Random bits of my so-called life.

Who are you for? What are you for? I am going to vote for Obama, I think. Republicans, don’t quit reading yet, please! I think Obama is a wonderful person and I loved his race speech last spring. The one about his white grandmother, et al. I think that we need to address that issue in this country in a way that doesn’t continue to oppress those who are not WASPs but still not induce guilt in whole generations of WASP-type people who had no hand in the oppression of people who are not WASPs. Like me. Didja get all that? But that is not why I am going to vote for him. And I’m not sure that he’s any better than any of the other candidates. I think that McCain is a good person too. I can’t imagine spending, what was it, five *years* in a prison camp. He knows some things that most of us cannot even imagine. Will they help him run the country? I dunno. And I admire Hillary more than I thought I might a few years ago. ‘course she’s not running. I’m not sure that *any* of these people have what it takes to run our country with all of its hugely complex issues. If there is a person on earth (or somewhere in the universe) that does have what it takes, they are certainly not running. I vote less *for* a person than *against* things that I don’t think should be on the political platform. Sorry. I have my litmus tests. *Those* do not belong on my blahg. And putchyer flame throwers away. I have my flame-proof clothing on.

If you *want* to, tell us who you are planning to vote for. And why. No proselytizing, please. And no flaming. Of me or anyone else. If you don’t wanna tell, I’m cool with that. Sit out there and watch the boats go by or whatever you do wherever you are. Love you anyway!

I don’t know the women in the picture, I stole it from the A2 Snooze, but I do so want that Macky-Nack Bridge hat-type thing. Where can I get one?

Yes, I am a road warrior. It comes naturally enough. I think it’s in my DNA somewhere. I remember before the I75 SUV Speedway existed, at least in the Great Lake State. In fact, the Mackinac Bridge didn’t exist when I started bopping up and down from Da Yoop to Megalopolis, where my maternal extended family lived. We took a fairy ferry (yes I really did type “fairy” there). We didn’t have child car seats or seat belts back then and there was no McDonald’s drive-thru and any rest areas that existed were putrid outhouses. It took something like 11 hours to drive from Sault Ste. Siberia to Megalopolis in those days. We would leave at three in the morning in order to catch the first ferry. I can remember being woken up and dressed in my cute little wool plaid skirt from Canada and bundled into the old black Ford. I can remember hanging out with my dad on the deck of the ferry across the Macky-Nack Ditch Straits of Mackinac. My brother may have been on the last of those ferry trips. The bridge opened three months after he was born.

Eventually, the I75 SUV Speedway was finished through to exit 394 and if you miss exit 394, you are at the International Bridge. It is a good idea if, when you get to the International Bridge, you haven’t smoked so much pot that you’ve forgotten that you’ve already crossed the *Mackinac* Bridge because, after you cross the International Bridge, you will encounter the nice folks at the Canadian customs and if there is “stuff” in your vee-hickle they will not be amused. They don’t do that at the tollbooth at the north end of the Mackinac. And, no, I have never been in that particular situation! What were you thinking? But there are people out there who get confused.

So, time fast forwards like it always does, ho-hum. And suddenly I was “grown up” (say what?) with two little beach urchins and I found myself in the jet set! Make no mistake. I was in the jet set that involved an aging minivan filled with stuffed aminals and other crap. Heck, for a while, we had our own outhouse in there. A dry-wall bucket topped with a potty seat! Hey, it’s better than peed-up seats, eh? Grinch, maybe you are in the wrong business.

All the best parenting books and magazines always seem to say the same thing, along the lines of, “if you are taking road trips with babies and toddlers, you need to stop frequently to let them, [oh, I dunno,] run wild or eat or pee or whatever.” Kee-reist! If you have a five hour drive that you do frequently, sometimes it is better to just hunker down and go for it. In my not-so-humble-opinion, the fewer hours on the road the better. You are less tired when you get to your destination. I mean, if somebody says they need to stop, I do, I just don’t encourage it. I *do* try to combine bathroom stops with gas/coffee/whatever stops.

That’s not to say that we don’t sometimes just take a slow trip up north or wherever. If we can manage the time, we take the old highways — that’s where you see most of the beautiful scenery. But if I’m heading up there after working a five-day week and have to drive back on Sunday to be at work on Monday, I will be flying the Honda Express.

Love you Marquis. Thanks for inspiring me to write this. The Marquis has a wonderful blog which is often about bicycling. Go there or be square.

Jennifer Granholm, that is. Esteemed governor of the Great Lake State, aka Michigan. Jennifer, can we talk? Yaknow, the Zilwaukee bridge on the northbound side of the I75 SUV Speedway has been closed all summer. I know that and every time I take a road trip, I know that I can make a calculated choice about whether it’s worth it to take the risk of getting stuck in a trenormous traffic backup or go the Lansing route. Which is a little longer but a lot less insane without the huge numbers of monster trucks that insist on passing on the right. And yes, I also know that we are in yet another energy “crisis” (how many of them have we had now?) and I should prob’ly not be going on all these road trips. But. Hello? Whaddya do if you have property and octo-women up in the Great White North. To the best of my knowledge, there is no passenger train that goes up there and flying? You can’t get there from here. I’ve looked into flying to da Yoop and that’s prob’ly a subject for a whole ‘nother blahg post but the gist of it is that it would prob’ly take me longer than driving and then I’d have to arrange for ground transportation at the other end. Not to mention that it would probably leave a bigger footprint than me and my Cute Little Blue Honda Civic anyway. I don’t think so.

Yesterday, we were heading down the southbound I75 SUV Speedway. We were making really good time and I took what I *thought* was a calculated risk and made the asinine (as it turned out) decision to *continue* all the way south on the I75 SUV Speedway instead of going down through Lansing. It took us SIX AND A HALF BLASTED HOURS to get home!!! That’s at least one and a half hours longer than usual. Why? Because the SOUTHBOUND Zilwaukee bridge is now closed!!!! WHO KNEW??? Where was this advertised? The fancy lucky-shucky sign just south of Grayling — BEFORE the freeways split — proclaimed the message, “STAY AWAKE”. Fine. That’s really good advice for anyone driving a motorized vee-hickle. But what about programming the fancy lucky-shucky sign to say, “SOUTHBOUND ZILWAUKEE BRIDGE CLOSED”? Hmmm? Because I had NO idea about that until I was TRAPPED in the resulting jaffic tram. Er, traffic jam. Er, whatever. If I had seen that on the sign just south of Grayling, I wouldda grabbed the steering wheel away from Mouse and swerved us off onto US127 and on down through Lansing. Yes, there *is* a construction sign somewhere between Bay City (where the slowdown started) and I675 (the detour). Guess what. If you are in the left of three lanes of bumper-to-bumper traffic that are barely inching along, you cannot see it.

Jennifer? Not fun. Most of us cannot travel via helicopter or limo or whatever. And, energy crisis or not, I do have to make road trips to the Great White North. Frequent ones.

The photo does not have anything to do with this post. I just thought anyone who didn’t know Fin Family Moominbeach might be confused about our kayak/canoe trip to the island that I wrote about yesterday. The quick and dirty red arrows point out our approximate points of departure from the beach and landing on the island. It’s about a half mile between the two and you can kayak it in calm weather in about, oh, I dunno, six minutes or so? Really.

Oh. Just for Grandmothertrucker, when I talk about “monster trucks”, I am talking about big-profile SUVs, not 18-wheelers. And I’m even stereotyping about that. Crazy drivers inhabit all types of vee-hickles. Godspeed, young Grandmothertrucker.

Love y’all, KW

Okay, enough of the phone pic posts for a while. I promised photos from our exciting island expotition yesterday, so here they are. And it was exciting, at least for the folks who supervised from the beach and were ready to call the Coast Guard. I guess it was pretty exciting for us too. Thank you VERY MUCH Jan and Pete for standing at the ready with your motorboat in case we needed it!

Radical Betty expressed a desire to explore the island this weekend and after getting rained or winded out multiple times, the severe storms of yesterday morning cleared and the wind calmed and off we went. The major mission involved taking a look at the remains of the old stone lighthouse that used to be out there and it was a rousing success after braving a climb up a steep and slippery slope and a trek through guano-covered raspberry bushes.

I have kayaked around the island a bunch of times in the last few years but I haven’t really walked on the island since about the dark ages. Back then, there was actually a path from the landing to the lighthouse and at least one of the walls of the structure still stood. The structure was visible from the Doelle end of the beach until one day when Radical Betty was walking down there and realized it was gone. Fallen down.

Seagulls have always roosted (is that the right word?) on the island but back in the early 80s or so, cormorants started taking it over. Their guano destroyed a lot of the trees, as you will see if you click through the slideshow.

While we were out there, the wind came up and it was a fast ride in to shore and a bit of a squirrely ride for me in my little Walden Vista. It’s a great little boat but it is not really made for whitecapped waves on Gitchee Gumee. Even the little whitecaps we had yesterday. It was okay but a rudder would’ve been handy. But we made it and then swam, to wash off the guano. Oh, and I got in trouble because I did not have my [$600!] phone out there with me so that I could be contacted with the news that the wind had come up. Which I already knew. Go figger. Anyway, The Commander is supposedly making a breakfast, so I think I will end this clunky little description of our island trip. Maybe I’ll tweak it later. Or maybe not. Anyway, you can click here or on the pic for more photooooooos.

Updated to add that, in addition to Mouse’s frog stow away passenger, she had a real live toad in her kayak. We considered liberating him when we got *to* the island but decided he’d be happier at the beach, so we took him *back* too.

First of all, thank you guys for actually *sending* me some of your good news. I loved all of it. It has sure been one of “those” weeks. Or two weeks. Or whatever. You know the kind. When all hell breaks loose at once. Anyway, not a half hour after I wrote that whiny eop post, my phone went jingly-jingly with a ringtone that I didn’t recognize. In a fit of millennialism (the generation, that is, the one that I don’t belong to), I assigned ring-tones to various people. The GG is a sci-fi type sound, Lizard Breath is a duck, and Mouse is a cricket, and I can’t remember what The Commander is, probably God Save The Queen or something. And I apparently assigned one to Uber Kayak Woman but I don’t remember doing it, so I didn’t recognize the ring-tone. But when I grabbed for my phone, there was UKW, big as life! We’ll be seeing each other this weekend and hearing her voice was just what I needed.

The occasion marks UKW’s graduation from nursing school at the ripe old age of, well, she’s the same age as me, so you guys should know if you’ve been reading for a while. She has spent the last 15 months in an accelerated RN program for people with other undergrad degrees. She attended the Univerity of Southern Maine, in Portland, Maine, and is now heading back across the country to her home on Lopez Island, Washington. With a stop in the Yoop to visit her moom and Green Guy. I once told some friends who are about our age that she was embarking on a nursing career and they were horrified that someone our age would undertake such a back-breaking career. I was at a loss for words to describe UKW and all of her kayaking and hiking and avalanche-skiing adventures. A fearless Amazon woman who dreams of plans to take her newly acquired medical skills and knowledge to Africa.

I greatly admire her courage in all of her endeavors. Girls, 50 is the new 30. It’s a great time to pursue your dreams. Don’t be afraid. Make it happen!

Congratulations Uber Kayak Woman, seeya soon! Wish I were driving with you.

Life is marginally better today. A new regurgimatator is on the way and I’m headed north tomorrow. And speaking of The Commander, I guess I better make a call up there.

It’s bad enough that the regurgitator seems to be on its last legs. I mean ice cubes are supposed to be frozen, right? I also managed to arrive at work today with no lunch. Oh, I had the bag. There was just nothing in it. It’s okay. It was just a peanut butter sandwich. It’ll survive forever, even in a dead regurgitator. I know. Once when I was in junior high, I accidentally ate a 2-week-old peanut butter sandwich that had gotten lost in my locker, then resurfaced and exchanged itself with my current lunch. I did not get sick and The Commander is still laughing about it. But here I thought I was ahead of the game, making enough peanut butter sandwiches for the week on Sunday morning. Roight.

It’s never a good time for a major appliance to die but I cannot figger out why whenever I start feeling like I am just around the corner from being ahead of the game, I get kicked in the you-know-what. $700 to the transmission shop last week. I paid that particular bill kicking and screaming, believe me. I was *not* fun to live with. This week it’s the blasted regurgitator. It was coming. We had trouble with it last winter. There are still several electrothermofragmaglobulators in there from that episode. 52.5 degrees inside one of the vegetable crispers. Woo hoo!

I do not want to pay for a new regurgitator right now. I want to get one when I finally get to re-do the ugliest kitchen on earth. I have one little smidgen of counter space. I want to move the blasted regurgitator out of its little niche and extend my little smidgen of counter space around the corner and put a new regurgitator across the room where the ugly table is. Yes, I liked the table when we moved in. But I don’t any more. That was 24 years ago, fer kee-reist! But I don’t think we are *quite* ready to rip out and re-do the whole blasted kitchen. Just yet. Because we still have one more year of expensive private liberal arts college tuition to pay. I just got the bill for the first quarter of the 2008-09 school year yesterday. Do not get me wrong. It is well worth it to do whatever you possibly can to help your children get the best possible education your family can manage. Reach high! You go, girls!

Anyway, for now, I guess we’ll get whatever regurgimatator fits into the slot that the current regurgimatator is in. I have lived with all kinds of regurgimatators in my life including one with little wooden freezer doors that hooked shut and one that my beloved father-in-law installed in the garage at Houghton Lake, just for me. At least that’s what he told me. But yes, we *will* be buying a new one. Soon. Because 52.5 degrees is not cold enough. And yes, the setting is on HIGH! I just hope we can get something besides a GE this time. Even the Big George delivery guys were skeptical when we bought the current one. Yep. It was the only one that fit.

I am just superstitious enough to believe that stupid old adage about trouble coming in threes. I hope whatever the third thing turns out to be is related to appliances or whatever. People please be careful. Touching wood now. Big time.

Oh, and if you have gotten here by googling “trailer trash”, you guys, it’s just a stereotypical phrase. I sometimes feel like I am living in a camping trailer but I am not. But I have been in “trailers” that were bigger than my house. That title? It’s the name of my band. So retract your fangs, fer kee-reist.

Well, yesterday was my 1000th post and what the heck did I post about? Going to Ikea? It’s okay, that’s only my 1000th post within the framework of Wordpress. I rolled my own for a few years before I finally dragged my blahg into 21st century technology, so it’s probably more like the 2500th or thereabouts.

I can’t really blahg about what I wanna blahg about today. I’m sorry. I’m so close to the finish line but I just have that little bitsy bit to go. I can’t do it. So, since vee-hickular trauma has been on the brain in one form or another for the last week or so, I’m gonna list the vee-hickles I’ve known. Too bad the Ol’ Boy isn’t around in a form where he can easily correct me.

Anyway. The Old Black Ford. I don’t know what year that thing was. It was there when I was born. I remember taking rides down to St. Ignace to watch them build the Mackinac Bridge (yes, I really remember that) or down to the locks. I don’t know if the Ol’ Boy would remember that vee-hickle or not.

The ‘57 Ford. Two-tone. White and light green. Memories of that vee-hickle mainly include something about the Old Coot taking it to the Ford dealer to have a persistent problem with one of the doors fixed and they kept fixing the muffler. Go figger.

1962 (or 61?) Corvair. Not a particularly reliable vee-hickle. Almost couldn’t get home from Funny Grandaddy and Bolette’s house in Day-Twa once. Several years after we got rid of it, we figured out that one of my high school boyfriends had bought it. Not from us though. He didn’t have it by the time I knew him. He was driving a Gremlin by then. ‘member those?

Lemme think. VW Bug in about 1966 and Pontiac Tempest in around 1968. I remember the bug well but the Tempest was my driver’s license vee-hickle. No power steering, folks.

We “inherited” Grandma’s 1965 (?) Ford Fairlane in about 1970 or so when she gave up driving. That put us up to three vee-hickles. For most families like mine, that was a lot in those days. I got in my one and only wreck (knock on wood) in that Fairlane, on glare ice right in front of the funeral home. It was not my fault.

A second VW Bug came in the late 60s and I learned to drive stick in that vee-hickle by convincing The Commander that the only way I could learn it (besides going out driving with my not-very-patient pilot father) was to just *drive* it, already. I stalled once in the intersection of Ashmun and Easterday and never again.

There was a fancy Buick in there somewhere and the blasted Ford Pinto wagon that I ended up with. I think I have blocked what model year that thing was but it turned out to be a total piece of crap. Rusted out like crazy and left me on the side of the freeway more than once. *Not* a good vee-hickle for a young woman.

Ford Fiesta! 1979! My first *new* vee-hickle. $5000. Remember those days? Ran into the GG shortly after that. He was driving a crappy old Gremlin (’member those?) and after his moom had rescued him with a jump about one too many times, he took a cue from me and bought a Fiesta! 1980. Those vee-hickles became Mama’s Little Gold Car (mine) and Daddy’s Little Blue Car (the GG’s) and The Orange Car lived down the street.

VW Jetta. 1985. When we decided that we were dead tired of dealing with a baby and a two-door vee-hickle.

Plymouth Voyager minivan. 1989. When we decided, after a summer of babies and persistent 100-plus temperatures and no A/C anywhere, to buy our first air-conditioned vee-hickle.

The Indefatigable! 1992. It’s first name was “My Midlife Crisis” (not *mine*, the GG’s). Rear-ended on the southbound I75 SUV Speedway when it was three months old and still going.

Plymouth Voyager minivan. 1996. Lemon. Yes, the old POC. Never left me on the side of the road like the blasted Pinto did. Just nickel and dime. Nickel and dime. Still. It was a beautiful vee-hickle and I cried when we sold it.

Honda Accord. 2001. My GM engineer bro’ (The Ol’ Boy) steered me toward this “foreign” automobile and I am still driving it. With love.

Honda Civic. 2005. Our newest vee-hickle. We bought it days after my brother died. He knew we were fixing to buy one and his last email message to me had the subject “Wheels?”

In the pic is the 2001 Honda Accord. When it was new. The Ol’ Boy was skeptical that we could obtain this particular vee-hickle quickly, so when we did, I posted that pic. His reaction? Something like “Holy shit! Where’d you get that?” Bwa-ha-ha. You can see my old blue 1996 Voyager in the background.

What kind of vee-hickles do y’all remember?

Okay, I’m not sure if I was technically kneering or not but I don’t really know the rules about taking photos inside stores. I mean, of stuff in the stores, not people I’m with, etc., which prob’ly *is* harmless enough.

Every time I visit Mouse’s apartment, I think that she needs some shelves and maybe a table or whatever. It’s a cozy little studio apartment in an old house that has been broken up into apartments and there isn’t space for a whole lot of stuff but storing things on the floor does get a little old. I would know. And Mouse is not one of those college kids who sit around drinking beer and smoking pot until they fall asleep in front of the boob tube with the test pattern on. You know the ones. She is always busy with various prodjects, school-related or otherwise, and they require supplies and books and stuff. Oh, and don’t get the idea that she’s some little goody-two shoes suck-up, either. She’s just herself. Anyway, today, finally, after months of procrastinating and dithering, we launched an expotition. To Ikea, about 20 miles or so over in Megalopolis. We went there once before, two years ago, and you’d think I’d be able to drive right straight to it. And so did I, but no. I nonchalantly told Mouse to turn *off* the road we were *supposed* to be on, onto another road that more or less paralleled it several miles to the north. When we hit Newburgh Cemetery, where all my Day-Twa ancestors are buried, I knew we had gone too far.

We finally made it after quite some fuddly-duddling around and iPhone looking up and just plain instinct. On Mouse’s part. So, did I get dizzy in Ikea this time? Once or twice, but I managed to hold it together somehow. Ikea is a learning curve. The first time we went there, two years ago, we had a rather specific shopping list. We didn’t find the things *on* our list. We did find a couple of things that were *not* on our list. I got seriously dizzy in the warehouse area but, all in all, it was okay because we made it outta there $11.00 lighter. Yes. That is all. We were overwhelmed by the whole thing.

Today. Another rather specific list. Mouse had the foresight to write down the names and numbers of the things she was interested in. Now if one of us had realized that we also needed to write down the warehouse aisle numbers? Yeah. I was still overwhelmed but much less so than last time. I did not get dizzy in the warehouse section. We were too busy finding the items she ended up wanting to buy. We still managed to confuse the poor cashier but after I apologized profusely for being a such a klutz, she removed her grizzly bear costume. I think by our third trip, we’ll have it down. And that’ll probably be two years from now, given our shopping habits. We were *exhausted* at the end. And ravenously hungry. Fortunately, just as we were futzing around about where to find food, a Panera loomed out of the mist parking lot.

The take? Glass shelf modules and a coffee-type table that can be used for prodjects. Or doing homework. Or serving food. Or tea. Or whine. And it has a shelf underneath the top for more storage. And we all know how that kind of thing goes — the more places there are to stash *stuff*, the more *stuff*. Oh, and some cute glasses (they’re in the slideshow) We were both *exhausted* when we got home today. Did I already say that? I felt like I had walked 11 miles from the Smith Bridge to the Chase Bridge and kayaked 11 miles back. The Ikea Death March. What did we spend? Well. Significantly *less* than I expected and a *fraction* of what was spent at Haas Transmission earlier this week.

My hands-down favorite part of the day was the part where we drank coffee and knit at the Plum Market Cafe before getting on the freeway. Click here or on the pic for iPhone-type pics of our expotition.

I guess it makes sense that I’m still doing my morning walk since there is still an old grumper around here. I only do my full afternoon walk on weekends anymore. I guess that’s because there aren’t any teenagers around here any more? Or maybe it’s because I have a *job*, a *real* job, which is what I tell all the people along my afternoon route that have come out of the woodwork to ask worriedly why I don’t walk anymore. Er, well, I do, I just don’t *usually* walk in the *afternoon*. Except on the weekends. The ones when I’m home here on The Planet Ann Arbor.

Oh well. This afternoon, I had to change my route a little bit. I have had the same afternoon route for years. It has evolved from a day when teenagers were haaaaannnnging around the house bickering or whatever on a hot, steamy summer day and we were under a severe thunderstorm watch. I needed to walk but I didn’t want to get caught out there in lightning, which I am highly respectful of*, and I don’t think anyone younger than us parents could drive yet, so I couldn’t call anyone to pick me up. So, I figured out a twisty turny route that would allow me to quickly dip back home if you-know-what hit the fan.

Well. Today is Saturday and I didn’t have to work and it was a perfect day to do my afternoon route. Except that as I got out to Miller, I looked down the sidewalk and I could see my friend “Dorothy” (names have been changed) out there picking up every single last itty bitty two-inch twig on her beautiful little front lawn. Erk. I like Dorothy but. Sigh. Dorothy is an older woman. She is absolutely beautiful, thin, perfectly preserved and coiffed, and always dresses as if she stepped out of a bandbox. Kayak Woman? Not so much. I know that Dorothy grew up in Grosse Pointe, that one of her sons is a prosecutor here on the planet and the other is a priest and she drives a Cadillac. I think I believe this stuff but I’m not sure. But who cares?

I actually don’t think there’s anything wrong with Dorothy except that she seems to be a bit OCD. About her lawn, at least. Who knows what’s inside the house. I’m not sure I wanna know. And I think she’s lonely!!! I think the prosecutor and the priest probably don’t keep her entertained enough and maybe whatever grandchildren there are have grown up and moved to Timbuctoo. The problem is, when I walk by her house and she’s outside picking up sticks, she engages me in conversation. That would be fine, except that she doesn’t know when to quit. So, because I care about her, my brain and mouth are hanging out in one place and my whole body is trying to head down the sidewalk.

When I walk, it’s hard for me to stop and talk. My walks are when I process stuff. It’s not quite the same as REM sleep dreams (I have plently of those) but it’s a similar thing. I do stop and talk sometimes. To old friends from the Haisley Mafia that haven’t moved out to McMansionville. Or quick hellos to other walkers I see every day. But I cannot do one-sided conversations and both people have to know when to let go. Let that frazzled woman (me) keep going down the sidewalk, please. So, today, I took a detour. From Dorothy. I felt guilty. But.

I am not a good conversationalist from the get-go. But I *think* I can read when people really don’t want to talk any more and try to end the conversation gracefully. Actually, sometimes I think I end things too soon, thinking that whoever I’m talking to is probably totally bored with whatever I might have to say. We all have interesting things to say and boring things to say. I have a hard time telling people all of the stuff that’s happened to me in my life and especially over the last few years. Why would they want to know? Everyone has their own story. Maybe that’s why I am blathering away here on my blahg! Read or don’t read. Love you either way!

*Mouse had some kind of complaint about my grammar or syntax or whatever. I’m not sure what. She’s undoubtedly right and I have no idea what the blasted subjunctive is but I don’t care. Deal with it!