FlipSide:Starting April 16th, 2001

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

Last Updated : Sunday, April 22, 2001 02:07:10 PM -0500

Monday, April 16, 2001

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I don't wanna be here. If I click my heels together 3 times, do you think it will take me back to vacation?

So far, this has NOT been a stellar day. The alarm went off at the ungodly hour of 5:15 am (and 5:30 and 5:45 and 6:00). The weatherman was talking about below zero windchill factors. My daughter decided to unlace her shoes because the laces weren't perfectly even and since she was missing the hard plastic thingee on the end of one lace, it didn't want to cooperate so I had to finish the job. Then while I was doing that, I told her to go brush her teeth and her hair. Instead of brushing her hair, she decided to brush her teeth FOUR TIMES. Then, John got Jack up, who took exception to being required to be up and function at the early hour of (what was now) 6:40, and spent a great deal of what I laughingly call my morning "quality time with my children" crying about how he didn't want to go to school. Pulled out of the garage and the garbage truck was smack-dab right in the middle of the parking lot, where I couldn't get around him. I honked my horn and he proceeded to continue to sit there for another 3 minutes (yes, I am just anal enough to time it.) When I got the kids to school, they had changed the code on the door so I couldn't get in.

Finally, I am off to attempt to catch my bus. Miss it by about 2-3 minutes. (Yup, the amount of time I spend behind the garbage truck. Believe me, that little fact did not escape my notice.) I figure, oh well, might as well drive, I need to get home earlier tonight anyway, what with swimming lessons and girl scout leaders' meeting and all. So I drive to St. Paul and pass my bus. After making really good time, I am sitting in the leftmost right turn lane at the top of the exit to Kellogg Avenue in downtown St. Paul and the bus pulls up in the right-hand lane. Apparently, the bus driver's thinking is "I'm bigger so I can take up both lanes" because he proceeded to attempt to run me off the road so he could have the left lane when the light changed and we made our turn.

Now, before I get going on the day at the office, we need to understand our terms here. I measure my day by the amount of chocolate I am driven to eat out of the community candy dish. (Yes, I mean driven. Not enjoy, D R I V E N.)Friday, April 6th, my last day in the office was a 5 peanut butter egg day. Not good. Anyway, I get to work and start reviewing the email that came in my absence. Of course there were several messages "suggesting" my priorities upon my return. I go to ask the author of one of them a question and find out he is out for the day and no one is sure when he will return. Guess he will get his stuff when he gets it. Then, while in the process of recreating some letters for an insurance company that seems to have lost several of the originals, my printer starts printing goobly-gook for the format on my document. It seems Word has locked up. And, in the process, filled my profile space with crap. Gotta deal with all that. And yes, I kicked my desk again, not the IT person. They prefer it that way.

By this time, I am on my third cup of coffee and my third Reese's stick (and it is SNOWING). This is not shaping up to be a good day. Now, I am not an optimist by any stretch, but I say to my cube neighbor, Jennifer, "It has to get better, right?" All of a sudden, from out of the wilderness, a voice calls out an emphatic "NO!" (No, the voice was not in my head, it was in the conference room and the voice's name was Mary. None of the voices in my head are named Mary.) God I hope the voice was wrong.

Tuesday, April 17, 2001

Well, I made it through Monday. Tuesday should be easier.

Before I start, I apparently need to issue a warning. It seems I have caused a certain individual, who I shall not name, to twice today lose control of some essential body functions due to my choices of words. So, please, for the sake of your keyboard and monitor (not to mention your self-respect), don't read my posts while attempting to eat or drink.

I have also received some comments regarding the reference I made yesterday to the voices in my head. First of all, none of them are named Mary, but they do have names: Anastasia, Antoinette, Elisabeth, and Bubba. (Yeah, like none of you hear voices?) My husband says none of his voices have names, just MOs. Like chocolate or cheeseburgers. I bet Bubba is a cheeseburger type of voice, don't you?

There have been a lot of boob conversations going on around here lately. (Yes, I said boobs. As in tatas, bazums, bosoms, Grand Tetons, hooters, or, my personal favorite, HGPFDs {home grown personal flotation devices}.) I think the conversational thread, as it were, began before I left on vacation. Two friends of mine have had breast reductions (yes, gentlemen, there are women who wish to have LESS). This lead to a conversation with Mary (you know, the one that is NOT a voice in my head) regarding the fact that men don't understand wanting less, anatomically, at least. They always want more. In fact, if they could take a pill to be more generously endowed, as it were, they would take six pills a day. Never mind the fact that no self-respecting woman would let him near them. But I digress. (If you don't believe me, just check the stock for the company that makes Viagra.)

The latest bit in this ongoing conversational topic had to do with another friend of mine preparing for a blind date on Saturday. It started with Jodi debating what to wear on her date and ended with her referring her mammalian protuberances as "girls" and, somehow, to singing breasts. Let's see if I can figure out how we got there. (You have to keep in mind this is the same woman that told me a tale of an elephant, her grandmother, and what she said about her grandfather in bed. Really, she did. The tale takes some telling, I will get to it another time, but it does give you an idea of how her mind works.)

It all started rather harmlessly enough with her stating she would wear nice clothes as opposed to "go to the zoo" clothes on her date. Then she started talking about a nice blazer she has that she may wear. From there, she was debating which bra to wear, not her everyday bra, but a nice bra. (Do I have anything but "everyday" bras? I don't think I have a "nice" bra. I have a red one, though. Does this mean my wardrobe is lacking? Are bras like shoes, do most women have lots and lots of them and I am missing the boat on that as well? In fact, do some women have matching bras and shoes? I do have a pair of red stilettos, so I guess maybe I am okay in that neighborhood. Oh, sorry, now you guys gotta live with that mental image. Forget the red bra and stilettos and the feeling of nausea will pass. I promise. After all, John recovered from seeing my mother naked. Each time. Mostly.) Anyway, then she discussed a bra she has that lifts "the girls" up high enough that she wouldn't need a shirt under the blazer. Then we got to the singing boobs. Something about when you are singing in a choir you need to sing from your diaphragm and lift everything up and . . . Nah, I just don't see where the singing boobs come in, do you?

Okay, I went back to her and she explained. When she is wearing a more supportive bra, she says it is like she is in a choir and "the girls are singing", lifted up and all. Okay, whatever.

Hey, I didn't say I made it through Monday with my sanity intact, now did I?

Now, to get some of those ugly mental pictures out of you head, I am putting some in some pictures of my kids (my children, not any part of my anatomy, just in case you were not reading as attentively as you should be).

As you can see, the kids amused themselves by either sleeping or goofing off.

The kids had swimming lessons last night. Apparently there is some sort of plague going around the swimming teachers, as they all has substitutes last night. I was not particularly impressed, as most of these substitute "teachers" looked to be closer to my children's age than mine. Everything went fine, except for Jack not wanting to get out of the pool when lessons were done.

Oooh, heat wave, it is 42 degrees out. Yippee. I want my 70s back.

The last picture is of Guttenberg, Iowa. It is right on the Mississippi bluffs. it is a beautiful place. There is an island in the middle of the river that people have built houses on (not the most intelligent move in my opinion, but hey, they didn't ask me) The said on the news today that over 200 families have been evacuated from those houses due to flooding, the the Mississippi won't even crest down there until next week.

Wednesday, April 18, 2001

It all started innocently enough. I was trying to help a friend (Eva) find a birthday present for her 7 year old niece. Since I have a 7 year old daughter, she asked me what to buy. Unfortunately, it seems her niece is not into any of the same things my daughter is (clothes, music, drawing - I think she is 7 going on 17. Can boys be far behind?). We were looking at a toy website and, lo and behold, there she was. Did you know there is a "Biker Barbie"? She comes in blonde and redhead, in leather and chaps. My hand to God, she exists. The Harley is sold separately (for $99). I wanted to know if she came with tattoos, but the toy website didn't say. (There is also a Biker Ken, but frankly, he looks he would get the crap kicked out of him at a biker bar. Hell, I think he would get the crap kicked out of him at a grade school! I am SURE Jack could take him.)

This led to speculation around the office as to what other kinds of Barbie can't be far behind. Trailer Trash Barbie, in frayed housecoat and fuzzy pink slippers (6 pack and broken washer/dryer set for the front porch sold separately). Presidential Intern Barbie, complete with cigar and beret. (Independent Counsel Ken sold separately.) Trophy Wife Barbie, comes with inflating boobs and prenup (Cabana Boy Ken sold separately). While were were engaged in this silliness, Eva had to confess that she never had a Ken doll when she was a kid (her mom refused to buy her one. Hmmm.) So, she used her brother's GI Joe as Barbie's date. And since Joe's wardrobe choices were rather limited, to say the least, she used to dress him in Barbie's clothes to "go out". (A cross dressing GI Joe? Don't Ask Don't Tell GI Joe, perhaps?) After all this, I think she is going to avoid the whole Barbie thing and go with one of the things Rhiannon got for Christmas; a Spirograph packaged with fancy paper and gel pens. Gel pens are very big with the elementary school set.

Jack was telling me yesterday that his "friends" at school pick on him. It started with him saying they were pulling on the ears of "Barky", his floppy stuffed dog. (Okay, it's not the most creative name, but give the kid a break, he is only four. What do you want him to name it, Jonathan Livingston Puppydog?) Then he said they didn't like his Scooby Doo shirt. Then they made fun of something else. I am not sure if he really is getting picked on or if he is just trying for more "mommy time". There doesn't seem to be a regular teacher in there right now, so maybe things are getting out of hand. We will have to wait and see what else he says. The good news is I was told this morning that he is going to move up to the preschool room before summer, possibly as soon as two weeks. Patty, the preschool teacher, has been at that school for 20 years, so she knows how to handle kids. Plus Jack's best friend, Tommy, is in that room, so he should be happy.

Lynne Walder was lamenting her lack of willpower on her site on Monday. I must say I have been having some of the same problems. I was doing great at watching what I ate until last Tuesday while on vacation. Since then it has been one long slow slide to hell. Okay, maybe not so slow, but definitely long. I am having trouble getting my motivation back. Hopefully as I adjust to being home again, things will get back to normal and I can get back on track. I am just not looking forward to that first weigh in after vacation.

Apparently Lynne and Marcia Bilbrey really really like shoes. Bob Walder made note on his site last weekend of the myriad number of trips he had to make to clear Lynne's shoes out of the closet so he could clean. Since that time, the Netwidows have been taking a poll among themselves as to who has the most shoes. It's not me. I guess I am just a sad excuse for a woman, as I only have about 7 pairs of shoes (and that is including 2 pairs of really beat up sandals). (Now, if we were talking, say, cookbooks, I would have a fighting chance at being the winner.) Although Lynne has not given us an actual shoe count, it does sound like Marcia is the champ. I just don't know where she keeps them in her apartment. I am guessing Brian's clothes must be banished to a storage locker somewhere.

I've learned my lesson, really, and despite all of the opportunities, won't interject here. Much as it pains me not to. I do not find her a sad excuse for a woman, but other than that, I think I've bitten clean through my lip... -- JD

Thursday, April 19, 2001

And again, no comments. Though if this doesn't deserve it, nothing does... I need another drink -- jd.

John has a new nickname around my office now. Or at least Jodi uses it. She refers to him as "Goldy". As in "Goldy the Gopher", the University of Minnesota mascot. Allow me to explain. A friend of mine at work, Eva, has the mechanical singing and dancing gopher from Caddy Shack. The first time I saw it dance, I said it reminded me of my husband. "How so", you (and they) ask. "Well, he's brown and hairy and John kinda dances like that". For obvious reasons, John is not terribly thrilled with his new-found fame at my office. (Now, if he could just get a cut of the royalties on that gopher . . . )

Our thoughts and prayers go out to Bob and Lynne Walder and their family. His father is in the hospital with pancreatitis. Having had that myself, I can tell you it is very painful. It hurt so badly that, frankly, that I figured I had to be dying and I just wished it would hurry up and be done with it. However, it sounds to me from Bob's site that his father has much more serious health problems that the pancreatitis.

Bob wrote rather eloquently on his site about how it feels to look at your dad in a hospital bed. My father had a fatal disease, called Fabry's Disease, that had him hospitalized on and off while I was a kid. I can remember how small my dad looked, laying in that bed with all those tubes and wires attached. Now, my dad was 6 feet tall and fairly well muscled, as he worked in road construction, so he was not small by any stretch of the imagination. I think, perhaps, part of the reason they look so small to us in that bed is that it brings home the thought that our fathers are mortal, they can die. It is a fact you don't tend to care to entertain about your parents.

I lost my dad almost 11 years ago, in 1990, just before Christmas the year John and I got married. I think he just got tired of fighting. He had been in a nursing home for 5 years by that point and, due to some strokes, was unable to speak much (other than some curse words. We pretty much knew what he was trying to say by which particular curse words came out). John and I got married in late October and Dad died in early December. Unfortunately, my dad had been in the hospital so much that we didn't think it was serious when he first went in for the last time. By the time they realized he was dying, my mom didn't even call, because she knew he would be gone before I could even get packed. It was a Tuesday night and I was watching In the Heat of The Night on television when I got the call. It is amazing what you remember. I still regret that I didn't get to see him one last time. I regret that he never got to see his grandchildren. And I miss him.

It looks like the Mississippi is cresting here in the St. Paul today and tomorrow. The St. Paul Pioneer Press has some good pictures on their website. I work in downtown St. Paul, which is on the river, but up the side of the bluff, so we are not wet. However, some of the roads getting here are closed. However, down river in Iowa, they aren't even close to cresting. The Dubuque Telegraph Herald tells more of the situation down there. Remember the picture I had on my site on Monday of Guttenberg, Iowa? Here is a better picture of those houses under water. Why would you build a house on an island in the middle of a river that is prone to flooding? The river has not yet crested and they are expecting rain today through the weekend. Downtown Davenport will probably be underwater again. Gee, I'm just a ray of sunshine today, aren't I? I'll have to see if I can come up with something funny to end this with. I'll go talk to Jodi, she's always good for a funny story.

Okay, here we go. Seems Jodi is very tired today. She has been staying up until all hours talking to her date for Saturday night (you know, the guy she is going to wear the good bra for. Guess she wants the girls to sing for him). Anyway, she was telling me she feels very out of it. She is definitely acting punch drunk. She actually managed to embarrass me today, a feat, my husband will tell you, that can be VERY hard to manage. We were walking through the skyway, attempting to make each other giggle, as we are wont to do. There ahead of us is a relatively attractive gentleman, carrying on a conversation on his cell phone, leaning against the railing. Jodi looks and turns to me and says " going to grab his package". Now, I was flummoxed. Stunned. Red with embarrassment. And not a little bit fearful that in her present, less than stable state of mind. As we were passing him, she says "Dare me?" "NO, I MOST EMPHATICALLY DO NOT!!!" She has been laughing at the look on my face ever since.

Friday, April 20, 2001

"I don't wanna work, I just wanna bang on the drum all day . . ."

In his post today, Bob Thompson pointed me to an interesting article on the internet regarding some research done on the "ginger" gene. You know, the gene that produces ravishing redheads like Bob and me (red hair, freckles, pale skin). Apparently we redheads are the result of possibly 100,000 years of natural selection. (Wouldn't that infer, then, that we are naturally superior to those of less vibrant coloring?) The article further asserts that this gene comes from the Nederthals, who were "violent cannibals who probably ate most of their meat raw". So, tread lightly among us redheads, we aren't just cute as hell, we may eat you if you irritate us. Now THAT is one way to solve a problem. Probably cheaper than a divorce, John. Better watch it.

The Brownies last night were a NIGHTMARE. Since Spring seems to have finally - at long last - sprung here, the girls were restless and didn't want to sit and listen. Including my daughter. She was clingy and interrupting and just a general pain in the butt, like the rest of the 7 year olds. It didn't help, of course, that it is Severe Weather Awareness week and last night was the night they blew the Tornado siren. So, image if you will, 9 squirrelly, hyper 7 year olds, squealing with joy, as they run into the hallway. Then crouch, still chatting, against the wall and insisting their mothers do the same. My knees do not like kneeling on the cushioned kneelers at church, let alone against the cold cement of the hallway. However, as Brownie leaders, we couldn't exactly ignore the siren, it wouldn't send a good message, now would it. (The good message is probably negated by the fact that we regularly ignore the fire alarm at home, as it is perpetually going off. We just look in the hall for smoke and go back to what we were doing, usually sleeping, as it almost always goes off at night.) By the time the end of our meeting came around, I was soooo happy to leave with only one of them. We discussed them doing a father/daughter outing. There are a couple of sports opportunities for the Brownies this summer or they could make something up. Personally, part of me says, "Good, let the Dads deal with the noise and squealing for a while."

Then, in the garage at home, I asked Rhiannon to run ahead and hit the elevator button for me since I was carrying the Brownie supplies. She just dragged her feet and s l o w l y putzed her way. At that point I was so irritated with her I could have screamed. I said, "Rhiannon, what did we just talk about?" "Listening" she rather lackadaisically replied. Aaarrgh. So, after we popped everyone in bed, Mommy decided to have a well-deserved wine cooler. (One that had been sitting in my refrigerator since last summer. Good thing they don't go bad.) I felt much better after drinking that. And watching Drs. Greene and Corday get married on ER last night. I just know they are going to kill him off next season and it will tick me off no end. Can't they just have him decide to stay home with the new baby?

The Netwidows are again chattering about shoes today. The final tallies have come in and Lynne Walder has crowned our "Shoe Queen". However, after submitting the results to a thorough review, it appears that Bob Walder greatly exaggerated the number of pairs of shoes in his wife's closet. For shame, Bob. Lynne, looks like you will need to go out and buy a few more pair so you don't make Bob look like a liar, eh? Ah, the sacrifices we make for our husbands.

Some more good news from the Walders. Sounds like Bob Walder's father is on the mend. Our best wishes for a speedy (and painless) recovery.

John and I have gotten into a discourse on the theory of evolution and whether or not male and female are actually part of the same species. (Okay, it was actually more of a "pissing contest" as to whether or not woman are superior to men.) It seems he actually supports my contention with this quote:

"Conversely, if one accepts the theory of evolution, and accepts that my species is now too stupid to breathe without instruction, we are then forced to conclude that we've been far, far dumber in the past. In fact, if we were as stupid back then as we're supposed to be now, we'd have been trampled by a heard of prehistoric turtles before we picked our drooling faces out of the primordial ooze. Provided, of course, we hadn't drowned ourselves in our own vomit first."

But, dear, it is because the WOMEN pick you up out of the ooze, clean you up, dry you off, feed you, and put you to bed. It is why married men live longer than single men. Ahh, the sweet voice of reason.

Went to the "Beach Party" at our church (and Rhiannon's school) tonight for grilled hot dogs and hamburgers. They had a great turnout. One of the organizers told me they had NEVER had that big a turn out. In fact, were afraid they would run out of food. Since the weather was so nice, none of the kids wanted to stay inside. I wouldn't let the kids go outside by themselves. Jack, however, didn't like my answer, so he ran off outside. Right past his dad, who didn't even notice him streak past. I found Jack smack-dab in the middle of the 5th graders football game. Smiling, he runs up to me, trying to tell me he is playing football with the big boys. I hoist him up by his upper arms, hold him eye-level with me, and chew him out for running off. Mommy doesn't often pick him up and get angry at him, so he burst into tears. Then I hauled him back into the gym. Later, after it go too warm in the gym, we went to the block that was about a block away and played for an hour. If the forecast for this weekend is right, it will probably be the last chance the kids have to play outside all weekend. It is supposed to rain, and we really really really don't need more rain in our swollen rivers.

My Mom tells me Davenport is really in trouble. They are expecting the flood to be worse than in 1993, which was a record breaking flood. The entire downtown area was underwater in 1993.

ABC is running a special tonight about adopted children. I'm going to watch it with Rhiannon and see if it helps her with some of her questions. She'd asked grandma about it while we were in Iowa.

Have a nice evening!

Saturday, April 21, 2001

It has been a fairly quiet day here at the Dominik hacienda. Got up late (really really late, like 11 am). Of course, the kids were up around 9, and were running in and out asking for permission or cuddles the rest of the morning. After we got up and the kids picked up their room (that was a long drawn out debacle, let me tell you. Why do you need to stand there and point out the toys at their feet, I will never understand) we went to Subway for sandwiches and then to the Cub for groceries. By the time we got home it was nearly 4 o'clock, but certain junior family members were so cranky it was decided they were going to take naps, despite the late hour. Of course, since they were cranky, they were noncooperative, so we ended up with Rhiannon in our bedroom. She never slept, Jack fell asleep about 6:30. I woke him a little after 7. He was NOT happy.

While the kids were napping I made Rocky Road Brownies, a low fat recipe I picked up. YUM!!! I really must get my recipe page up so you guys can actually get the recipes of the food I talk about here. Anyway, while they were baking and the kids were napping (okay, perhaps I use the term "nap" a little lightly. "Confined to their room" would be a more accurate term) John and I popped in Almost Famous. The movie was not what I expected, it's tone was more melancholy than I thought it would be, but I definitely enjoyed it. Another film that goes on my list of movies I would like to own. It also had some really good music in it. And let's face it, the kid in the movie lived every teenager's dream, to be friends and travel with a rock band. With your mother's permission, no less!

After our supper of chicken tacos and tortilla soup, it was kid movie time. The current abomination (sorry, did I say that out loud, I meant movie) playing is 102 Dalmatians. Why can't they all be as good as Spy Kids. Gotta buy that one when it comes out. Oh well, at least we talked her out of a Sky Dancers movie. Okay, I didn't talk her out of it, I just said she couldn't get it. Those movies are absolute the worst animated schlock I have every had the misfortune of putting in my VCR. And I seen some really bad movies..

The Barbara Walter's special "Born in My Heart" on ABC last night was very good. Rhiannon watched alot of it with me, even though it was past her bedtime. I think it helped her with some of her questions about my adoption. Especially since one of her favorite people, Rosie O'Donnell, was on there talking about adopting her kids. I hadn't realized that Barbara Walter's daughter was adopted. She was on in the last segment and they were interviewed by another reporter, Cynthia McFadden, who is also adopted. Several of the people interviewed brought up a point that has ALWAYS annoyed the crap out of me. On the Even family tree (my grandmother's family) in parenthesis under my name and my brother's is the word adopted. Like this makes us less like family? What, do they think people are going to consult the family tree when looking for an organ donor and don't want to endanger anyone? For God's sake, I was raised in that family, why is it some people don't consider me as related because it's not "by blood". Rosie O'Donnell was talking about reading George Burns obituary, which read, in part, "he is survived by his adopted son, age 73". As she put it, it's been 73 years and they're still differentiating that he is adopted. Cynthia McFadden told of a teacher in her grade school, who's wife was pregnant, who told her class that you wouldn't love an adopted child as much as you would your "natural" child. What kind of idiot was that man? My parents loved me SO much they CHOSE me. No accident of nature put me in that family, my parents CHOSE to bring me into their lives. So put that in your pipe and smoke it!.

Sorry about that, but that is one of my major hot button issues. I still remember one of my sisters-in-law, when I first was married to John, asking if I really didn't want to know my REAL parents. I just looked at her and said, I know my real parents, they are the ones that raised me. She didn't get it. Apparently she, and alot of other people, think the ability to shoot a child from your womb makes you a parent. No. What makes you a parent is soothing your child after a bad dream, getting puked on because your sick child feels better when you are holding them, kissing the boo-boos and making them better, sitting through excruciatingly bad 5th grade band performances, and first communions, and baseball games. Those things, make you a parent. Not an accident of biology. Now, I have met my birth parents and they are really nice people. We see them a few of times a year and my kids call them Grandma and Grandpa. BUT THEY ARE NOT MY PARENTS. They know it and I know it. In fact, my birth mother told me that if I had not gone looking for them, they never would have come looking for me. They made their mistakes and choices in their lives, they didn't want to intrude on mine. I am glad I know them. But my family is in Iowa. My 70 year old mother who has trouble getting around with bad knees and is overweight and can drive me nuts with her putzing. But she is my mommy and I remember her holding me when I cried because someone said something mean to me at school. Or baking cupcakes with pink frosting for me to take to school for my 5th birthday, which I promptly threw up when I was at school so she had to come and get me again (to this day I cannot eat anything pink).

Well, it seems that the abomination unto God known as 102 Dalmatians is drawing to a close and I will need to put my little ones to bed. John and I will be drinking a little wine we got in Iowa and will cozy up on the couch and watch something after the kids are in bed (something romantic if I have my way). Sounds like Leah Syroid has the same issues I do. John and I almost never go out alone either. I have two sisters-in-law in town who willingly watch my kids, but you don't want to impose on that too much and baby-sitters are expensive. I think someone told me they are getting $4-5/hour now. YIKES! Besides, I am away from my kids 45-50 hours a week as it is, I really don't want to dump them off on others MORE. I would like to spend more time with them. However, a few nights out a year would be nice. Right now, we only do it about twice a year. Usually when we are on vacation at my mom's and she watches them. This trip, though, we were too tired. Anyway, have a good evening. Maybe I will call Jodi tomorrow and see how the big date went. I'll have to let you know.

Sunday, April 22, 2001

Children are amazing. Currently my children are in their room playing some sort of copying game up on the top bunk. Rhiannon starts to say "Leave me along for a minute", Jack starts to chime in, and then they both giggle. Then there is a thump thump. More giggling. Then the refrain again. Any other time, Rhiannon would be complaining that her brother is copying her or is messing around on her bed. Right now, she is quite happy to have him there. I'm sure if I wait a few minutes, she will come out and complain her brother is bothering her. Was I that bad with my little brother? Of course not, she must have gotten that contrary gene from her father.

Watched the movie Hanging Up last night. It was Walter Matthau's last film. It was another rather melancholy film, but not as good as I had expected. Definitely not one I want to buy.

Delanae Crider has some great pictures up on her site of her trip to the tulip fields of the Skagit Valley, north of Seattle. If you like flowers (and even if you don't), these pictures are beautiful. (Be patient, these pictures take a little while to load, especially if you are on a phone connection with modem like I am at home, but the pictures are worth the wait.) Apparently the Criders do a "Tulip Tour" every year for Delanae's birthday. Sounds like a lovely tradition. So, Happy Birthday, Delanae! (And BTW, 36 is NOT old. If it were, that would mean I, at a very youthful, {okay, perhaps some would call it childish} 34, am close to getting old, and of course, I am not. Those are not grey hairs on my head, certainly not. They are merely extremely blonde streaks. <g>) I got to work on a tradition for my birthday. Currently it is the annual trip to Red Lobster. John is not a seafood fan and he claims eating shrimp is like biting fingers. However, the kids now have decided they really like Red Lobster, so it looks like Dad is on the losing side of this one.

Not much going on here currently. It is grey and rainy and cool here today. John is watching a Nova/Frontline rebroadcast regarding Global Warming. This is after we watched The American Experience special about Three Mile Island. My, PBS is just cheery today.

My son has just been sent to apologize for spilling his water bottle all over the bag containing my crafts book and materials I got from my in-laws for my birthday. How can a four year old manage to spill a water bottle with on of those drinking valves? Sigh. He just looked at me oh-so-earnestly to say "Sorry, but it is only a little puddle on the bag". Sigh, ilovemyson, ilovemyson, ilovemyson, ilovemyson . . . Maybe if I repeat that enough I will only send him to his room.

Well, John is supposed to call his friend up in the northern suburbs so we can exchange hostages (he had his Brownie daughter call us to buy cookies, so after I ordered 2 boxes from Meghan, I had her put her dad on and I had Rhiannon sell him 2 boxes of cookies). Don't know if it will materialize, but I am getting sick of totting these two boxes of Caramel Delights around. I'll post more if anything worth reporting happens, or if some great inspiration strikes me.

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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