FlipSide:Starting 6 May, 2002

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Monday, May 6, 2002

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Chocoholics of the World - UNITE!!!

An abomination unto God has arisen abusing our favorite cocoa bean product. Much needed cocoa plants are being diverted for use in (excuse me while I cringe) French Fries. That's right, you read that correctly, no need to adjust your eyeglasses prescription, FRENCH FRIES!!! This misuse of such a precious resource cannot stand. Cocoa plants should be used only to create high quality chocolate. (And selected Hershey's and Nestle candy bars.) Not (shudder, retch) french fries. Take action. Write your senator, call your Congressman, berate your alderman, email the White House. STOP THE MADNESS!!!

(ed - my God - that's right, the devil is loose in the world, Ma - chocolate on French Fries. I think that's the sixth seal on the apocalypse, you ask me... -- jd).

And frankly, I could say the same on the potato end of things as well. There are just some tastes that are NOT meant to be together. I shouldn't be surprised, though. Ore-Ida, the producers of this product of questionable taste, is owned by Heinz. The fine purveyors of green and purple ketchups. Yum. (John is going to have such fun posting this, as he has spent his day purging his body of sustenance. I'm sure he's going to say I did this on purpose).

(ed - and I thought I was sick before... -- jd)

It was another busy weekend at the Dominik hacienda. We had some nice weather, for Rhiannon's daycamp and Jack's first day of teeball. I begin to see just why they don't keep score for kids Jack's age. I mean, what would be the point. They don't exactly field well. In fact, there was at least one kid who tried to tackle the base runner. Obviously a born football player. Or rugger for that matter. (And no, it wasn't Jack.) Jack did manage to field the ball several times, with his glove, not his face. The last time he even threw it to first base. Now THAT, my friends, was an ACCOMPLISHMENT. Of course, he managed that after prying his teammate off his back, who was also trying to field the ball and felt Jack unfairly got to it first. Apparently five-year-old boys have more in common with dogs than I thought. Like a dog playing fetch, most every boy, after hitting the ball, started chasing the ball, rather than running toward the pink flamingo that served as a visual cue for first base. Aah, well, Jack survived and is looking forward to playing again next Saturday. However, I think Dad needs to get out there with him and play some catch. Just to avoid the boy getting hit in the face with a pop fly.

Which brings me to another event. The loss of my baby's first tooth. Did you know the going rate (at least in the Minneapolis/St. Paul metro area) is $1 a tooth? With a premium on the first tooth. (I took an informal poll three years ago when Rhiannon lost her first tooth. A buck was the average, some paid more, and then there were our friends who declared a moratorium on tooth inflation somewhere around 1975 and were paying only a quarter.) Man, I remember getting a quarter. At this time, however, I didn't update my research, as I think the finer economic points regarding inflation would have been lost on Rhiannon if she saw her brother collecting more for his teeth than she had gotten for hers. She would definitely file a grievance. (What union do you file a grievance with about this anyway? Or would it be a government matter? Better Business Bureau? Does the tooth fairy have competition?) Or the kid would start pulling out teeth that have no business coming out yet, just to see what she was going to get.

And, on Sunday, Rhiannon received her Girl Scout religious medal. She (and her whole troop) got to preen up on the altar as Father presented them with their blessed medals and patches for their vests. The girls love ANYTHING they can put on their vests. Moms are not so fond, as we have to sew them on. Stitch Witchery doesn't work on Girl Scout or Boy Scout patches, they fall off. I've managed to bribe a friend of mine to sew 'em on for me. Anyway, we assembled all the girls after Mass for a picture up on the altar. Of course, Jack couldn't possibly be left out, so he popped up just as John was pushing the button. The picture is just indicative of really both kids' personalities.

Tuesday, May 7, 2002

First off, I did write a post yesterday, but in his delirium, John merely posted a blank screen with dates. He has suitably abased himself and apologized profusely, so I think I'll forgive him. ; ) As long as he remembers the Baker's Square pie for Mother's Day (European Chocolate Truffle or Caramel Pecan Silk Supreme would be acceptable forms of contrition).

(ed - what do you want to bet she'll put me on a diet come Friday? Just a hunch... -- jd)

Stupid middle class white kid from Minnesota with too much time on his hands. That's all I can say about the idiot setting off pipe bombs in mailboxes. Excuse me, you're not exactly oppressed here, kid. You go to a party school, for God's sake! (University of Wisconsin - Stout) How do you figure you are repressed? Did someone pee in your keg? Get a job and make a contribution to society, you dim-wit. If you want to change the way things are done, run for office, start a petition, or write your legislator. I guarantee you, you'll get a more unbiased hearing that way than the one you are going to get in court when you tell the judge "the devil made me do it".

You are not living in an occupied country. You have freedom of assembly (not freedom to assemble explosive devices, you idiot), freedom of the press, and freedom of religion (not to be confused with freedom FROM religion to some other imbeciles out there). People DIED to give you those rights. People are dying RIGHT NOW to continue to keep those rights and creeps like you are out there, complaining about things you know little or nothing about and setting bombs in mailboxes. Why? Just because you read how to do it on the Internet? Great. Bully for you. You have managed to scare the crap out of little old ladies living in rural areas on limited incomes and farmers fighting to survive on low commodity prices and farm subsidies. You have made mail carriers and farmwives open their mailboxes with fishing line so to escape injury. You are just a freakin' genius, aren't you?

You have attacked my home, you little creep. The original area you decided to terrorize is right smack dab in the middle of my home turf and I resent deeply how you have attempted to scare my mother and my friends. There is a special place in hell for you and I really hope you get there soon. You had better hope the FBI catches you before some farmer with a pitchfork and a twelve gauge...

Gee, maybe there is a reason I scare people.

(ed - nah. I'm usually quivering in the corner about this time of night... -- jd)

Tales of the Naked City
(ed - oh, you just know by now that that sort of title never, ever, ever ends well. Someone always ends up with cuffs on, in jail, or on the Jerry Springer Show. Eeeeewwww. -- jd)

Last night was bath night at the Dominik hacienda. (ed - where does a week go? -- jd) Rhiannon goes downstairs and takes a shower. Jack, however, prefers baths. There is the usually little boy grumbling when he is told to go "get naked and get into the tub". Usually, though, he doffs his clothes and presents himself to his mother for bathing. Last night, he presented himself to the entire neighborhood. Our curtains and front door were wide open when Jack chose to parade into the living room saying "Mommy, Naked Boy is here!" Right in front of the front door, all his parts hanging out for the inspection of God and everyone. When he was told of his exhibition, instead of turning tail and retreating to the bathroom as any reasonable person would be inspected to do, he walked over to the front door and peered out, apparently looking to see if he had an audience. Luckily, he didn't. He then turned and strolled nonchalantly back to the bathroom. Shy, he ain't.

(ed - and he's just the right height, too... I'll leave the rest to your imagination. Lord knows I wish I could have... -- jd)

Rhiannon, however, is starting to really discover modesty. No longer does she leave open the bathroom door when she is in there. She closes her door when she dresses and yells most angrily when her brother, who has yet to develop this trait, as illustrated above, comes 'a peepin'.

After bath time on Saturday night, Jack was all cuddled in my lap. I was enjoying his clean, little boy smell and told him he smelled good. At which point he turned and sniffed my hair. "Mmmm, Mommy, you smell good. Just like doughnuts!" Apparently he could think of no greater complement than that I smelled like a fried pastry. Most likely with chocolate frosting and sprinkles.

(ed - insert Homer Simpson's quivering moan... "mmmmm... Donuts." -- jd)

Wednesday, May 8, 2002

My daughter is really a lovely girl and she inherited many fine traits from my husband. She is sensitive, caring, an all around good friend. Unfortunately, she has gotten some of his scholarly habits as well. For example, she is 2 weeks behind in her homework. Her homework, you see, is boring. Not challenging intellectually. Her father's solution, when he was a child, was to just not do it. He had his teachers at their wits end trying to get him to turn in his homework. One nun even attempted begging on her knees in class. Eventually, she snapped. She went shrieking to the funny farm the next year when she had the misfortune to get his younger sister in her class.

"Are you related to John Dominik?"

"Why yes," replies little Susie proudly, "he's my big brother."

And the men in white coats haul her away after she retreats into a corner and begins laughing hysterically. A nun in full battle gear, hauled away. I wonder how they get the straight jacket over the habit . . .

Anyway, Rhiannon has yet to reduce anyone to insanity. Not that the kid hasn't tried. However, Rhiannon has the misfortune to have ME for a mother. A mean mommy who stands over her each night and makes her DO HER HOMEWORK. No television. No playing outside. She is SLOWLY catching up. Especially since her Queen of Putz tendencies come out in force whenever she is forced to do something she doesn't want to do. Her homework assignments, designed by highly educated instructors honed by years of experience to take only about 20 minutes take this child 60 minutes or better. Apparently she thinks if she putzes enough, I'll give up and let her go. Nope.

She has also developed her father's pack-rat traits. When we went to her last parent-teacher conference, I looked over at her cubby. There it sat, with all it's colleagues, lined up alphabetically. Everyone else's cubbies were about 1/2 full and neatly stacked and put away. Not Rhiannon's. Papers were shoved haphazardly into the clear plastic tote, full to overflowing. Reminded me of her father. So I just had to share a story about John with her teacher, who nodded her head in agreement (and I am sure was thinking "so that's where she gets it . . .")

When John was in 5th grade, his teacher was his best friend's mother. She required her student's to keep their desk's neat and tidy. If a student's desk was disorderly, she tipped their desk over and the student had to pick up all their stuff off the floor and organize it in a more neat fashion in his desk. Well, when John's turn came, the teacher dumped his desk over. Nothing came out. She picked it up and dropped it again. Still nothing. Then she banged it on the floor. Still nothing. Finally, she just walked away saying, "Clean it out." 25 years later, the woman is still reduced to helpless laughter when she talks about it. She wouldn't laugh so hard if she could see John's computer desk.

Thursday, May 9, 2002

Today I really need some laughs. And Jodi, as always, delivers them. In abundance. Seems some residents of Santa Cruz are arrested in their phallic stage. They're just evergreens, folks. Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar. Not to mention, why would you want to arrest someone for shrubbery? And Jodi, just what were you searching for on google that you came up with THIS???

Then, there was the lady who came into Todd's auto parts store the other day. (Todd is Jodi's significant other, formerly Mr. Saturday Night. Now that they are a couple of the more permanent sort, wouldn't that make him Mr. Every Night? But I digress.) She was looking for a 7/10 cap. Todd looked at her blankly.
"We don't carry anything called a "7/10" cap, ma'am, can you describe it for me?"
"Well, it's about yay big around," she says, making a circle with her thumb and forefinger, "and says 7 1 0 on it."
"Can you draw it for me?"
(This is a visual thing, you may want to get out pen and paper and draw it yourself.)
Todd hands her a pen and paper and she draws a circle and writes the number 7 1 0 on it. Todd, watching her from across the counter, has an "ah-ha" moment and goes into the back and comes back with a package.
"Here you go, ma'am."
"But this doesn't say 7 1 0 on it, it says 'OIL'"
Todd turns her drawing around.
"Oh my God!!! I am sooo stupid. Thank you for not laughing at me."

(ed - but WAS SHE BLONDE? Inquiring minds want to know... -- jd)

And thank you for taking my mind off the state of the world. And for further laughs about automotive parts, ask John about the little old lady and the oil filter at Shopko.

Jim Kershner was also good for a laugh today. Seems his company is working on "team building". When my company was working on "team building" we spend a day trying to "rescue" dolls out of trees without touching the ground, falling back into the arms of coworkers (to build trust, I'm not so good at that), and picking people up and passing them through rope "webs". Jim's company has a rather more unorthodox method. They send people on scavenger hunts for road-kill and Hooter's teeshirts (apparently the teeshirt was still be warm from the body of a waitress). Can't you just hear THAT conversation in the Kershner household that evening.
"Really, honey. I HAD to go to Hooters. It was a TEAM BUILDING exercise. The teeshirt was on the scavenger hunt list!"
SMACK.
That is the sound of a cast iron skillet being applied to the side of Jim's head. (According to Jim, he broke the skillet, but his head is relatively undamaged).

(ed - right. Let the patient diagnose the illness. "I'm ALL RIGHT. I'm ALL right. Help." -- jd)

Which brings me to the reason I need so badly to laugh today. This morning, I open the Minneapolis Star-Tribune. Front page, above the fold is the headline WOMEN ACCUSE PRIEST OF ABUSE. The priest in question is at St. John's Abbey in Collegeville, both John's and my alma mater. (Okay, technically it is only John's as it is an all-boys school. The College of St. Benedict is the all-girls school that basically operates jointly with St. Johns. However, both my major and minor were based out of St. Johns.) Since John's father worked at the Liturgical Press, which is owned by St. John's he has had a relationship with this institution his entire life. These are not just names to us. We know the monks. He knows the some of the women who were molested. He knows their father, who was a coworker of his father. He was invited to some of these abbey functions. But his parents never let him go.

Inside the paper, where the article continues, there is also a story about the two Reker girls who were murdered when John was a child. Police are looking to see if there is a link between the murders and the molestations. Seems the Reker girls may have been molestation victims. It just makes you sick. I feel sorry for the current abbot of St. Johns, he has only been in the position for 17 months and is doing his best to be open and honest with what he knows. He invited the Stearns County sheriff to review the personnel records of the monks. He is even talking to the press.

Another article about the Reker girls refers to the fact that the case may have been mishandled from the start. The deputy heading up the investigation was accused of not sharing information with other police agencies and was eventually taken off the case. After he died in 1993, almost 20 years after the murders, police officials discovered evidence they were unaware of hidden in his desk. The sad fact is, this family is probably never going to know who killed their daughters and why.

This case is hardly alone. There are thousands of cases like those of the Reker girls. Cases where no one is ever charged, let alone tried or convicted. But somehow, it seems so much more tragic when it is someone you have some connection with.

I find myself talking a lot more with my children about touches and touching. Making sure they feel they can tell me anything. That they are not afraid. That they believe I will protect them and not get angry at them for other people's actions. I watch a little more closely when they go outside. And worry a little more when they are out of my sight. I really hate it when my powerlessness is brought home to me like this.

On a lighter note, there is this story which mothers always knew to be true. Our sons WILL be the death of us. According to this, admittedly limited, study, having sons takes an awful lot out of us. The study author, evolutionary biologist Samuli Helle of the University of Turku states in an interview that he doesn't really find this conclusion surprising, "Generally, boys get on their mothers' nerves more than girls because they are running around, and girls are more willing to help their mothers." But, then again, he never met MY daughter.

My husband is a sick man. He is excited at the prospect of mowing the lawn. Ever since we bought our lawn mower about 2 weeks ago, it has either been raining or we have been busy (or it's been too damn cold) for him to mow the lawn. Today may be the day. The sun is out (or at least there is no rain coming down) and the temperature is, well, above freezing. He's just chomping at the bit to get to it. I tell you, he's a sick man.

(ed - yup, did it, too. Wheeeeeeee... -- jd.)

Friday, May 10, 2002

Saturday, May 11, 2002

Sunday, May 12, 2002

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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