Jess Riley's Blog, page 10

On Wisconsin. My (Extended) Two Cents.

Many of you may have heard about the situation affecting labor in Wisconsin. Our newly elected Governor Scott Walker put forth a bill just a week ago that would strip collective bargaining rights from the 175,000 unionized state employees and make over 320,000 state workers contribute more salary to their health insurance and pension plans, representing an average 8-10% cut in pay effective immediately. It is my understanding that police, state troopers, and firefighters are exempt, and may still collectively bargain for benefits, hours, & working conditions. Coincidentally, they were the only state unions to endorse Walker's candidacy last fall. So that everything runs smoothly, Walker recently appointed the father of the newly-elected Republican majority leaders of the state house and senate as head of the state patrol. He also threatened to call up the National Guard if state worker protests get just a bit too caffeinated, or if a general strike is called.

Thirty-thousand people marched on the state capitol in Madison, Wisconsin yesterday, and 23 (possibly more by now) schools are closed today due to teacher sick-outs. 30,000 people. This is exciting and frightening and amazing and terrifying and I'm considering rearranging my schedule to join the march tomorrow, if it continues. Because we are balanced on a cliff right now; if Wisconsin labor falls, newly-elected politicians in other states will propose similar measures to strip public workers of their rights and income. Ohio. Florida. Michigan. State by state, the already-suffering middle class in this nation will fall like dominoes.

This bill has the votes to pass. We are waiting, holding our breath to see what happens.

I hesitated to write about this, because I don't want to alienate any readers. But I feel I owe it to my family, to many of my friends, to the good people I've had the honor to work with in Wisconsin state prisons and public schools in the last 15 years. And seeing as how my primary source of income comes from my tax-funded state job and I'm one of the people taking it on the chin in the Governor's proposal, and it's my blog, please indulge me this one time. I promise to return to non-political, lighter fare in the future.

Let me tell you a story. In the beginning, it was my mom and me against the world. My grandparents took us in. Grandpa was a proud state worker, Superintendent of Kohler Andrae State Park near Sheboygan. In the war, he was a unionized truck driver; we recently found his brotherhood membership card among some old photos and papers. My grandfather's pension will allow my 88 year-old grandmother, a staunch Republican, to live her remaining years in a comfortable, dignified manner.

When I was born back in the mid-seventies (ugh), unemployment and inflation were high. Jobs were scarce, but the prisons were hiring, so Mom took a job there. We'd been on public assistance, and work was work. Labor struggled even then, and I'm told I was brought to the picket lines when I was three and the unionized prison employees went on strike. Mom married my Dad when I was five; he too was a public servant, first working in the same prison as a guard then a sergeant then a social worker then moving into probation and parole. Right now he's an adjunct English professor in the UW system.

I grew up in a union family, and I remember my Dad proudly saying things like, "I'm a union man." I was so proud of him, and I loved bringing friends and boys over to dinner just to expose them to different ways of thinking. (Yeah, we were "that liberal family" in a sea of red, rural conservatism.) We didn't have much money; I wore hand-me-downs, had a homemade Cabbage Patch Doll, and I remember seeing frost on my bedroom walls in winter. We never took fancy trips, and we lived paycheck to paycheck. But there was consolation in the fact that we didn't go without food, we had good healthcare coverage, and my parents would have safe pensions in their old age. We felt secure and life was pretty good.

After my public education (I had wonderful teachers), I attended a public university. In my senior year, I took a part-time job in the same prison in which my mother worked. First as a teaching assistant with emotionally disturbed and mentally challenged inmates aged 16-21. I worked with the most inspiring, dedicated teacher I've ever known: Ellen Goeden. She single-handedly introduced a new program to help her students prepare for the civics portion of the High-School Equivalency Diploma. Though I had threats leveled at me ("I'm going to find you when I get out!"), I also felt the quiet satisfaction and sense of achievement when I helped several inmates study for and pass GED tests, one by one by one.

The second job I held in the same prison was as a limited-term assistant for the Program Review Committee. In the face of exploding prison populations, we were shipping many of our better-behaved inmates out of state to private facilities in Oklahoma, Texas, and Tennessee. My job was to transcribe minutes from these committee meetings. I was privy to entire lives, and I found it fascinating. Here's where I talk about unions again: our prisons? Staffed by highly trained, unionized, supported correctional officers. Those private, out-of-state prisons? Staffed by non-union guards making half the pay…turnover was phenomenal, and they were incredibly dangerous places to work. Riots and attempted prison breaks were nearly unheard of where I worked, but in Texas? Common.

After I graduated from college I found another job for the state: this time writing grants for public schools. I've done this for the last 13 years. As a non-union state worker, my salary is modest (have I mentioned my house is worth just $75,000 and I drive an old Honda?), but the total compensation package, which includes benefits, makes up for that. And I love what I do. I love to write, and if I can use my skills to bring millions in Federal dollars into our state for educational programs benefitting low-income students, fantastic. There is a dignity in this, and I am lucky as hell to have this job.

My entire life has been the result of union negotiations affording my family a decent middle class standard of living, a decent public education. I thank unions and union workers for all of this.

So. This brings us up to date, and back to the new Governer's budget bill. I've spent the last few days alternating between shock and anger and despair. Not for myself, actually—we have no children, we live frugally, and the other income in my household is from the private sector. We'll weather this storm. I'm actually worried about my sister's family—my three year-old nephew and four month-old niece will lose their health insurance, because there is a clause in the bill pulling coverage from T.A.s employed by the University of Wisconsin. I'm worried about the single parents I work with, and their children. They're already talking about finding more affordable housing and second jobs. I'm worried about two other people I work with who face a double-whammy hit, as their spouses are also public employees.

My parents, both state workers, will also face this double hit. My mother has busted her ass for the state for over 35 years, putting in unpaid overtime as a supervisor, taking unpaid furlough days, going into work on weekends and holidays as part of a new requirement by management. Thanks to this bill, her workplace will be even more dangerous and hostile, AND she gets paid less to be there.

I'm worried about the more than 320,000 people in this state who had no warning about this bill: who just bought new homes, got pregnant, had a baby, or sent their kids to college, wondering how they'll pay their student loans and mortgages and car payments and daycare providers with an unexpected 8% pay cut.

I'm worried about prison guards who, without protection from the union, will have little recourse when inmates make accusations against them. I'm worried about the best teachers, their spirits and incomes broken, defecting from our schools—which are facing even bigger fiscal hits down the road. I'm worried that diminishing what has made state jobs palatable in the past—salary objectivity, security, good benefits—will drive the most dedicated and brightest professionals from those positions. I'm worried that our excellent university system will lose innovators and researchers to other institutions, that the quality of life in this state will decline, and that the only businesses attracted to Wisconsin will offer minimum wage salaries.

I'm worried that despite the Governor's promises, layoffs are indeed coming even if this passes. I'm worried that—by crushing the unions—corporations and special interest bullies have effectively silenced their opposition, distorted the truth and manipulated the message, and locked up political power in this state for a generation. Yes, Wisconsin is open for business. Hope you like working for $9 an hour. Our middle class is shrinking, more high school graduates are arriving at college needing remedial help, but we have all the beer you can drown your sorrows in.

We all deserve a decent, living, fair wage. We all deserve a pension that keeps us out of the cat food aisle in our golden years. We all deserve affordable, quality health coverage. Frankly, it sickens me that we live in a society in which some people have to throw fundraisers to pay for their daughter's chemotherapy.

I feel like George Bailey from that scene in It's a Wonderful Life, when he's urging people to stand up to Potter during the bank run: "If Potter gets hold of this Building and Loan there'll never be another decent house built in this town. He's already got charge of the bank. He's got the bus line. He's got the department stores. And now he's after us. Why? Well, it's very simple. Because we're cutting in on his business, that's why. And because he wants to keep you living in his slums and paying the kind of rent he decides." I feel like the middle class is barely holding the line here, and that in ten years I'll wake from this nightmare to find that Bedford Falls has actually turned into Pottersville.

But what really sticks in my craw is this: whenever private sector jobs are cut, I am terrified on behalf of those families. I worry about their kids. The spiteful, gleeful, bitter, vengeful comments I've seen on blogs –people celebrating this proposed hit on over 300,000 working families in my state—disgust me. State workers receive a fair compensation in exchange for providing necessary, quality services to state residents. Salary concessions were made years ago in exchange for solid benefit packages.

We educate your children, serving in many cases also as de facto parents, feeding and counseling and in some cases, even clothing these children. We bathe and care for the forgotten, mentally ill, or impoverished elderly, sometimes serving as the only witness to their death. We administer medication to the sick. We pick up the trash, clear the streets, monitor and keep watch on countless criminals, some of whom assault us and throw bodily fluids in our hair. We attempt to rehabilitate those criminals so when they return to your neighborhood, they don't shoot heroin in your garage or steal your TV. We maintain parks and manage natural resources so families can always enjoy them. We train the next generation of workers to have the personal and career skills needed to be productive employees in state businesses. We are social workers called to rescue infants crawling with lice from abusive homes in the middle of the night, using our own cars and our own toddler's car seat.

Make no mistake. There is a class war happening, and the latest tactic is to pit worker against worker, and to the victor go the spoils. (Hint: the victor is not us. The victor is not even those making $200,000/year.)

There are those on the right who have been beating this drumbeat for years, whispering in the ears of the disgruntled who are itching for a scapegoat, itching for a more specific place to direct their fear and rage: "There's a black drug dealer hiding in your closet, coming for your women" …. "There's a gay man in there with him, coming for you" … "The muslims want to build a mosque in YOUR BACKYARD, right next to the kids' playset" … "There's a truck full of illegal aliens in the Home Depot parking lot—they're coming for your job" … "There's a Jew working at your bank; he's the one who made sure you were denied that loan" … "Here comes Michelle Obama—she's going to take away your donuts and force-feed you KALE" … "There's Al Gore—he wants you to drive an electric car; good Lord, he may as well castrate you!" … "The atheists are at it again—this time one of them pissed on the baby Jesus in your church's live nativity scene" … "I heard a rumor that a consortium of scientists with French accents are trying to brainwash your children into believing they—wait for it—descended from monkeys" … "This morning Nancy Pelosi broke into your house and took all of your guns, right after she gave Nancy Reagan the finger" … "There goes a unionized prison guard—he's the very reason your property taxes went up…Flag pins activate---GET HIM!"

And the unionized prison guard listening to Rush suddenly stops nodding along in righteous indignation, puzzled…hey, wait a minute!

Where do I feel we should be directing our anger? How about greedy lobbyists? How about unethical, power-hungry politicians, past and present, who have cumulatively made the bad decisions that deregulated industries, lost jobs, and ruined our economy? How about rapacious speculators, shady fund managers, bloated military contractors that charge our deployed service people thirty bucks for a case of Pepsi? How about professional athletes? THE KARDASHIANS?

This bill sucks 1.2 billion from our collective paychecks in just one year—this vanished income will not be taxed and therefore will not contribute to state revenue. It will not be spent in local restaurants, stores, salons, or car dealerships. And as a result of that, it will not produce sales tax revenue for the state. The Wisconsin Home Builders Association just heartily applauded our Governor's plan to reduce my income. Therefore, though we just attended a seminar on building our dream home, I heartily endorse not giving them my business. Change of plans. Well, I don't have the money to hire them now anyway.

Wow. See how easy it is to get ugly and vindictive? Worker against worker. It's so simple.

So why the sudden, surprise cuts now, Governor Walker? And how will busting the unions and eliminating workers' rights to bargain for fair employment and workplace safety help the budget deficit? Last December the union already offered over $100 million in concessions. Also, I hear the economy is improving—why the urgency to 'balance the books' on the backs of middle class working families? I also hear, from the non-partisan Legislative Fiscal Bureau, that our state would actually finish the year with a budget surplus of $121 million if our Governor hadn't just granted $140 million in tax cuts and incentives to special interests and businesses to 'possibly' create jobs here. Fully 2/3rds of corporations in this state PAY NO TAXES AT ALL. Governor Walker himself said that he could find $165 million to fill in budget holes simply by restructuring existing debt. Is this a manufactured crisis? Perhaps. If I put my tin-foil hat on, I can go wild with theories.

Look. I get it. Taxes are high. Trust me, I know this all too well, since we were hit with an unanticipated special street assessment of nearly $9,000 last year. But state workers pay the same high property, gas, sales and other taxes and fees that everyone else does. I hate it too. I also hate that my job is tied to tax revenue, which politicizes it and makes me and other state workers easy and favorite targets when the economy takes a beating. But…when I was locked into my modest salary in the earlier part of this decade, when times were good, I didn't begrudge the much higher wages and bonuses my friends in the private sector took home.

I don't know the answer to the budget crisis. But I know it's not to shove this down our throats in a week's time . It's not to bust the unions. There has got to be a better way to deal with this.

Yes, I know, it's become quite fashionable to bash unions. It's also become popular to quote Ronald Reagan. So though he's not known as a big friend to organized labor (air traffic control strike, anyone?), let me close with a link to a video that proves that in some cases, he was.

Solidarity indeed. Thanks for reading.

Rant off, and peace out.

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Coming up for Air

FIRST, we are still trying to sell the house. I'm starting to feel quite demoralized by the whole thing. Every post-showing feedback hammers the same thing, which is the same thing I detest about the upstairs layout. I KNOW, people! It's not a surprise. I'd like realtors to get a little creative with the feedback. Instead of saying, "buyers felt the layout of the upstairs bathroom / bedrooms was a little odd," how about this: "What ass-nugget thought it would be a good idea to carve a hole in the drywall around the toilet tank? And why do we have to walk THROUGH this bathroom to get to the other bedrooms? Welcome to the favela! You poor people. That bathroom left us with night terrors and semi-permanent retinal damage after just ten minutes of exposure; we can only imagine what ten years of bathing and shitting in that nightmare have done to YOU!"

It acknowledges the issue in a creative way, while imparting a level of sympathy and humor that make the entire situation more palatable. Let's ENJOY the ridiculousness of my bathroom layout, shall we? Let's track down the "contractor" who did this and subject him to a series of humiliating and professionally devastating punishments! I don't know what those are yet, but I'm taking suggestions and would love it if they involved duct tape, a blimp, and the delivery of three hundred pepperoni pizzas.

We got a call last night at NINE O'CLOCK to request a showing for TODAY. Who are these inconsiderate scrotums? We have been on the market for six soul-sucking, hope-draining months; why the sudden urgency that shows no consideration for the fact that we need at least a day's notice to clean and make arrangements for the dog? Or maybe we could just leave her in the house during their visit; she's been eating her own shit lately, and I have no qualms about her licking people who demonstrate this kind of douchetastic behavior.

SECOND, I just learned yesterday that all of my remaining grant projects are due in April. One of them will be more than a hundred pages long, requiring the kind of intense organization, research, multi-partner planning, literary puffery, bureaucratic double-speak, and grinding budget development that make me want to throw a nuclear tantrum, drink scented bleach, and claw my eyes out with a potato peeler. Not necessarily in that order. If I make it to May, there will be tulips in bloom, but I may bear a striking resemblance to Gollum.

THIRD, I am still awaiting the verdict on my latest book proposal. It's truly a paralyzing moment, and I am actually strangely grateful for all of the recent stresses of my day job. Nothing distracts you from obsessing over this kind of thing like a stack of work that makes you want to claw your eyes out with a potato peeler and/or drink scented bleach.

So that's my life lately. Oh, I also convinced myself I had pancreatitis this week, and was nearly bed-ridden for three days with the distended, tender belly of a refugee. I will never eat half a pizza followed by seven pickles again.Subscribe with Feedburner

Holiday Photo Montage

Happy New Year! I hope the holidays were good to you. First, one of my highlights: I received a Kindle as a Christmas gift, and it only took one day to figure out how to reset our password so I could connect to our home Wi-Fi network! Second, a low point: We witnessed a couple freaking out on the sidewalk while their rambunctuous puppy tossed a baby squirrel around like a ragdoll. The girl stood there screaming, her hands above her head, while her ineffectual boyfriend just stood there...or maybe he was encouraging the dog to rip the poor squirrel in half, who knows. I couldn't watch.

Maybe it's me, but I much prefer my squirrels sitting in tiny wooden chairs made by someone's grandfather, nibbling cobs of corn, to being torn apart by a dog and slinking away to die three hours later of internal bleeding.

So with that cheerful thought, let me clumsily segue into the next bit: the photo montage!

Let the orgy of gifts and whimsical cheeses begin! (Whimsical cheeses not included.)

Oh wait, here they are!

Hey look, now we can weigh the seizure my turtleneck is giving you!

Santa brought us a baby! This model comes pre-hypnotized by Grandma's turtleneck, and is completely pliable, floppy, and moldable.

This smaller model is similarly adorable and poseable, and comes complete with lifelike, joint-action hand for display. (Ring not included, extra shipping to Alaska, Hawaii, and Puerto Rico.)

These fools...they call themselves "grown-ups." They pay no attention to detail, to color complements. I can't believe I'm related to these boloney-handed muppets. Look how the one in black smiles for the camera, like a complete stooge. It's sad, really, is what it is.

Okay. Wait. Listen. Horse walks into a bar...wait...no, let me start over. Okay. Here it is. Syphilitic Irishman walks into a bar...
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To Live in Exciting Times

Wow, look at that: TWO blog posts from me in ONE WEEK! Is it 2006 again?

Last night I was on my cell with my aunt, Jason was on the land line with his mom, his cell was ringing, we had a realtor on her way over to pick up some paperwork, and two friends were standing on our front sidewalk in Santa caps, holding candles and belting out "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer."

We hadn't had that much excitement in our lives since we began adding Siracha Sauce to macaroni and cheese.

Well, we lost "our" house. I thought I was doing great until my drive home from work on Tuesday. I remember thinking, "Wow, I feel pretty okay about all of this, actually," and then the wrong song came on the radio and I bawled the rest of the way. I think what got me was that I'd already developed a spreadsheet of shade-loving perennials I could have planted in the yard, and I'd already picked the new colors I wanted to paint on the walls. In my mind, I'd even already remodeled the kitchen and master bath just the way I liked them.

It felt a bit like being dumped by your fiance after you'd already started naming your future children.

It's okay though; I've already identified two new houses that I might develop crushes on. But before I get too invested, I think I'll first pass them a note: "Do you like me too? Check 'Y' for yes, 'N' for no."

I'm blogging at the Girlfriends Book Club blog tomorrow...stop by and say hi! The authors that comprise the blog frequently hold book giveaways, so it's a good site to add to your bookmarks.Subscribe with Feedburner

That's Using the Ol' Noggin

Did you survive the Great Blizzard of 2010? We used the occasion to watch the first season of Dexter. About nine hours in, we hit midnight—as we rolled onward, we'd turn to each other for confirmation before starting the next episode, eyeballs beginning to smoke: "Watch the next one?" And we'd nod and queue it up. You hit a certain point when you're engaged in such indulgent, irresponsible activities and think, "Why the hell not? We don't have kids!" It felt decadent. It felt wrong. It felt awesome. We finished the season at 3:30 in the morning.

If you're not familiar with Dexter, it's a series first developed for Showtime back in 2006, currently rounding the bend on its sixth season. Dexter is a Blood Spatter* Analyst who works for the Miami PD and also happens to be a serial killer who channels his bloodlust to people who deserve it. I can't believe it's taken me this long to watch the series, and I think it's because I knew it would be good, and I knew I'd lose myself down the rabbit hole for 12 hours if I started.

On Day Two of the blizzard, I thought I'd initiate our kitchen remodel by head-butting a sharp corner of our cabinets. Actually, I was simply being too exuberant in my attempt to stamp down the garbage, and ended up with my first, honest-to-goodness head gusher. I'd never had a head injury before, so I was unsure of the protocol—when does a bleeding head warrant stitches? I was opposed to the idea, because I had visions of a tech shaving my head and creating a permanent bald patch in an already-thin area. It hurt like hell, my bathroom looked like a murder scene, and I now have a series of disgusting, blood-crusted scabs near my part.

Good times.

More good times: we just got billed for the first installment of the street work completed last year ($5,000-yippee!), and we lost our contingent offer on the new place. The house we want to buy has been listed since April, and ours was the only offer fielded…until this past weekend, when two non-contingent offers came in.

SERIOUSLY?? How does that happen? It feels like a conspiracy. J and I have to make some tough decisions tonight, see how we want to proceed. These days, it feels much too dangerous to carry two mortgages when you don't have to.

Altogether, it really makes my head hurt. Again.

*Spatter. Isn't that a fun word? Who wouldn't want that in their job descriptor? "Oh me? Yeah, I'm a word spatter specialist."

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Thursday Grab-Bag

Last weekend we drove to Lansing, Michigan to meet our new niece Caylie Lucille. She is an absolutely beautiful little bean--paddling her starfish hands slowly through the air, stretching, yawning, blinking sleepily up at you...I wished the front of my sweater had a big pocket I could tuck her in, and she could nuzzle her head into my neck and I could wear her around the house like the most delightful bib invented.

This Sunday we are anticipating the arrival of our THIRD niece in as many months: Isabella Grace. All of these beautiful babies with their soft, powdery heads and perfect button noses and fingernails smaller than ladybug wings...they are making my ovaries surrender. "Enough! We give up!"

(Is it possible to anthropomorphize internal organs?)

Actually, I feel that way until I remember my horrid self between the ages of 11 and 17. That usually does the trick. I just can't shake the fear that if I have a child, he or she will grow up to be a complete asshole.

Last night I made myself an early birthday cake of olive oil, rosemary, and dark chocolate. It was sublime. Rich, dense, flavorful, and--I'm going to use my least favorite word in the English language--moist. I was skeptical, but it was a Martha Stewart recipe. She hasn't steered me wrong yet. So Martha, you've done it again. I'm really glad you're out of prison.

In other food news, I have a message for Applebee's. Please get some meatless entrees on your menu. Also, mozzarella logs are supposed to bind you up, not give you the runs. You're doing it wrong.

*insert appropriate segue*

Has anyone seen the commercials for the class action lawsuit against Extenze male enhancement pills? Turns out they don't work. Who didn't see that coming? Pun possibly intended.

Finally, the other night we saw the most delightful movie: Winnebago Man. I lost track of how many times I turned to J during the film and said, "I just can't get over how much I'm enjoying this movie!" Usually documentaries make me want to tie myself to the nearest train tracks, but this one made me want to give hugs to complete strangers.

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Magic Vacuum Delivery, Now with White Coating

There are many things I'm thankful for, and one of them is that life continues to be rich in comedy. In fact, life sometimes delivers comedic gold right to me, like a package. Take what happened last Friday morning. I walked onto my front porch to get the mail, and discovered that someone had placed an upright Kenmore vacuum on the steps. It was actually lying on my steps, upside down with the business end on top, a stray brush attachment tossed beneath like an afterthought--and it was this, the nonsensical placement, that made me laugh.

Who does this kind of thing?? It was not tossed haphazardly on my lawn after garbage day; someone had carefully and deliberately laid this broken appliance in the middle of my front steps, interfering with mail delivery and Jehovah Witness visits, and I found it absolutely hilarious.

Earlier in the week, while standing in line to pay for a cart full of groceries, I noticed a table of "Amish-made" candies, cookies, and treats, packed in clear plastic clamshells. I leaned over to have a better look and picked up the nearest container, labeled, 'Nut Goodies.' Curious about what merited both descriptors, I read the ingredients.

First in the list?

"White coating."

Now. What could comprise this mysterious "white coating?" Crisco? Liquid paper? Drywall primer?

And now let's climb out of the gutter together after contemplating that final, most obvious answer to consider this: when did it become acceptable to identify ingredients in such a lazy, obtuse way? I think I'll return to that store soon to see if the other Amish-made treats have similar ingredient lists: "sweetened brown chunks, whipped chicken ovum, granular tan component, melty yellow fat, powdery carbohydrate base."

I hope you find much in life to be thankful for this Thanksgiving--I'll be back next week with photos of my new niece, who we hopefully won't blind with the flash, and perhaps some amusing stories about my relatives.Subscribe with Feedburner

It Came From the Eighties

Saturday night I found myself home flipping channels (living the dream! Living the dream, I say!), and I eventually settled on a heavily-edited version of Trading Places, which was airing on ABC Family. I'd never seen it before, and it seemed like a mildly entertaining way to pass the time. J returned home just before the ending and finished watching it with me, shocked nearly beyond words that I'd never seen it before. My favorite scene? Well, other than Jamie Lee Curtis (the hooker with the heart of gold!) declaring that she was a drug-free, attractive prostitute of 22 with $42,000 "T-bills" in the bank, it had to have been the stock market floor insanity over frozen concentrate orange juice.

In the stock market scene it looked like nothing was really happening but panicky shouting: "Buy!" 'Sell!" "Buy!" and who could hear anything in all that madness? Chaos, wild speculation, reckless, legalized gambling—ah, the basis of many of our retirement plans.

So what did I take away from Trading Places?

1. Ninjas only bruise on the "inside."
2. We need to bring back the insult "Jive Turkey."
3. If you weighed more than a package of yarn in 1983, women's fashion was not your friend.
4. Wow, Al Franken has come a long way! From cross-eyed baggage handler to U.S. Senator.
5. Jamie Lee Curtis … possibly an alien from Planet Barbie Doll with Kid-Cut Hair.
6. If you wear a gorilla suit, nobody—not people, not other gorillas—will be able to tell you're not actually a gorilla.

That's about it, because I nodded off in the middle of the movie. But I'm finding myself quite nostalgic for that time period lately--I nearly wet my pants with excitement while watching Poltergeist on Halloween because I spied a box of Crispy Wheats and Raisins (a staple from my childhood) in one kitchen scene.

Sunday we hosted another open house, which was fairly well-attended. The upside of this whole process is that the house has never been so clean and clutter-free.

I also finished David Sedaris's latest, Squirrel Seeks Chipmunk. I think it could be my favorite of all of his books. But read the reviews and perhaps a sample chapter before buying. It's not for everyone.

And finally, a request: Do you have any family holiday horror stories? If so, I'd LOOOOVE to hear them!

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It's Just Noives

I have been too anxious to blog lately. So much uncertainty: book proposals in limbo, no offers yet for the house, and now--given the results of Tuesday's election--the gnawing fear that my day job could have its neck stretched out on the chopping block in the not-too-distant future.

It's not a good time to be a public employee. It's not a good time to be a lot of things, but I digress...

Given all of these uncertainties, I am increasingly nervous about selling our house and assuming a larger mortgage. We did have our best showing to-date last Thursday. They were still in the house when we returned from dinner an hour later (we parked and sat in the dark, spying on them until they left), and the buyer is "maybe" considering making an offer. However, now I'm not sure if I want him to. We had another showing this morning. Daisy is enjoying all of this a great deal. Sure the irritating vacuum is running more frequently, but she's never been to the dog park so much. This morning another dog lifted his leg to urinate at her nose as she sniffed the other side of the fence. If someone did this to us, we'd be horrified; but in her world, it was like being granted an exquisite olfactory gift.

So let's talk about something a bit more pleasant. How was your Halloween? We had exactly 76 trick-or-treaters and finished the last candy bar on Tuesday night. Thank God.

We had a party the weekend before, and I consumed about 76 cups of wine Frommabag. Do you like my nifty drink dispenser system? (The punkins are shiny because we rubbed Vasoline on the cut edges so they wouldn't shivel.)

More food and beverages should be served in amusing ways, no? I suppose stuffing can be served from a particularly interesting orifice during Thanksgiving, so at least we have that to look forward to.

PS: my darling niece won't need a leg brace after all. Hooray!Subscribe with Feedburner

Keeping the Happyass Dream Alive

Last night I met with my Pretty Aunt Julia's book club...the treat of the evening (other than seeing my fabulous, generous, talented aunt) was meeting the members of the club--particularly one woman's 84 year-old mother, who arrived with a hip flask of bourbon and a can of 7-Up. Her 85 year-old husband came later with his son to take the group's picture...and there they were, two fantastic older people who had been together more than 60 years, holding hands on the couch. You look at that and think, "That's it. That, and Disney movies, keep the dream alive."

We had pie (banana cream and apple), both made from scratch by my aunt, and lots of laughs. Then this morning, I was disturbed to find a dead Monarch butterfly on the street right next to my car door. Which, since I raised and released 58 Monarchs this summer, I found kind of freaky. More than freaky. It was like the universe reminding me that life isn't supposed to be all fun and games, missy! There is DEATH waiting right outside your window!

So that's kind of cheery, isn't it?

In other news, I will be speaking with four fellow authors on a panel on Friday: part of the UW-Oshkosh alumni events . We'll be at Reeve Union at 3 pm on October 22--if you're able to join us, I'll tell you a funny story or two. And if you can't come, the stories will be even funnier and secretive, just to make you feel bad for missing it. If you really and truly can't make it because you have to earn a paycheck to keep that damned roof over your head, I'll also be blogging at the Girlfriends' Book Club on Friday. Stop by and say hi! Or don't, and miss some good shit.

We're also having a Halloween party on Saturday. I'm trying a new trick this year: inserting the bag from a box of wine into a carved jack-o-lantern, with the spigot sticking out of the mouth. It'll be so classy! I can't wait. Nobody's dressing up, but last night my aunt told me that some of her siblings used to always dress up as Asses: there'd be a Candyass, a Tightass, a Fatass, a Badass, a Cheapass, a Wiseass....you get the idea. So now, I wish we were having an Ass costume party. I'd love to go as "Crafty-ass." I could glue pipe cleaners and buttons and google eyes on my back pockets.Subscribe with Feedburner