough. He made a mistake. A mistake that cost his son his life. When did we quit expecting people to be responsible for their mistakes. Maybe the best that will come out of this is people will take a few minutes and check to see if their kids are with them. If their memories and hearing are so faulty that they don't know for sure.

Some days you just can't win for losing. Everyone was very tired in our house this morning (we went to the grocery store last night and the kids didn't get to bed until after 9). So, we got out of bed very slowly. Since I was owed about an hour of time at work, I just figured I would go in 1/2 an hour late and leave 1/2 an hour early. Rhiannon was fine and bouncy and didn't putz! Mark the calendar. Jack seemed fine at first, giggling while his daddy tickled him awake. But, when we were in the car, he didn't eat his granola bar. Didn't even open it. As we pulled into the parking lot at school, he complained his tummy hurt. I asked him the key question (you know, the question that differentiates the I-want-some-attention aches from true illness) do you want to go home with Mommy and miss your field trip to McDonalds? He thought a couple of seconds and decided he would "rough it" for the sake of the field trip. Since he was not his normal Tigger-like self, I warned his teacher and told her (and Jack) to call me if his tummy didn't feel better. And I left to drive to St. Paul, secure in the knowledge that Jack would tough it out until at least 11, when he returned from his field trip.

I parked in the parking ramp, huffed and puffed my way up the 4 flights of stairs to the skyway (hey, they are steep stairs and it was stuffy) and had made it half-way to my office when my cell phone rang. I looked down at it and, sure enough, the caller ID said daycare. Crap. He couldn't have called me 10 minutes earlier, before I was in the parking ramp? Now it was going to cost me $2 to get out. Oh well. I buzzed into my office, said "Hi, gotta go!" , changed my voice mail, filled out a time out request and left, much to the amusement of my coworkers.

Now that we are home, Jack is, of course, much perkier. I do think he doesn't feel real well, rather than bouncing off walls he is bouncing on cushions and watching Barney. (He must be ill, he normally declares he is too old for Barney at his advanced age of 4 1/2.) Oh well, I have housework to catch up on anyway. And maybe a nap (yeah, right, like the monster will let me sleep, but hey, a girl can dream). If he is feeling perky in the afternoon after a mandatory nap, I told him I would take him swimming in the pool. If I don't, he will be hell on wheels later tonight when he is recovered.

Well, Jack was recovered enough by 11:30 to completely wreck havoc with my plans to get any housework done, so he called Daddy and asked if he wanted to be taken out to lunch. At lunch, the kid managed to put away an entire helping of macaroni and cheese, about 10 ounces of chocolate milk and make the observation that Daddy has hair growing in his ears (so much for that delicate stomach). I think he is recovered. He fell asleep in the car on the way home, so I looked forward to completing my household chores with my 4 year old safely ensconced in his bed. Fat chance. Said 4 year old is still singing away in his bedroom, since I won't let him out until he naps. He has been told no nap, no pool time. He will eventually fall asleep out of sheer boredom (or I will hit him over the head with a blunt object), but it will probably be too late for the pool.

I think my husband is looking to culture the cure to some dread disease in my crock pot. Over a week ago (closer to 2, at this point) I made Barbeque Beef Sandwiches in the crock pot, one of my husband's favorite dishes. Now, the guiding rule in the Dominik household is, "Thou shalt not cook and clean the same meal." Since I do most of the cooking around here for many reason (not the least being the fact that I actually enjoy it and have some talent in that area) John gets clean up duty. Well, today, one of the many little chores I chose to tackle was to unbury my sink from the dishes that have piled up since we got back from camping. We have been to tired to do much, so we have been either bringing in take-out, eating leftovers off of paper plates, or eating out. As I was emptying the sink, what should I find, but my 1 1/2 week old dirty crock pot, completely full of water. I'm not sure what was growing in it, but I am fairly sure it had become sentient. Such fun. Such joy. He will pay, boys and girls. He will pay.

Sorry, I was unable to get to the computer today. John was on it until after midnight, so, you will just have to wait until tomorrow for my pearls of wisdom.

My husband is a simple man. He is pleased by simple things. Chief among them seem to be food in his belly and the resulting gas in his tummy. Oh, and sharpening his toe nails. These observations were made at dinner tonight. Blessedly held outdoors on our deck. Where there was a wind blowing.

Out on our deck, we have plastic chairs. Plastic chairs made a rather loud, well, squeak, when certain body functions are performed when one is seated upon them. He and Jack seemed to take turns attempting to outdo each other in their vile body functions. Aah, the bonding between a man and his son. Later he looks puzzled and says, "I don't know what I ate, but it's gonna be a long night." (I know what he ate. A vile concoction known as "dragon sauce" at Kahn's Mongolian Bar-be-que.) Pray for me. Oh yeah, about the toe nails. When I was a kid, I always had bruises on my legs, as I bruise rather easily. Since I have outgrown my penchant for activities that ripped the skin off my legs (and my balance improved) you would think my legs would be less marked. Not so. My children have taken up bruising me, and my husband regularly scratches my legs with the bowie knives he calls toe nails.

The cooler weather we have been enjoying is slowly being replaced with the higher dew points and 90+ degree temperatures that we "enjoyed" for the past three weeks. Tonight we had to put our air conditioning back on. I don't even want to see my electric bill for next month. Perhaps I will just offer the gods of electricity one of my children to pay the bill.

I am a lover of arguments. Political, philosophical, religious, it doesn't matter. I love to debate the points with someone. My best friend and I continually end up in debates regarding the above matters and more. I am a bit to the left of center politically and she is a bit to the right of center. [When our husbands join in, it really gets interesting. John is a bit closer to the center than I am and Brian is a bit farther to the right than Alicia (and Attila the Hun ; )] We like nothing better to spend an evening (or a phone call) arguing politics or religion (as we are all Catholics, to varying degrees.) However, at no time does the discussion get personal. The first rule to debating any point is to stay calm. To me, personal attacks just show that you can't prove your point empirically, so you resort to assassinating your opponents character. That only works in front of juries, folks. And not always there. And even when it does, it makes you look bad.

Well, to end this post, I am going to show a few gratuitous shots of my family on our camping shopping expeditions this weekend.

	This picture is actually from our camping trip last weekend. John was the one that was contemptuous of camping with electricity, but as you can see, he adapted quickly with dew points in the low 80s on last Saturday.
	And this is Jack with his idol, Cody. Anything Cody says, Jack will do. Luckily, Cody is a good kid who only uses the power to get Jack to do what his parents want. Wise boy, that Cody.
	Cabela's in Owatonna had several wild life displays. Jack apparently felt he was left out of the exhibit by accident and was trying to remedy the situation. We explained to him the only way he could join the display was to be stuffed, to which he replied, I already ate lunch.
	This pictures shows my son's questionable taste in clothing. He gets it from his father. (BTW, all the stores we visited to carry shoes, but none in orange or hot pink. Sorry Marcia.)
	Rhiannon decided to try rock climbing. I expect this sort of thing from Jack (who was just livid that he was deemed too small to climb) but RHIANNON. My timid girl who is afraid of heights? She only made it about a 1/3 of the way to the top, but she wants to go back and try again soon. I am so proud of her. Not that my happy butt got up there, but I suspect it is only a matter of time (and a matter of finding a harness big enough for said happy butt.) Both REI and Galyans have free indoor rock climbing.

	The last three pictures are from Galyan's in Bloomington. You wouldn't believe it from the dragonfly picture, but Bloomington is actually a larger city than St. Paul, population-wise.

Disclaimer
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