Cathy in the Wright

Car Troubles

As I mentioned last month, The VP and I are looking to replace my Trailblazer. We've been looking at the new Trailblazer SS model, because can you have any fun in an SUV withouth the Corvette-based 6.0 Liter LS2 small block V8? Well, sure you can, but not behind the wheel. (No, I don't want suggestions in the comments.)

We were ready to place the call to our long-time friend and local Chevy dealer but we were not in agreement over the color. I had seen a dark green Trailblazer on the road the other day, and that's what I wanted. The web site showed a brighter version: Emerald Jewell Metallic.

It had to be the same color. Maybe the website wasn't accurate. To be safe, The VP swung by a dealership on the way to work this morning. Bad news. Not only is Emerald Jewell Metallic as awful as it looks on the website, but Chevy doesn't offer the SS in that color anyway. So what colors are available for the SS? Black, white, nearly white, sort-of tan, and leisure suit blue.

WTF??? No wonder auto makers are having financial problems.

So now we're back to the regular Trailblazer model. A call from The VP just confirmed that they've messed with the interior too. No more temperature and fan control buttons on the steering wheel. And no dark green.

Well, that's it. I'm taking The Governor down to Cokato Motors and I'm going to release him on the showroom floor. It won't take long for the damage to hit six figures. And I'm not calling him off until someone at GM promises me they'll fix this debacle.

In A Minneapolis College Parking Lot This Morning...

I saw my first "Al Franken for Senate" bumper sticker. It was covering up a "Kerry/Edwards" sticker. Moving on from one lost cause to another, I guess.

There was a Green Party sticker on the other side of the back window.

Loser-mobile.

Breakfast Exchange

The Governor is going through a Honey Nut Cheerios phase. Perhaps obsession is a more accurate term. He could eat them for every meal. I'm finding it difficult to get him to eat anything else. This morning he climbs up on his chair and says:

Mom. Three things. A bowl. Honey Nut Cheerios. A spoon. Milk.

Dear, that's four things.

Oh yeah. Four things.

I pour, he eats. When he's done:

Mom, more Honey Nut Cheerios please.

Nope. How about a banana or an apple?

No. Cheerios.

No. Fruit

No. Cheerios.

No.

Well, if YOU won't give me more Cheerios, I'm going to DRINK THE MILK IN THE BOWL!

You WOULDN'T!

The milk was almost gone when he realized that drinking it wasn't upsetting me. He put his spoon down.

Mom, can I have a banana.

Well, I don't know...are you sure you really want one?

Yeah! I want a banana!

Positive?

Yes! Gimme a banana!

You're really going to eat an entire banana?

AUUUUGH!! Can you just give me the banana?!

Well, okay. Here you go. Funny, I thought you would have wanted some more Honey Nut Cheerios.

I know I shouldn't mess with his little mind like that, but you should have seen his face. You can't buy better entertainment.

Eloise Hits All Cherries

Better than any quiz or meme...who are YOU going to sue for wasting your time?

I'm with Eloise on the whole Spider Solitare thing.

Aspirations of June Cleaver

The Governor and I had our Early Childhood Class today. During free time, The Gov and I were playing with the plastic safari animal set (The Gov's team, The Predators, were beating the pants off my team, The Ruminants) and next to us was young Bryan and his mom. They were building with blocks, and Bryan was getting a little upset because his mom kept knocking over part of his fortress wall. Mom said, "Gee, Bryan, I don't know why I can't get them to stay in place like you can."

I laughed and said, "Well, it's probably because you're a woman."

She looked at me with wide eyes and her mouth fell open.

"Oh," I said, "I'm kidding. It just that I've been reading a couple of articles on feminism lately and--"

She cut me off.

Articles on Feminism? I don't think I've heard anyone use that word since I moved out here. Are you a feminist?

Uh. No. The articles were more along the lines of--

You're not?! Why not? Don't you believe in equal pay for women? What about protecting our vote?

I think there are already protections in place for that kind of stuff. I don't think we have to--

Don't you know women still earn only $0.70 for every dollar a man earns? Don't you think it should be equal.

I think people should get paid what their work is worth. Aren't women--

This time I was cut off by the teacher summoning us to gather for circle time. Probably for the best. I really like Bryan's mom; she's a lot of fun in class. But I knew I was going to be in the wrong no matter what I said on feminism.

However, next time someone asks me what I do for a living...I'm going to say "housewife" with an enormous smile.

Townhall article found via Bogus Gold. Thanks, Doug.

A Joke Finally Safe For The Nephews

From my soccer buddy, Kate:

A tour bus driver is driving with a bus full of seniors down a highway when he is tapped on his shoulder by a little old lady. She offers him a handful of peanuts, which he gratefully munches up.

After about 15 minutes, she taps him on his shoulder again and she hands him another handful of peanuts. She repeats this gesture about five more times. When she is about to hand him another batch again he asks the little old lady why they don't eat the peanuts themselves.

"We can't chew them because we've no teeth", she replied.

The puzzled driver asks, "Why do you buy them then?"

The old lady replied, "We just love the chocolate around them."

It pays to be careful around old people.

Tune In Tomorrow When I Dismantle The Livingroom

What started out as wiping off the front of one of my kitchen cupboards has exploded into an operation involving rubber gloves, ammonia, scrub pads, paper towels, sponges, buckets, and a mop. And I really wish it hadn't. Because about 15 minutes ago, I ran out of steam, but the kitchen still looks like a crack addict's abandoned apartment.

Looks like pizza in front of the telly tonight, boys.

Not Safe For My Nephews

From my pal, Dave P.:

There was this little boy about 12 years old walking down the sidewalk dragging a flattened frog on a string behind him. He came up to the doorstep of a house of ill repute and knocked on the door.

When the Madam answered it, she saw the little boy and asked what he wanted. He said, "I want to have sex with one of the women inside. I have the money to buy it, and I'm not leaving until I get it." The Madam figured, why not, so she told him to come in. Once in, she told him to pick any of the girls he liked. He asked, "Do any of the girls have any diseases?"

Of course the Madam said no.

He said, "I heard all the men talking about having to get shots after making love with Amber. THAT'S the girl I want." Since the little boy was so adamant and had the money to pay for it, the Madam told him to go to the first room on the right. He headed down the hall dragging the squashed frog behind him. Ten minutes later he came back, still dragging the frog, paid the Madam, and headed out the door.

The Madam stopped him and asked, "Why did you pick the only girl in the place with a disease, instead of one of the others?"

He said, "Well, if you must know, tonight when I get home, my parents are going out to a restaurant to eat, leaving me at home with a baby-sitter. After they leave, my baby-sitter will have sex with me because she just happens to be very fond of cute little boys. She will then get the disease that I just caught. When Mom and Dad get back, Dad will take the baby-sitter home. On the way, he'll jump the baby-sitter's bones, and he'll catch the disease. Then when Dad gets home from the baby-sitter's, he and Mom will go to bed and have sex, and Mom will catch it. In the morning when Dad goes to work, the Milkman will deliver the milk, have a quickie with Mom and catch the disease, and HE'S the son-of-a-bitch who ran over my FROG.

Matt and Jack - if you're parents ask if you read my blog today...LIE.

Anyone? Anyone?

Well, something is afoot with the old blog again. I can log into Moveable Type, but when I try to bring up my page....blank. I'm not sure if there is something wrong on my end or with the entire server, but everything disappeared. Well, we'll see. (Update: she appears to be working again. Ya-hoo.)

Last night at the soccer arena, I was watching a couple of teams battle it out, and then gasped out loud when I saw one of the players take the field. Boo Radley lives and breathes. I have never seen such a pale, ghastly fellow. I kept expecting him to shield his eyes from the bright lights. Scary.

But not quite as scary as facing the Teenagers. My 9 o'clock game was against a team of 18-year-olds. Players have to be at least 18 to play in this league; my guess is that most of these guys and gals don't quite qualify. They're fast, they're very, very good, and they routinely beat other teams by several goals. And they're a bunch of arrogant jerks.

We tied them. In the last 8 seconds of the game, we evened the score.

You have never heard such a bunch of whining, bitching, and complaining. Well, you have if you have children. Some of these brats wouldn't even come off the bench and shake our hands. It didn't help that we were whoopin' it up as though we had thoroughly thrashed them by a dozen goals. And when the team that played after us came over to our bench and congratulated us on sticking it to the Teenagers...well, I'm sure a bunch of cell phones were whipped out in the parking lot and a lot of conversations initiated that began with the words "OmiGod! You would, like, not BELIEVE the bunch of old assh*les we played tonight!"

Priceless.

Rats

This is really sad:

BEMIDJI, Minn. — A woman is dead and a man hospitalized after a squirrel became lodged in a pipe between the furnace and the chimney, causing propane fumes to enter a rural Bemidji home.

Of all the people who should die with a rodent stuck up their pipe...it wasn't this woman.

No word, by the way, on the condition of the squirrel.

The Tattoo Will Be Next

In a couple of hours, I have to go pick up The Senator and take him to the dentist to see if anything can be/needs to be done for the chipped tooth.

Last night at dinner I told him about the appointment and he exclaims, "I don't WANT to get it fixed!"

Why? Do the first grade girls think it makes you look all rugged and handsome?

"NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!" He puts down his fork and stomps away from the table.

Seven-year-olds....no sense of humor.

Like Mother, Like Son

Last night, The VP secured the Uber-Babysitter from up the road and took me out to dinner. Afterwards, we headed over to a bookstore. Thanks to the generosity of our co-workers, we had a gift certificate to use up, and we splurged on books and magazines. Magazines are a special treat. A guilty pleasure. I rarely buy them for myself; anything that costs over fifty cents should go on a shelf when you're done with it. It feels so wasteful to toss a magazine in the recycling. And no, I'm not about to start collecting Log Home Design like some people collect National Geographic.

So, with bellies full of food and piles of reading material, we return home. I can't wait to get the kids in bed and curl up with the article of how the Smith family's 7-bedroom, 4-bath, 3-fireplace log "shack" in the Rockies was a design challenge for the architects.

We open the front door, and The Senator comes running to meet us. "I chipped my tooth!"

He's smiling. Proud as can be.

Honey, let me see. He grins and shows us a front tooth that looks like a small rodent took a bite out of it. Big chip. The VP leans over, sees the damage and hollers, "Oh my God!"

The Senator's face fell. Lips start trembling. Tears are welling up in his eyes. Obviously not the reaction he was expecting. And then this child prodigy of mine says, "Well, it will grow back, right?"

I hang my head. The VP goes ballistic. "Why do you think they call them permanent teeth?! No, that's NOT going to grow back! How did this happen?!"

Apparently, Uber-Babysitter was dishing up ice cream in the kitchen and called for The Senator to come partake. He was running out of the bathroom (tile floor), and slipped and broke his fall with his face.

She said he was laughing when he got to the kitchen, and he ate the ice cream, so the chip must have cleared the nerve.

I'm so glad she didn't call us.

Added to our To-Do list today, now, is calling our dentist to see if he can grind down the sharp edges. Good thing I've got some new magazines to read in the waiting room.

It's Alive!

Someone must have put some Red Bull in Grandpa Clark's oatmeal this morning. The Twin Cities most benign, pabulum-spewing radio talk show host stepped a little out of character on this morning's program. The topic was illegal immigration and Willie was foaming and ranting and generally showing that there was indeed a pulse behind the voice. I had to look at the radio to make sure I was still listening to am1500.

What prompted the new vituperation?

I'm thinking someone in management was handing out ultimatums - "Do something different or the Greyhound ticket back to South Dakota is in your next paycheck." And the message was probably delivered over a piece of cake at Chris Krok's office farewell party.

Apparently I'm not the only one with that opinion. One caller berated Willie, saying that turning into a racist bigot was the only way Clark could get folks to call into the show. Ouch.

Meanwhile, this morning the powers that be at am1500 are no doubt calling a meeting to come up with some new ideas on how to attract some quality on-air talent. Someone will suggest that management needs to be proactive and start thinking outside the box. Someone else will use the buzz words "paradigm shift." And two hours later, they will all agree that they need a new mission statement. As for the original problem of attracting a talk show host? Another meeting will be scheduled. All those who didn't speak up at this morning's meeting are thinking, "I hope they get brownies next time because these cookies are drier than cardboard."

Wabbit Season! Duck Season! Elk Season?!

Not too much happening around The Outpost today. Although I hear elk season started.

Elk season? In Minnesota? You didn't know we had an elk season? Well, we don't. Unless your neighbor's elk breaks out of their pen and starts roaming the countryside. Yesterday the school bus had to stop and wait for a couple of cows to clear the road. Cows that got their number bumped to the tip top of the butcher's list. Poor wretches. Poor tasty wretches.

Setting Ourselves Up To Break Another New Year's Resolution

Yesterday we signed up for a new health club. We belong to one of the big chain clubs in the cities, but it's just too far away. At least, that's our excuse for shelling out a wad of cash each month not to use it.

So we decided to check out the Gold's Gym in nearby Buffalo. If we enrolled, it would cut the drive time in half. That alone was nearly the deciding factor. We might actually go to the gym if we could be back home on a school night before 9 p.m.

Other than proximity, my big wants included racquetball courts, a pool, and perhaps a few pieces of exercise equipment. I don't do aerobic classes. I am not going to be pumping iron with over-bulked gorillas in our under-sized club tank tops. I would never use tanning beds. Nor would I use the services of some peppy young man named Chad who will chastise me on not completing 30 reps on the overhead press and will look crestfallen when he hears I had cheesecake for dessert the previous evening. Nope. Simple wants have I.

So we go to Gold's, and we got a tour from a laid-back yet focused young man who believed in his club. He was a DISCIPLE. A FITNESS ACOLYTE. He wanted to talk about signing up for a PERSONAL TRAINER who wouldn't allow you to PLATEAU on your fitness regime. He bowed before the altar of powdered supplements that will turn your morning juice into the ELIXIR of EVERLASTING HEALTHY LIFE. And he was a genuinely nice guy.

We took the tour, checked out the rates, and signed on the dotted line. Normally I like to take the paperwork home and think it over for a day or two, but no need in this case. When I saw the locker rooms, I would have paid twice the monthly fee.

There is a family locker room. I could never take the boys swimming by myself at our old club because men over the age of three weren't allowed in the womens' locker room. My thoughts on sending a four-year-old into the mens' locker room unattended? Hell, frigid temps, etc., etc. Now we have access to a great set-up where we can stick together and still have a lot of privacy.

And the women's locker room? Clean, spacious, and lockers the size of friggin' MONTANA. At least, compared to the spaghetti box-sized lockers at our old place.

I'm getting giddy just thinking about those lockers. In fact, I'm in such a good mood now, I might just buy some powdered supplements when The Gov and I go swimming this morning. And a XXS tank top.

Internal Posting

So the lads at Fraters Libertas are looking for an intern. I was thinking I might apply for the job. But then I read some of the job requirements:

All you'll need is a telephone, internet access, and a positive attitude. Qualified applicants should be web savvy, have an ear for baloney, know how to mix an excellent Manhattan, be proficient in Photoshop, have a well-honed BS detector, and live for research.

Unfortunately, I am not web savvy, I don't know how to bartend, and I thought Photoshop was browsing through clothing catalogs until The VP set me straight. I do, however, have an ear for baloney. Let me give you an example. That paragraph above? Pure baloney. Why? Because they all have significant others who read the site. If it weren't for the ball and chain factor, the job description would have read:

Must be willing to wear blue dress and know the difference between a Swisher Sweet and a Carlos Torano 1916 Cameroon Robusto.

Either way, I'm unqualified. Good luck, boys.

"Mrs. Camp? This Is The School Nurse..."

Ahh..the call every parent loves to hear. After spending most of Monday with my head in the toilet (stomach flu, Kevin. Don't even think about suggesting otherwise), today it appears to be The Senator's turn. Threw up in the hallway at school. Good boy! All those years when he had reflux and I would constantly remind him that hard surfaces are easier to clean up than carpet paid off. I will be expecting a thank you card from the school janitor by the end of the week.

The Governor got the short end of the stick today on this one. After running several errands with me and spending a lot of quality time in his car seat, I had promised him a trip to McDonalds. We were about two minutes from the golden arches when the nurse called. "Sorry, little man, we're going to have to skip McDonalds and go right to school to get The Senator."

To his credit, The Gov didn't scream for long. He cut it off quickly and asked, "Can I still have a brownie when we get home?" You betcha ya.

We get to school and the nurse tells us that The Senator is begging to go back to class. I take one look at him and start laughing. He looks like hell. He's about ready to cry and puke. "Sorry, kid. Against your wishes, I'm taking you home to sit on the couch, watch cartoons, and drink lemon-lime soda. I know this will send you into therapy, but one day you'll bring yourself to forgive me."

We made it home without incident. I threw a brownie in front of The Gov, a bucket in front of The Senator, and myself in front of the computer.

Once again, Mother of the Year is locked up tight.

You Ever Get That Restless Feeling Like You Need To Stir The Pot Or Poke Someone With A Sharp Stick?

Me neither.

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So, Kevin...why haven't you posted today? Huh? Not feeling so hot? Let me guess. You were out having one too many of these:

It's okay to admit you can't handle your fruit juice, youngster.

Happy New Year

For the first time in a long time, I awoke on the dawn of the new year with no headache and no fuzzy tongue. I'm really disappointed I missed the neighbor's party, but it was refreshing not to have to pop handfuls of asprin all day.

I'm getting old. No. Wait. I AM old. I'm enjoying feeling healthy more than complaining about a hangover. So long youth.

So today I've been cleaning the long-neglected house. Not just shoving clutter into closets, but dusting and polishing and washing. The Senator doesn't particularly enjoy days like these because his room often comes under fire. The Governor, however, seems to like our quarterly Hyper-Cleaning Day. Perhaps too much. He just informed me that if the house didn't smell "sweet and refreshing" when his dad got home from work, there was "going to be some trouble around here."

Only 14 more years until I can kick his dictatorial little bottom out of the house.