more TSA Muzak

inspired by nikya one busy knife-ful monday morning. to the tune of "jingle bells"... you know you want to sing it aloud.

Dashing down the pier
with a suitcase full of knives.
I have to catch this plane
which leaves at half-past five.

I've flown with this before.
I don't have time for this.
Why do you people pick on me;
do I look like a terrorist?

Oh, TSA, TSA: all you people suck!
Thousands Stand Around all day just to make a buck.

TSA, TSA: all you people suck!
You only Throw our Stuff Away just to make a buck.

I wrapped my cash in foil
and shoved it down my pants.
You made me take it out;
what the hell is wrong with that?

You stripped me of my watch,
my cell phone and my shoes.
What else should I take off today?
Do my shirt and pants go too?!

(chorus)

TSA Holiday muzak

many people comment about how cheery i am at work. little do they know that it is a grand facade, designed to get me through the trying times, so i can go home and make fun of the stupidity in song. what i'm really thinking....

'The Christmas Song'
adapted for the workplace by kate

Laptops rolling down the x-ray belt,
crashing right onto the floor.
Gallon jugs of expensive shampoo
and strollers wedged in x-ray four.

Everybody's brought some kind of present wrapped up tight;
we can't see what is packed inside:
knives with keys next to wires on block cheese
with vibrating slippers aside.

They know it's time to board their plane.
Their bags are stuffed and loaded 'way beyond what's sane.
We know that every child is gonna cry
'cause mom packed Play-Doh & pudding (those can't fly).

And so I'm offering an Excedrin
Cause headaches shortly will ensue
May your lunches be long enough and your patience run thick:
Merry-happy-Christma-Channu-Kwanzi-kah, to you!




Twelve Pains of the Holidays
adapted for the workplace by kate

twelve things at christmas that are such a pain to me:

12 unwashed patdowns
11 pocket knives
10 zippered pockets
9 children screaming
8 folding strollers
7 foreign tongues
6 ladies corsets
5 No ID's!
4 ounce bottles
3 chainsaws
2 live rounds
1 cat in the x-ray machine

a two-way street

I've been mulling over my first week on full-time status and a few incidents and passenger statements have really just wedged in my craw. Everyone thinks that they, themselves, are infinitely special and should be allowed to skip the screening process just on their say-so. Really? A terrorist would completely agree with you on that one. Right. Self-screening on the honor system. Go ahead, pat yourself down and just tell the police you have an IED strapped to your thigh. I'd give terrorists about 32.7 minutes to jump on that one and then everyone would blame the government for not protecting them again.

According to the Transportation Security Administration's Civil Rights Policy Statement, "the public we serve are to be treated in a fair, lawful, and nondiscriminatory manner, without regard to race, color, national origin, religion, age, sex, disability, sexual orientation, status as a parent, or protected genetic information." What a mouthful. I have interpreted that statement to mean, "everyone," which expands back out to mean, "I am screening all of you to the same degree. None of you are exempt."

You have the right to be treated respectfully. While I cannot vouch for every one of the other 42,999 officers, everyone I work with treats passengers respectfully while maintaining the standards we are required to uphold. That little blue statement goes both ways.

* When you roll your eyes at me after I've suggested three times to put your cell phone through the x-ray machine and then you call me a bitch, you are the one out of line. Dude, I even said "please."
* When you slam your luggage on my hand and yell at me for "making you miss your flight" while I am trying to help you, you'll be unloading your belongings by yourself at the other end. I got up at 2am; I was here on time. I am not to blame for your initial tardiness.
* When you say to me, with your condescending smile, that I am ineffective and that making you disrobe completely before boarding your flight is a waste of your taxpayer dollars, I am more likely to remind you that There's Still Avis. And if you didn't wear 19 layers of clothing and boots that lace all the way up to your neck, accompanied by a collection of no less than 29 bracelets, necklaces, and earrings that could be used as paperweights, you would have far less to divest. Try one layer of clothes, a sweater, slip-on shoes, and pack the bling.
* If you can read your boarding pass and navigate the internet well enough to book a flight, you can read regulations on what to bring and what not to bring from TSA's website. Most airlines have links to that page from their websites as well. If you "haven't flown in years" and haven't educated yourself, then your bag check is your education.
* When you mis-read the website and decide that you can bring anything you like as long as it is in a plastic baggie, you will be given your options: go to the ticket counter and check your bag under the plane; mail each item to yourself at a ridiculous cost of $20 per item (the checkpoint mailers company is not in any way affiliated with TSA or any individual airport); take it out to your car if you can, or give it to someone who may have dropped you off; or voluntarily surrender it. That's right, I said surrender. No one is forcing you to throw it away. You can always just miss the flight, if your shampoo is really that important. Once you scream at me and throw that shampoo, you have just stepped into the bounds of "assault." Keep that in mind. Because if I'm not allowed to swear at you and throw things, I certainly will not stand by and wear my BarbieTM smile and let you. I can pretty much guarantee that my swearing will trump yours. Don't test me.
* Go read this. Then go watch that. Please step back and get your liquids, gels, creams, and aerosols out of my face. Even if it didn't happen here in America, it is still a legitimate threat. A terrorist can just as easily declare, "It's just hand lotion. What's so dangerous about hand lotion??? You people are so stupid."
* I am treating your grandmother with the utmost respect, but she is not exempt either. She may not want to harm a fly, but the truth is, other people in the world could care less about their elders, or family members who cannot protest or fight back. It's old news, but still relevant every day.
* When I tell you what is involved in the additional screening I am about to perform and ask you if you'd like a private screening in a provate room BEFORE we start, that is the best time to say yes. While you are still encouraged to tell me when and if you are uncomfortable, when we pick up all your belongings, haul them into a private (yes windowless) room and begin the process all over again, you can just hold on to all the complaining about how inconvenient it is to start over. You requested it.
* When you wrap wads of money in aluminum foil and tuck it into your underwear, I'm not going to ask you to drop your drawers to see it. I'm going to deny you entrance to the aircraft until you leave, with all your belongings, and remove it. Yuck. (And yes, I use hand sanitizer after handling money ALL THE TIME now.)
* When you deliberately wrap your box cutter or cologne in your dirty underwear to deter me from searching your bag, guess what? Your dirty underwear will be on display for everyone on the checkpoint to see. I will fan that bad boy out and run it through the x-ray so everyone can see what a pig you are. Then I will change my gloves, sanitize my arms and hands AND the bin AND the table befouled by you and move on with my day.
* Please do not attempt to interpret my x-ray images of your bag. You can't even see the screen. Crossing your arms over your chest, checking your watch, sighing dramatically and telling me that I am "a waste of time" does nothing more than distract me from clearing your bag. Most of the time I'm not even looking at the bag of the person making the loudest noise and insisting that "it's just a cell phone; my god, do you need better glasses or something??" So, um, yeah. It's not actually a cell phone and you wouldn't know, since it isn't your bag. I especially love to tell that passenger when it was a training bag and I actually caught a simulated IED. Eat that, buddy.

You have the right to be treated respectfully. And so do I.

caramel apple cake

from Easy Cooking the Costco Way, 2009

this cake was quite literally the perfect end to a fabulous fall day in our house. the sweet-tart of the apple combined with the creamy sweet caramel glaze had my i-don't-like-apples-boy begging for a second piece. the recipe calls for 5 apples, but i don't think i could have squeezed more than four into the pan without making it "apples with cake stuck to the sides." also, i baked mine in a bundt pan for look-at-me points. made the glaze look prettier than on a standard rectangle too.

cake
1 C packed light brown sugar
1 C granulated sugar
1-1/2 C vegetable oil (we use sunflower)
3 eggs
3 C unbleached all-purpose flour
1 tsp baking soda
2 tsp cinnamon
1/2 tsp nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
2-1/4 tsp vanilla
4-5 granny smith apples, peeled, cored & chopped into 1/2-inch pieces
1-1/4 C chopped pecans or walnuts

1) preheat oven to 325* (300* for a dark pan). butter & flour a 9x13 pan.
2) beat sugars and oil until well blended and creamy. add eggs, one at a time beating well after each addition. stir together flour, and spices. gradually add to wet ingredients, mixing until just blended. stir in vanilla, apples & nuts.
3) bake for 50-75 minutes, or until a wooden toothpick inserted in the center comes out clean. a darker pan or bundt may take a bit longer with a lower temperature; check frequently. let cool in the pan (for 15 minutes and invert bundt cake onto serving platter.)

glaze
4 tablespoons butter
1/4 C sugar
1/4 C light brown sugar
pinch of salt
1/2 C heavy cream

4) melt butter in saucepan over med-low heat. stir in sugars and salt; cook for 2 minutes. add cream and boil for 2 minutes, stirring constantly.
5) poke holes in the cake with a wooden skewer. pour glaze over top. serve warm (divine!!) or at room temperature.

coupla camp'n recipes

at the behest of more than one reader, here are a couple of my kids' favorite camping recipes. judging by the number of requests for the soup, it looks like several families will be partaking of chicken noodle soup at our next pack trip!

*Creamy Chicken Noodle Soup*
2 C chicken stock/bouillon
2 cans cream of chicken soup
1 clove minced garlic
2 C chopped cooked chicken
1 C sliced carrots
1 C sliced celery
1/2 C chopped onion
1 T parsley
1/2 tsp thyme
salt & pepper to taste
2 C dry egg noodles

home prep: (i always freeze the meat and veggies i take camping because they double as ice packs in the cooler that way. i can re-use their dishes if i have any leftover soup as well.)
1) cook, chop & freeze chicken.
2) chop & freeze veggies.
3) cook & cool noodles. store in plastic baggie.
4) if using chicken stock, freeze that in quart-sized freezer bags. if using bouillon cubes, never mind.
5) combine dry spices in small tupperware container or snack-size zipper bag.

camp prep: (either propane stove or over the fire)
1) heat frozen stock first, if necessary. otherwise, combine 2 C water & bouillon cubes, add 2 cans of soup. stir til combined.
2) stir in dry spices. add veggies & chicken. heat through. add cooked noodles last.
3) heat 'til bubbly; it shouldn't take more than 10-15 minutes on a good fire. serve with biscuits or toast. serves 6.

FABULOUS on a cold, rainy trip. you can change up the veggies to your family's liking, of course, and if you prefer your soup thinner, just add more liquid. we like ours thick enough that it doesn't run off the spoon on its own. you can easily convert this recipe to a beef stew by changing the stock, veggies, & meat, but keeping the same measurements.

*Backpack Fudge*
1/2 C cocoa
16 oz powdered sugar
1/2 C butter
1 tsp vanilla
3 oz cream cheese

1) combine butter, cheese & vanilla in a gallon FREEZER bag. when squished together, add cocoa & sugar.
2) pass around the campfire and knead in the bag for 30 minutes. knead carefully so the bag doesn't burst! spread in pan and let rest for about 10 minutes. cut & serve. makes about 1 pound. VERY good.

"hi. i'm New."

so i've raised my hand and volunteered for something again. at least this is something i can do while sitting on my butt in front of the tv. see? i'm making time for *me* to sit and relax! i know, i know... but someday i can put all these valuable service hours on a resume, right? yeah-no. not this one. see, this time, i've volunteered to be the Clippin' Queen. that's right, cow-tow and grovel at my feet which, incidentally, are covered with little scraps of trash. behold Her Royal Hiney, Queen Kater, counter and compiler of Boxtops for Education, Campbell's soup labels, and Tyson's chicken labels. oh, and more stuff that i have yet to discover, i'm sure.

so here's what i do: i open the collection boxes in the school lobby, check the expiration dates, count the labels, send them in, and the school gets money. easy, right??

i expected a pretty big haul after the summer months of diligent label-watchers such as myself. and then i got a 30 gallon trash bag half-full from the last label Queen. OMFG doesn't begin to describe it. if i didn't respect the position of the Clippin' Queen before, i sure as hell do now.

first and foremost, what, in the name of prince albert's socks, would possess someone to re-use a plastic zipper lunch baggie to send labels in to the school???? is this personal? because we can meet at the bleachers after school if that's all it is. you pack a ho-ho for little suzy and she brings half home in her peanut butter sandwich bag and you think it's all good to send that sticky bag in to school the next day full of labels that need to be counted? REALLY? that's taking recycling a bit too far. so guess what? i'm not counting it. your effort goes right into the trash.

speaking of "in the trash," those Boxtops have expiration dates. out of the thousands of Boxtops in my living room, i've tossed about $20 worth that are expired. those Pillsbury tube biscuits all expired in june 2009. so did a lot of Old El Paso products. no good, guys. products you buy this week have dates far into 2011, 2012, and even 2013. so, um, where are all these products coming from with dates of 2008, 2007, and even 2006? if the Boxtops expirations are *that* old, you prolly shouldn't be putting that food in your mouth. just sayin'.

being a mother of four, i can totally understand not knowing where the scissors are at every given moment. i have torn the labels off the cans and chunked those boxes up to collect the miniature $.10 school prize. however, could we at least make an effort to cut along those dotted lines that the company so lovingly provides on the label? the little fat Campbell's guy by himself is not the part needed, folks. on some labels that isn't exactly clear, but i really don't need the whole label. especially the food service labels that are the size of an 8x10 sheet of paper. scissors are our friends. just, you know, trim a little bit?

and our final public service announcement goes out to the people who are sending in just random food boxes. check what i got today: Little Debbie cosmic brownies, PastaRoni, Lipton dry soup, Popsicles, Mott's sliced apples (the sticky bag! oooh, fun!), Mini Oreo go-pak, Quaker granola bars, a single Quaker instant oatmeal packet, (insert store brand) toasted oat cereal, Fiber One, Annie's shells & cheddar macaroni (the club store size box), and Land-O-Lakes fresh eggs.... i'm gonna go out on a limb here and say that this family is either new to school and has no idea what "Boxtops for Education" or "Campbell's Labels" are or possibly is new to the country. either way, it looks like i have a flier to create.

after 15 (non-consecutive) hours, i have grouped the labels by point value into gallon-size zipper bags. seven one-gallon-sized zipper bags and a couple of quarts, to be exact. i have counted 2,000 water bottle labels, 3,600 boxtops, and less than 500 soup labels. (i have to cut most of the soup labels out myself because following the dotted lines seems beyond the ability of some label collectors). and after all that counting, i discovered that the water label campaign was finished in april 2009. i did those labels first because they were the most difficult - sticky plastic things that refuse to lie flat for counting. *sigh* that is what my efficiency got me.

and i've taken a leaf out of another Queen's book: i'm sending out for help. "wanted: someone who likes to sit and watch tv and count little sticky scraps of trash." hm. somehow i don't think that want ad is gonna generate much interest. i need to re-work that baby into something like: "assistants needed to sort school labels for cash redemption. no cold calls." that might work. just get here soon. please.

pumpkin pancakes

3 C unbleached all-purpose flour
1/2 C sugar
1/2 C packed brown sugar
3/4 tsp salt
3 tsp baking powder
3 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp cinnamon*
3/4 tsp ginger*
1/4 tsp nutmeg*
4 eggs
1-1/2 C sour cream*
1 can of pumpkin
1 C milk
3/4 tsp vanilla

1. In a large bowl, whisk together the flour, sugar, salt, baking powder, baking soda and spices.
2. In a separate bowl, beat the eggs, adding sour cream, pumpkin, milk and vanilla. Mix well.
3. Pour the egg mixture into the flour mixture and stir until just blended. Spoon a scant 1/4 cup batter onto a preheated, buttered griddle (or a heaping tablespoon for "silver dollar" size). Cook pancakes slowly over a low-medium heat for approximately 4-6 minutes, flipping after 3 minutes, when bubbles break on surface and edges are dry.

yields 36-40 regular pancakes

*for sweeter pancakes, substitute 1-1/2 C french vanilla yogurt for the sour cream and decrease the sugar to 2/3 C. you can also sub in 2 tsp pumpkin pie spice for the 3 spices listed here.

(this recipe feeds 6 dinner-size portions, plus two breakfast leftovers. usually. i don't bother with anything smaller , so i've converted all my recipes to "jumbo-size." you may need to adjust the amounts. or just keep a stack in the freezer! these are pretty thick pancakes too, so you might want to add a dribble of water or milk before cooking. sometimes i do, sometimes i don't.)

marbeled peanut butter fudge

4 C sugar
1 can evaporated milk
1 C butter (i only use butter, but margarine can be used)
1 (7 oz) jar marshmallow fluff
3 C chocolate chips
1 Tbl vanilla
1 C peanut butter (i use super chunky)

1. In a heavy saucepan, boil the first three ingredients for 8 minutes, stirring constantly.
2. Add the next three ingredients, stirring well after each addition. Remove from heat (keep stirring frequently).
3. Pour half of the chocolate fudge into a buttered 9x13x2-inch pan.
4. Dollop peanut butter around pan, and pour the rest of the chocolate fudge on top. Swirl with a knife or offset spatula.
5. (Optional) Place a sheet of wax paper on top of the surface (to keep it from drying too much while it cools) pressing it all the way into the corners of the dish.
6. Chill until set. Depending on the humidity, it could take a couple of days. Slice into bite-size squares. This is a very rich fudge. Makes about 5 pounds.

avast, me hearties

t'day is national talk like a pirate day, see? the flyin' spaghetti monster deity tells tha' the lack of pirates on the high seas is the cause of global warmin', so help yer environment and be a pirate fer a day, see? iffn' ye can't figger it out, hie thee to a translator. stripes, eye patches, hooks and peglegs encouraged. long waxed moustaches preferred. ye've got no exuse fer avoidin' yer duty to yer planet t'day, mates.

git yer landlubbin' arses inta motion er i'll make ye walk the plank!!!

UQ 1998-2001

we lived in the united queendom (because there hasn't been a king in the kingdom for such a long time!!) for about 3 years when stationed there in the air force. we were dirt poor, being the junior-most ranked people, not only of the us air force members, but the entire base. most of the time we were advised to stay confined to our dinky little base in the middle of sheep farm country because of protests against the americans "spying on the british." we lived 3 miles from the nearest village that had more than a post office, 17 miles from the nearest city with a "mall" of sorts, and 2 hours by flying scotsman to london. all that during the petrol strikes and mad cow to boot. the smell of burning flesh will haunt me to the ends of my days. so my opinion of the country is probably a bit jaded, to say the least.

we acclimated to driving on the other side of the road pretty well, but i could not for the life of me handle a left-handed stick, so we were really glad we brought our american saturn with us. i only drove that, but dh could switch between my car and his mini quite well.

the first few months we lived there, we got to know the area, learned some of the history and many experiences we deemed "quaint" and "new." by the end of our first year, many of those things we called quaint were now small daily annoyances. i didn't like being called "duck" or "hen," and i visibly bristled at being called a "colonist," as the locals were want to do whenever i was seen in my humungous 4-door american sedan, or if i opened my mouth. our bank didn't communicate with other branches except by post...even though they could see we had money in our bank account on their computers, they told us we would have to drive to the bank where we originally opened the account to withdraw funds. i didn't like being expected to fix tea for the repair people who were in my home to - gosh, repair things, not gab! the hot and cold water came out of separate taps, so one couldn't wash the dishes without alternately scalding and freezing one's fingers with each rinse. summer was the last 2 weeks of august...and that was it. i went through a more-than-mild-but-not-severe depression every winter when the sun came up as we walked to school at 9 am and the streetlights came on as we walked home at 3 pm. the cold, wet, damp weather seeped into my bones and settled there that first winter and i never quite warmed up again until we'd fried in the arizona sun for a week or so after our return. and the only snow we received was a paltry dusting, so we couldn't even enjoy any actual "winter."

we found the food to be very bland, even at the finest restaurants, although i fell in love with just desserts and their chutney and cheese sandwiches. they make the only chutney i have ever liked. i've tasted others since, and none hold a candle to the nectar from this little coffeeshop specializing in tea, sandwiches and sweets. the combinations of food offered elsewhere blew our little american minds: tuna and sweetcorn pizza? baked bean pizza? ice-lollies? mr. brain's pork faggots - what?!? steamed spotted dick? (no thanks, i'll have apple pie.) fish served wrapped in newspaper from a truck - and the fish was fried whole, eyes and all! broiled tomatoes and cold baked beans on toast - for breakfast? i went into the kitchen and showed the chef at our hotel how to mix up a box mix of aunt jemima pancakes for breakfast. and i bought our own syrup from the commissary to go with it. he tasted some and found them "delightful."

we got a membership to the national trust to tour the history of the country that has been around for centuries and often found that a castle we had driven 2 hours to see was actually only a pile of old stones and a brown sign that said (site of). too many of those disappointments and we stopped going out in search of castles altogether.

BUT.....

we loved nottingham. we couldn't make the 2 hour drive often, but every time was well-worth the trip. we picnicked in sherwood forest and toured the art exhibits in nottingham castle. i miss biking the fen roads through village after village, over fjords, passing fields of wheat with no other sound than our wheels and the occasional car. i miss our house in the village, when we would wake up to the sounds of the horses in their back pasture in the mornings. i miss the fresh produce at tesco. i miss roundabouts. i miss the quiet. i miss the occasional high tea, sitting down with friends for a cuppa and watching the world slow for an hour, because we were all sitting down having a cuppa. i miss the christmas faire. who knew that toting a stein filled with hot mulled cider (or cocoa for the kiddies) and munching fresh roasted or warm, candied chestnuts during a light snowfall could be so magical?

we attended a fabulous medieval banquet, the likes of which i have not ever seen stateside. we dressed in medieval garb and the table was served by bustier-busting wenches laden with pewter pitchers of mead and ale. we were served soup in bread bowls and no utensils, so we sopped the thick heavy stew up in bites of bread. one person carved the several chickens at the table and we ate with our hands, as traditional medieval diners would. i had to scoot down the bull hotel's back stairs on me arse to the waiting car so i wouldn't fall to my death that night. it was fun - and it wasn't just the mead.

we had a wonderful time in our brief visit to scotland. the staggering beauty of fresh snow on ben nevis every morning was a sight to behold. we stopped for tea every couple of hours up there, just to keep warm! and that was in april!! loch ness surpassed my imagination in scope and beauty. we tried haggis on toast that week, and although i won't eat it again, that decision has more to do with how it's made than how it actually tastes.

we loved visiting our friends in knaresborough, in the yorkshire dales. our friends could actually see that bridge in the website's pic from the end of their street. we went to the fall festival and regularly bought the queen's "pink lady apples" at her winter residence in sandringham. we did actually make it to london on a few occasions. we hung out at the zoo in london and hit the hard rock cafe once, also visiting the sherlock holmes museum on baker street. and stonehenge is breathtaking at sunset. that is not a postcard; i took that shot in january 1999.

but we shallow americans pined for our pizza delivery, 24 hour stores, ATM's on every corner, restaurants without any smoking at all EVER, sun, chocolate chips, and proper cake. (sponge and rolled marzipan just never did it for me.) like i said, we miss some things. we plan, someday, to make england a stop on a tour through europe...for a chutney & cheese at just desserts! it's a great place to visit, but i couldn't live there.

getting ribbed in america

"I just ate the most wonderful meal at the Officer's Club," he began -- in Arabic, of course. The students who didn't understand were scribbling notes and frantically flipping through the dictionary. He was late. He was always late for his right-after-lunch class and we just dealt with it. Those of us who could not afford to eat in the Officer's Club even if we were allowed in, just rolled our eyes and prepared for the story of privilege that was about to unfold. He had the flair for the dramatic, from the sharp angles of his eyebrows, down his regal nose, all the way through to the crinkles at the corners of his mouth. He was known by that smile as easy-going, even if strict. His grammar was better than most in his field, and he was respected by student and colleague alike. He was going bald and he was not fighting it. His comb-over looked more as if it was out of respect, to deflect the light from the students' eyes, rather than trying to hide the pate shining beneath that fading rug.

"The meat, she was falling from the bone. The flavor of the ribs was like nothing I have tasted before. That wonderous smoked meat was so good, and so fabulous, I had called to the, the chef to come to my table and I told to him that he was the best chef in all California."

Bjurstrom glanced up from his paper. "You ate ribs at the Officer's Club today?" he asked, with a strange look in his eyes.

"B'il arabia, min fudlik," insisted Dr. Asfoor, which we all knew by now translated to "in Arabic, please."

"You have eaten the ribs in your lunch at the Officer's Club today?" he managed, struggling with the past tense. He licked his index finger and started thumbing through his dictionary, a smile tugging unprofessionally at the edges of his mouth. Those of us who knew him well, knew something was up. We took our direction, however slight and unspoken, from the former Airborne Ranger designated as our class leader.

"Do you want to know where I ate this fabulous meat?" Dr. Asfoor teased the class into conversation. He drew us in, one by one, including us in the details, teaching us phrases and helping us talk around words and verb conjugations we had not yet learned. That is probably why I loved conversation so much. I loved diving right into the unknown and muddling around learning.

Bjurstrom carefully placed his dictionary in the corner of his desk and arranged his notes, while waiting for a lull in the conversation. "I ate ribs at the Officer's Club today, too," he said as proud as a five-year-old holding his first school painting.

Dr. Asfoor, turned to him with a big smile and asked, "Yes, and what else did you eat? Tell us because we cannot go inside, ya rafiq," he joked.

"I ate a salad and some milk. Milk makes a soldier strong. It was a good meal and my stomach is full. I do enjoy a tasty pig."

Dr. Asfoor broke into peals of laughter. "You are a funny student!" he exclaimed. "I love to hear my students tell jokes to me! I could not eat a pig!! They were beef ribs!" He was laughing so hard he was holding his belly and wiping tears from his eyes. I told you he was drama to the core.

Bjurstrom looked around the room and we could see the smile screaming behind his eyes. He was trying so hard to hold it together and it hit me. Dude. Our Muslim teacher just ate pork ribs. And on a Friday, no less, their holy day. And he liked them. The only thing that could make this worse was if he had somehow managed to eat them with his left hand.

"No, really," Bjurstrom brought out the English. "Those were pork ribs."

The classroom got deathly quiet. "No. You are mistaken. They were the beef ribs. Surely they would not serve pork ribs on this army base." He paused for a moment, and before anyone could take another breath he stated, "I must leave."

And leave he did.

He didn't return until Monday, when we heard from all the teachers about Poor Majid Asfoor getting poisoned sick at the Officer's Club on bad meat. He had to go to the hospital and have his stomach pumped. Our entire class snickered and elbowed every time it was mentioned. We tried explaining how much he liked the ribs and how tasty he thought they were, and the conversation was simply derailed, every time. Dr. Asfoor himself, brought in a new lesson plan altogether and dramatically changed the subject permanently. He even pretended not to understand either Arabic or English when the subject was brought up for the remainder of the YEAR.

I guess there are some things better left unsaid.

crockpot chicken cacciatore

from the crockpot cookbook (we have a 5-qt. model)

1 med onion, thinly sliced
3 lb chicken, cut up
12 oz tomato paste
4oz drained mushrooms (or about 3/4 C fresh)
1 tsp salt
1/2 tsp pepper
2 cloves minced garlic
2 tsp crushed oregano leaves
1/2 tsp basil
1 bay leaf
1/2 C dry white wine
1 lb cooked spaghetti

(NOTE: i added 1 can undrained diced tomatoes and about 1 C thinly sliced yellow zucchini because i like my cacciatore veg-ful)

place onion in bottom of crockpot, with drained mushrooms, drained (reserve juices) tomatoes and zucchini. place chicken atop veggies. combine tomato paste, wine, and spices, adding reserved juices from tomatoes if needed. pour atop meat & veggies. place bay leaves in sauce. cover & cook on low - 8 hours or high - 4 hours. serve atop spaghetti.

alcohol screaming

I remember it like it was yesterday. No blacked-out pieces, no waking up in strange places, no cautious uncertainty....I remember just about every detail. After all: most of them went into the police report. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

July 1997. Sweltering heat of Maryland. Plenty of booze laid in from the Class Six. Jello shooters mixed and frigidated the night before. Good friends re-uniting from several bases on the eastern seaboard at my house. Promises of good food (always, i can't let them down), good music (as dh could never let them down either), good drinks and good laughs, plus the added comedy of three dogs and a baby. Bring on the birthday party already.

We invited neighbors, thereby notifying them that we'd be rowdy for a while. But strangely none of them showed up. We cleaned the house like mad, opening windows, re-arranging furniture for the maximum party atmosphere, and cleared out all the land mines in the back yard. Music cranked, bodies arriving, food being eaten...all signs of a rockin' party. Still no neighbors, even though they said they'd come. Strange bunch of co-street-habitants we live amongst. *shrug* Oh well. Their loss.

Nigh about 10:30, I toddled across the street to ask the friendly beings there if they'd like to join us for my champagne toast. I don't know why. It just seemed like the thing to do at the time. I walked in (their front door was open) to a full-blown screaming match between Navy member wife and paraplegic husband. Drunk and giggling, I still decided to ask them if they wanted to come over. Wife responded with a resounding, "Yes. Anything to get away from him!" Back across the street I shuffled, crystal champagne flute in hand, concentrating on making it ring around the edge as I walked. The shouting match followed behind me. And then I heard the screams.

I lurched around (in my own yard by now) to see husband in his wheelchair with a death-grip on wife's hair trying to twist her head off. Literally. In the middle of the street. Her voice was becoming more strangled-sounding when I burst into my home, snatched up the phone and dialed 911. Other neighbors came out of other homes, separated husband from wife on opposite sides of the street and locked his wheels while we waited on the phone for the 60-120 seconds it took for the base police to arrive.

Navy wife was taken into custody "to cool down" (WHAT?!? The victim gets in trouble? Oh, no, it's the military member who gets in trouble, i see.....not) and husband is sent back into the house, under surveillance for a while. Or something. And then the head police dude comes into my house to take the official report from the person who called. Yup. Drunk Katerooni.

He took a long sweeping gaze at the detritus of a former good time strewn from one end of the room to the other. Don't get me wrong. It didn't look like a crack-house, but every horizontal surface was covered with bottles, glasses, and flutes of varying fullness alongside empty jello shooter cups and paper plates of birthday cake and hors d'oerves.

I wiggled my fingers in response to his stare and giggled, "I'm 21 today. I'd offer you a drink, but I know ya just can't stay. Too bad for you, huh?" He chuckled and smiled and began his report.

"Awe you da miwitawy membow?" he Elmer Fudd-ed. oh. my. god. It was all I could do to not laugh in his face. It didn't seem like a good idea. The room was deathly quiet, and I imagined I could hear the sounds of twenty people biting their tongues until they bled. It was the longest drunk twenty minutes of my life and although I couldn't stop smiling, I never managed to laugh outright at the officer's serious lisp. We all waited a full minute after the car door slammed and had driven away before breaking into thunderous peals of laughter.

And the lesson I learned that night? Not "Don't beat your spouse." I already knew that. Not "Don't invite the neighbors." I'm glad I had intervened and was able to call for help when I did. It was simply "Don't drink so much that you can't fill out a police report with a semi-straight face." And the Kater was careful in her drinking habits ever more.

The End.

broccoli stuffed flounder

modified from the Better Homes & Gardens cookbook, 1999

4 to 6 4-oz fresh or frozen skinless flounder, sole, or other mild fish fillets, about 1/4” thick

1-1/2 C frozen broccoli, thawed & finely chopped

1 beaten egg

12 oz onion & chives flavored soft cream cheese OR

12 oz brick style cream cheese, whipped with dried minced onion & chives added

1/3 C grated parmesan cheese

1 C herb stuffing mix

¼ C milk

¼ C dry white wine

1. Thaw fish; rinse & pat dry with paper towels.

2. Drain broccoli, squeezing out excess liquid. Combine egg, half the cream cheese, and parmesan. Stir in the broccoli & stuffing mix. Spoon stuffing onto wide end of each fillet and roll up, securing with toothpicks as necessary.

3. Place toothpick-side up in a greased glass baking dish. Bake at 350* for 30 to 35 minutes or till fish flakes easily with a fork and stuffing is hot.

4. Meanwhile, cook remaining cream cheese, milk and wine in a small saucepan on med-low heat until heated through, stirring often. DO NOT BOIL. Serve sauce over fish.

Extra sauce is tasty on steamed broccoli. Make more if you want to save some for another meal in the week.

WD-40 and needle nose pliers

in case you haven't heard before, i am pretty independent. my mother was always the hand-wringing waif on the side of the road, waiting for a nice strong man to come change her tire. except that she didn't talk to strangers. so it was usually a long wait until my dad could get off work and come rescue his fair maiden. my father wanted me to be different, and i quote, "no daughter of mine will stand helplessly on the side of the road." before i was allowed to take my driver's test, i had to demonstrate my knowledge of the inner workings of my own car. i had to change a tire and the oil & filter. and that included getting the motha f#%*^% jack back into it's place. i had to know how to check for a bad spark plug and maintain the fluid levels in my car. the only time i called for help was for two busted tie-rods in the middle of a busy intersection in the heat of friday night rush hour. tow truck time.

the "knowledge is power" that my father instilled in me carries on to this day. i've trouble-shooted (is that the proper past tense?) my washing machine, bikes and a ceiling fan, ordered parts online and repaired them myself. and when i get stuck, i have friends to help me figure things out. they are the good ol' google-meister, and my favorite book:

Dare to Repair, A Do-It-Herself Guide to Fixing (Almost) Anything in the Home, by Julie Sussman & Stephanie Glakas-Tenet.

i bought the book the day after we signed a contract with a realtor to start looking for our very own house. with no on-call repair folks included in the monthly mortgage payment, i thought it best to figure out how houses work so to better decide when to call a repair person. i read the book cover-to cover in a couple of days. not necessarily an interesting read, but it was well worth stocking up on the info. i called the rental office and asked for a work order on my bathroom sink to "replace the broken clevis strap on the pop-up stopper." when dude got there, looked under the sink and confirmed my diagnosis, he was 1) shocked that i had known the names of the parts and 2) wanted to know how i'd figured out that was the problem, and not a clogged drain. i beamed.

i've used the book quite a lot in the past 3.5 years, and it isn't just repairs. it also has lots of tips on what maintenance needs to be done when, including cleaning dryer vents, refrigerator maintenance and gutters. the last time i picked it up? just this morning. i've never heard of anyone breaking their key off in a lock before. i remember glancing over that and thinking, "if you're breaking keys in locks, there is a lot more wrong with you than just needing a locksmith." well, *ahem* i tripped coming in the front door this morning and bent my key in half, mostly because apparently i decided that the little key would hold me up. in trying to ease it back out again, it snapped. i swallowed the panic rising in my throat, calmly walked three feet to the bookcase, and pulled out my little book of friends.

page 154 had all the info i needed. if you can see the key sticking out, gently spray the keyhole (around the key, not pushing it further in) with WD-40 (or cooking spray, in a real pinch) and use the needle-nose pliers to gently free the key. and don't fall on the keys again. and if i couldn't see the key? i would have called a locksmith for an estimate, and determined which would cost less: extracting the key professionally or running to home depot and replacing the deadbolt altogether. i've done that before. it's cake.

i've just learned today that the same ladies who wrote my favorite chick-book also have branched out into specialties: plumbing and car repair. since we most often call experts to our house for heating and plumbing issues, i'll be requesting that book really soon. and both of our warranties just expired on our 6+ and 7+ year old cars. barnes & noble, here i come!

mocha shortbread rounds

Sophisticated enough for a grown-up tea party, sweet enough to serve for an afternoon snack. Fantastic dunkers, whether in milk, coffee, tea, or cocoa. They also make great gifts, stacked in a plastic bag and tied with festive ribbon.

1-1/2 C unbleached flour
1/2 C cocoa powder
1/4 tsp salt
1 Tbs instant espresso OR
2Tbs instant coffee
1 C (2 sticks) softened unsalted butter
1C firmly packed brown sugar
1/4 C toasted finely chopped hazelnuts (optional)

1. Sift together dry ingredients. Cream butter and sugar on medium speed until fluffy, 2-3 minutes. Add the dry ingredients and mix just until dough forms...do NOT overmix.

2. Separate dough into two sections. Turn onto wax paper and roll into a 2-inch log shape. Use empty paper towel roll for a guide, if necessary. Repeat with the second section of dough. Roll in toasted chopped hazelnuts to add crunch, if desired. Wrap the dough in wax paper and plastic, place in fridge for 1-2 hours, no more than 24. (Logs can be frozen and will keep for one month.)

3. Preheat oven to 250*. Slice the dough into 1/3-inch thick rounds and place them on parchment paper lined cookie sheet. Bake cookies until they are dry and firm, about 45 minutes; do NOT overbake. Let stand on cookie sheet for 5 minutes before transferring to a wire rack.

din-din is what again?

tonight we are eating "but nobody likes it."

yeah. i have 2 extrememly pick y kids and they have to deal with whatever it is i decide to cook. i am the provider and i provide. nowhere in my contract does it say i have to be a short-order cook or fix everyone something that they will like. with the 2 littlest ones, that would be pizza and chicken nuggets for every meal, day in and day out world without end amen. for the record, i fix A LOT of varied meals; the younger ones are just so vocal about their dislikes (which they find after they taste the food, is actually yummy), they never give it a chance without an argument. i have come to the conclusion that they are simply drama whores.

so we have a lot of conversations that go like this:

mom: foooooooood.

child: what is it? ew. i don't like that. i'm only going to eat bread.

mom: how old are you again?

child: five.

mom: then you'll take five bites of each thing on your plate, just like you're told to do every night. (fortunately for them i only put the number of bites they are required to take on their plate, so they usually end up cleaning their plates anyway. sooooo clever.)

child: nooooo! i don't wannnaaaaa! i don't want dessert! punish me with bread and butter! (for clarification, that is what they get if they take one bite of everything and refuse to eat anything more. i will not starve them, but i will not cater to whims either.)

mom: sit down and eat or stand in the corner and you can eat cold nasty food when the rest of us are done.

child: okaaaay. yuck. (pouting. faces from calvin and hobbs cartoons appear, accompanied by gagging sounds.) (or , pouting. then, hey!! this is really good. i don't like it, but i love it.)

i have a take on the classic green bean casserole that makes it into a one-pot meal. i add cooked ground turkey and toss in some rice. one night, i discovered i was out of ground turkey, so i tossed in some frozen pieces of chopped cooked chicken instead. i answered the question of "what is it?" with "nobody likes it so it doesn't matter what i call it." i waited for the gagging sounds to commence and they all went. "wow, mom. this is the best casserole you've ever made!"

so we are having "but nobody likes it" for dinner tonight. and the kids are actually cheering.

webster's ninth

of all the four-letter, one-syllable f-words in webster's ninth (out of date, yes) collegiate dictionary, face fact fade fail fain fair fake fall fame farm fart fash fast fate faun fawn fear feat feed feel feet fell felt fend fere fern fess fete feud fice fief fife file fill film find fine fink Finn fire firm fisc fish fist five fizz flab flag flak flam flan flap flat flaw flax flay flea flee flew flex fley flip flit floc flog flop flow flub flue flux foal foam foil fold folk fond font food fool foot forb ford fore fork form fort foul four fowl frap Frau fray free fret Frey frig frit froe frog fuck fuel full fume fund funk furl fuse fuss futz fuzz fyke, only fuck makes me feel better when i am having a bad day. see, i'm not uneducated. i'm a wordsmith; the words just come to me.

check your mirror

I have been trained to listen.

I had the distinct displeasure of having a supervisor give me a link to a Fox network show "Freedom Watch" video entitled "Man detained and harassed at airport for carrying cash." Forgive me for not knowing the names of any of the gentlemen in suits. I don't watch tv and they aren't wearing name tags. Fox network spliced up the 25-minute audio into a little over 1-minute sound byte to make it sound like just TSA personnel are "interrogating," but if you listen to the whole audio cut, as I have, you will hear that TSA (which actually means Transportation Security Administration, not safety) stops their questioning and calls in the Missouri police. Ninety percent of this takes place between a single police officer and the passenger....not with the TSO (that is, Transportation Security Officer).

I can hear the sound of metal detectors in the background, as well as the sound made by luggage on the rollers exiting the x-ray machines. This conversation took place in a private screening room, located on or adjacent to the checkpoint, specifically designed for passenger privacy.
I can hear that there is one passenger in the room.
I can hear that there are two voices belonging to Transportation Security Officers, of unknown rank.
I can hear that there is one Missouri police officer in the room, who communicates to dispatch via radio.

A man comes through the security checkpoint in St. Louis with a metal box in his carry-on. The metal box is removed from the carry-on for additional inspection and the TSO sees a large amount of money inside. For the safety of the passenger and his belongings, the TSO is required to ask if the passenger would like to continue in a private screening room. The private screening room is indeed "windowless," thus also rendering it "private," which is out of the public eye. The TSO is required to take a supervisor into the private screening room. Once in the private screening room, the passenger refuses to answer questions about the amount and origin of the cash. Although it is not illegal to carry cash on an airplane, large amounts are considered suspicious and worthy of a second look. Since the passenger refused to divulge how much cash was there, that made him look more suspicious. The passenger refused to answer questions about his business in St. Louis, or why he was traveling with the cash to Virginia. He would not answer whether the cash was his or not. That is also suspicious. Why do they want to know? Well, they bring up the DEA. That is a big fat clue. I determined that they think he was selling or smuggling drugs....which is an illegal activity.

The Missouri police officer contacted dispatch to determine if the passenger had a criminal record. While waiting on the report, a further investigation of his belongings ensued. Once they discovered checks, pamphlets, and other merchandise from the political organization "Campaign for Liberty," it was determined that he did not present a threat to the aircraft. Only AFTER the TSOs and Missouri police found all of this other stuff, did the passenger finally decide to answer some questions. Ultimately, a three-minute discussion would have stopped this whole 30-minute escapade. Dispatch reported a negative outcome on his criminal record check and the passenger was told he was free to go. The TSO then followed proper procedure in contacting his Screening Manager - the man that the Fox network dubbed the "plainclothes agent."

The passenger repeatedly refused to answer questions....stating, "Am I legally required to answer the question?" It is not my place to interpret Missouri law from here, but I can safely say that it would have been a lot easier on him to just answer about the campaign contributions...or sales, whatever he wants to call it. He had no problem announcing his activities to the nation at large, but he couldn't do it in private. Hm. That makes it more suspicious after the fact. As a matter of fact, the last words recorded by the passenger, spoken to an unknown companion as he left the private screening room, were, "That, sir, is damn good recording right there." Sounds to me like it was planned.

After playing this doctored clip for the masses, without distinguishing who was doing the bulk of the interrogating...and placing all blame squarely on the shoulders of the TSA, the Fox network show's host goes on to state that the passenger was arrested, and ultimately "a plainclothes agent" appeared and magically made all the problems go away. False. The passenger was never placed under arrest. He was never threatened with arrest. He was told that due to his uncooperative attitude, he could be detained at the police station for further questioning if necessary. Because of the passenger's continued feigned ignorance, he was also threatened with a pair of handcuffs, should he decide not to walk to the station of his own will. The passenger was free to go mere minutes after the criminal record check was completed. The host of this Fox network show then went on to say, "Put his [the passenger's] picture back up there." A rich old white guy in a suit puts up a picture of a young white guy in a suit and has the audacity to ask, "Does he look like a terrorist to you? I mean, does he look dangerous? Come on!"

There is a messy legal term for looking at someone and determining if that person is a threat: "profiling." The Transportation Security Administration has specific training regarding its anti-profiling policies. It does not appear that the Fox network has such anti-profiling policies, as demonstrated by the words and actions blatantly displayed on this show. The Fox network clearly panders to an audience that wants to think it is being persecuted by some unneeded bureaucratic agency. So, to the people of Fox network and the writers and staff of "Freedom Watch": show me the face of a terrorist. Can you recognize a terrorist? You have to be able to show this terrorist face without incriminating any race, any religion, any sex, any age, any income level....can you do it? I bet not. Because there is no "face of terrorism," TSOs every day face unknown and unknowable threats, from basically harmless, yet spiteful passengers looking for a fight to the very real and continued threats that go unsung and unseen by the public.

I am secure in my training and my beliefs. You want to see the face of a terrorist? Check your mirror. I don't trust anyone.

sweet potato biscuits

a martha stewart show (~2002) recipe i originally scribbled onto a
school menu with a purple crayon....and later got sick of trying to
decipher the crayon and looked it up on the net. yums warmed and with
butter. goes perfect with a sunday or easter ham dinner.

bake your yams! you can nuke them in the microwave & puree them in
the food processor or blender, but it works so much better to prick
them and wrap them in foil, tossing them in the oven to bake just like
regular potatoes. when they are nice and soft, i simply beat the hell
out of them with the electric mixer. no need to dirty all the blender
parts.

2 C unbleached flour
1 Tbls baking powder
1/2 tsp baking soda
3/4 tsp ginger
3 Tbls brown sugar
grated orange zest
6 Tbls melted butter
~2/3 C buttermilk (or sour milk*)
1 C cooked, pureed sweet potato

(*sour milk = pour 1 T lemon juice into a glass measuring cup. fill to
the 1 C line with milk and let sit @ room temp for 5-10 min. it will
curdle.)

1. mix first 6 dry ingredients together. Add melted butter and blend until it has a crumbly texture.
2. stir in sweet potato until well blended.
3. add enough buttermilk to make a soft texture. knead a little more flour into the dough if it is sticky.
4. pat (don't roll!!) the dough to 1/2" thickness. cut with 2 " biscuit
cutter dipped in flour. place on parchment-paper-lined pan.
5. prick lightly with fork. brush with ~2Tbls melted butter.
6. bake @ 350* for 15 minutes.

do NOT re-roll dough! it makes the 2nd batch of biscuits tough. roll
the leftover scraps in cinna-sugar, twist and brush with butter, baking
on parchment as above to use the scraps. the more the dough is handled,
the tougher they taste.

What A Deal!!

Rock that economy, folks, wooooooo! Have you ever sat and actually read the fine print on your junk mail? I was in the mood for some light reading, and man, this just hit the spot. I needed that laugh.

First Premier Bank of South Dakota wants our business! It’s true. They specialize in account holders with less-than-perfect credit. (Wait, what are they trying to say about my bill-paying abilities?? Bite me!) So get this, we’ve been pre-approved for a credit limit of a whopping $250! But wait…there’s more!

We have 25 days to pay First Premier back in full, or we can get charged some fees. And that 25 days is from the date we make the first transaction, not 25 days from the billing date. Remember that, mmkay?

0% introductory APR (which is the fee First Premier charges for allowing us to borrow the credit) for a whole year, then 9.9% until they decide they want to change the rates, which can happen any time they choose after allowing us to open an account with them. If our account goes delinquent ONE time in 12 months, our APR jumps up to 19.9%. But we can talk them back down to 9.9% after we make on-time payments for 3 consecutive months after that.

19.9% APR (plus a $5 or 3% fee for each transaction) if we want to spend our credit like cash from an ATM. But we can’t get more than $25 in cash within the first 90 days of the account opening.

$95 one-time Program Fee as a condition of extending credit to us…well, for letting us borrow the money. Okey Dokey. Guess that makes up for the 0%APR.

$29 one-time Account Set-Up Fee as a condition of extendin…wait, then what was that first $95 for?

$48 Annual Fee for allowing us to borrow…I just said that.

$7.00 Monthly Servicing Fee for …can you guess that one? This is getting tedious.

$.50 minimum monthly finance charge. A finance charge is what the bank can charge us for allowing us to borrow the money. Kind of like an APR, right? So much for that 0% introductory APR. I thought zero meant none.

$3.00 monthly account maintenance fee (for closed accounts with a balance of $20+). Um, which is somehow different from the minimum finance charge. Because the account needs maintaining. Like a pool boy or something.


But wait….there’s still more!

$29 for a payment made one day late…plus the APR bump mentioned above.

$29 if we spend any amount over our gargantuan credit limit. I am challenged to find a place where I would not actually spend it all.

$25 if First Premier decides we are good enough for a credit increase, they will automatically deduct that bad boy whether we want the increase or not. And they don’t have to tell us when we get that increase.

$11 if we want to pay them through an autodraft service through First Premier.

$7 if we want to pay by phone or internet through an autodraft. Um which one is it, $11 or $7 guys? Wouldn’t this actually fall under the account maintenance I’m already being charged for? You are maintaining my account by forcing me to pay for it, right?

$5 imposed by First Premier if we want to send our payment by wire transfer.

$3.95 annually if we want to use the internet to access account information , and ostensibly to make payments….which we’ll be charged $7 or $11 a pop for, if they can figure out which one to charge…or maybe it’s both? Who the hell cares at this point?

$3 if we lose our statement in a pile of junk mail and need another copy….wouldn’t I just rather pay another buck and print it from the web anyway?

So, in summary, let’s tot that up, shall we?

Credit Limit: $250
Program fee -95
Account Set Up -29
Annual fee -48
Monthly - 7
First finance charge (minimum) -.50

Available to borrow $70.50 (or less.)


Pay by internet -3.95
Autodraft (rounded up for safety) -18

Now available $48.55 (or less.)


For a single year, it would cost a minimum of $273.04 just to have this line of credit, and that doesn’t include any interest, over-limit fees, limit increases, internet or autodraft charges or anything. If we really needed $250 that badly, we wouldn’t actually have $250 after opening this account. And then to get penalized every month? Just opening the account and leaving it open for 6 months without making a single transaction would give us an over-limit fee in month 5. We have moved on. We live by cash on the barrel now. You can keep your exclusive offers, First Premier Bank of South Dakota, but thanks for the laugh!

charm city, hon? i think not.

assholes are everywhere. i've lived in four different time zones, and yeah, they're everywhere. but i will swear to all the gods and goddesses that be, that the largest collection of assholes spread across every faith, color and generation are situated here. in charm city.

the place where people routinely drive 20 mph over the speed limit in the slow lane and qualify in the fast lanes while talking on their phones, eating and/or drinking, all while flipping me the bird because i'm actually only going 70 in a 60 mph zone. well, yeah. screw me then. the place where you actually get run off the road while you're lawfully riding your bike. where people honk at you while you're crossing the road during the "walk" light - every time. the place where people leave their grocery carts in a parking space adjacent to the cart corral, then get mad at me when they roll into their own cars. where the four seasons of the year are ravens pre-season, FUBAAA!!!, bowl season, and post-season. if you don't wear purple every friday to school in january, you get kicked for not supporting the ravens. i hate football. i don't care what team it is. i really could care less if the whole bloody team walked off the face of the earth and never returned. keep your stupid red-necked purple crow wearing brats off my kids. the place where you can't back out of your own driveway (or pull into it) without getting honked at or someone screeching around you in a rage for making them slow down to 30 mph on a residential street.

i can't find any info on how baltimore got it's witty little nickname - probably a marketing scheme similar to the one that gave us our 2007 multi-million dollar tourist-attracting motto: "Get In On It." a-wha? your tax dollars at work, folks. can i just have the road fixed instead? the money's already spent? wow. too bad that's all you guys could come up with. i wish i could get paid for absolutely no work. my kids have better ideas than that. but they're getting kicked, so they're busy right now.

i have news for charm city and it's inhabitants. there's more to life than baltimore. i get the weirdest looks when i say things like, "my parents live in another state," or "i really can't wait to go back to arizona." they generally completely lose their eyebrows when they hear we've lived in england. and i still get the question, "so if he was born in england, why doesn't he have a british accent?" please remain seated until the ride has come to a complete stop. and put down the cheese whiz and crab cakes.

baltimore is charm city? i don't think so, hon. if this is charm, i'd really hate to see the out-right hositlity. because that seems to be all i ever see anyway. no offense to anyone i have met personally, because if i've met you, and we're still friends...you obviously aren't who i am referring to anyway. apparently you-all need to start giving charm lessons to charm city!

good morning to the greater bal-wash area

ahem.

due to the large number of accidents on the streets and highways of the greater bal-wash area this morning, i must say that i am ashamed to live in a state that receives one inch of snow overnight and the residents lose their minds. right out the window. hey, i just had an epiphany: schools are closed and delayed, not because of accumulation, but because of all the bad drivers on the road that put the kids in danger. wow.

apparently those $500 driver's ed classes which are required before taking the written test don't actually teach anything, based on the number of drivers who can't drive in good weather, let alone throw some precipitation and/or darkness into the mix.

rule number one: there is no such speed as mach 50 in a land vehicle. stop trying to achieve it on the way to work.

rule number two: you should arrive to work on time in good weather so you have some credibility when the weather is bad and will not get into trouble for arriving late. then you can take your time and point & laugh at all the fools in the ditches.

rule number three: scrape all of your car windows before attempting to drive. a 3-inch hole over the steering wheel does not count. you need all your windows clear so you can see that mack truck when you change lanes suddenly without using a blinker while attempting mach 50. otherwise your car would only have a three-inch hole above the steering wheel instead of all those blasted windows to scrape.

rule number four: residential streets (that's a long word for "streets with houses on them") have slower speeds than multi-lane highways. people who live in those houses need to get into and out of their driveways without being honked at, run down, and/or killed. drive slower and it won't seem like that bitch just cut you off.

rule number five: ice and snow do not automatically melt when they hit the ground, even if that is what happened yesterday at noon. sometimes the ice and snow make a weird covering on the ground that makes it difficult to drive a car. again with the "slowing down" theme. (do i sound like a CD with a scratch in it yet?)

rule number six: if you are tailgating, that means your car is too close to the one in front of you. "too close" can generally be defined like this: the driver cannot see the license plate, grill, headlights, hood, or windshield wipers of the car in their rearview mirror, but can read their lips and see that they are being cussed out
for being too slow. tip: peeps who slow down are trying not to wreck. back off or change lanes.

rule number seven: you shouldn't be talking on your cell phone and drinking coffee while trying to drive, even when the roads are stellar. um, that goes double for texting and/or catching headlines on the blackberry. if it's not important enough to pull to the side of the road, it's not that important.

rule number eight: blinkers are your friends. the rest of us kinda need to know what the hell you're doing, since you and your phone are obviously not paying attention to the road. especially if you drive in the fast lane and wait until the yellow "exit only" sign comes up before you decide to exit.

rule number nine: your road rage means nothing to me. yes i did just take a picture of you and your license plate number. your ass is on platewire.

rule number ten: just because you pay taxes doesn't mean you own the road. and just because we all pay taxes doesn't mean we have to all drive like we own the road. here's a crazy idea: if we all start earlier and slow down when the weather is bad, chances are there will be fewer accidents and we'll get to work without having to sit in miles of backed-up traffic due to accidents. full circle, huh? whooooa.

Introduction to Using a Bathroom Door

so i wasn't feeling well. which meant i needed to make many trips to the bathroom over a couple of days. you needed the backstory, short as it is.

Introduction to Using a Bathroom Door
(complete with hands-on practical application)

Please gather 'round. Can everyone hear me? Good. Good. Welcome to Introduction to Using a Bathroom Door. We'll start with a lecture and move on to practical applications. That means we're going to play with the door at the end. OK?

You are in a bathroom. What do we generally do in a bathroom that would require the door to be closed? Right! Use the toilet. Very good. Now, When we use the toilet, we close the door because our pants are down and we have things hanging out that we don't want everyone to see, like penises and butts or vaginas, right? That includes me. I close this door because I don't want you to see my butt hanging out. Yep. Gross. That's why there's a door.

Now when I am in the bathroom and the door is closed, I do not want you to barge in at a headlong run yelling, "MOOOOM!" If you have something to say to me, you need to knock on the door and simply tell me. You can't press your mouth against the door and mumble; you need to speak up and be very clear. I don't need to hear a long story. Tell me why I need to pull up my pants and tell me fast. Now let's do a practice with knocking.

Close your fingertips up against your palm, very nice, and put your thumb across them, just like that!! Now, this is how you knock. (knocking) Practice right here on the wall. I want to make sure that all four of you know how to do that part before we move on. (lots of knocking and giggling) Good. Excellent, Not too hard, we aren't a demolition crew. Yes. That's it.

Now that we know what knocking is, and that we knock when we see that the door is closed, and we have practiced knocking, we will talk about the reasons why you might need to actually bother me while I'm taking a dump. Do you have any ideas about that? Should Mommy need to find your most favorite lego out of the 8 million legos in our house while she is taking a dump? How about pigtails? Should Mommy need to put your hair in pigtails while pooping? No and no. Very good. I am not going to make you a sandwich from the toilet, either. We are talking about emergencies. If someone has had their hand lopped off by Darth Vader, yes, Mommy needs to get off the pot. If there is a Mack truck crashing into the living room, yes, Mommy needs to pinch off that loaf and call the insurance company. If the ceiling fan disconnects from the ceiling and turns into an Indiana-Jones-style projectile weapon, yes, Momma should be interrupted to fix that. Pretty much anything not involving injuries or damage to the house is a 'No.'

OK, now here is the fun part. Think of a reason why I might need to be bothered on the toilet. Everyone have a reason? Good. Out. Pretend I'm on the toilet. Oh, No!! Whatever shall we do? The bathroom door is closed!

(knocking) "Yes? I'm on the toilet. The stove caught fire? Damn! Stay away from the stove 'til I wipe my butt!!" Excellent! Next.

(knocking) "Yes? I'm on the toilet. Oh, No! The dog escaped the backyard! I'll be right there!" Good one.

(knocking hard, til the door opened up) "Fail. You opened the door. Go to the end of the line and try again."

(knocking) "Yes? I'm on the toilet. Darth Vader is climbing in through the window? I'll grab my lightsaber and be right up." Nice.

(knocking) "Yes? I'm on the toilet. You were playing America's Top Chef and cut your finger? That wasn't very smart. Lemme get my draws on. I'm on my way."

Now we all understand what a bathroom door is for, why it is closed, when we should bother Mommy on the toilet, how to knock, and have practiced doing it the right way. Does anyone have any questions?

Thank you for your time and attention. You can go play now.

not not not

OK.

breathe with me.

hold my hand. please hold my hand.

it’s not a date. it’s NOT a date. it isn’t a date....is it??

my eighth-grade daughter came home from the boy scout family camping weekend with stars in her eyes. wearing someone else’s hat. not responding to any teasing about “her new boyfriend.” and hadn’t responded in any way all weekend long. oh, my.

she showered and changed into in cards-wear, brushed her hair out long and didn’t put it into her signature ponytail. and then we painted her nails cardinal red and i put teeny tiny C-A-R-D-S on her nails in white. she is right this minute at the home of a fellow scout-mom. a boy-scout mom. wait, i have it wrong. she is at the grandmother’s house of a boy scout. he, the boy-scout, wanted to invite my baby girl to a family gathering “to introduce her.”

please tell me it’s not a date.

please.

traditions & thoughts

goodbye & good riddance, 2008. we opened the door politely for 2009, carrying hope and peace on its strapping new back. we rang in the new year pretty quietly, since i was supposed to get up at 2 and go to work today. i never did fall back asleep after midnight and flew through my day tanked on starbucks. we traditionally eat snackie-poos all nite, nibbling and watching movies to pass the time until The Hour arrives. then we don coats and shoes and run up and down the front yard making noise with our neighbors to drive out the old year and bring in the new. the kids & boys watched movies (while i slept) until The Hour and for the first time, all four kids made it. yay!!!

i await the hope that breathes through the nation this month - not just from one direction, but from all directions. i believe that we, as a nation, can heal our hundred wounds. it will take time, perseverance, and we'll have to dig in and hold on, but 2009 brings more than just a regime change - it is a change in the state of mind.

holiday aftermath

the thought just occurred to me that, since the kids are entertained elsewhere with the boys, and the house is quiet, and i have no responsibilities (save ironing tomorrow's uniform), dude. i can write!! it's been such a while since i have had the time, quiet, and motivation. so here i iz. writing. sweet.

there are a great number of incidents at work that pass by me on a daily basis that merit a head shake, a small chortle into my sleeve or a guffaw after the passenger is out of earshot. those are the passengers who, after going through the metal detector six times, realize that their cell phone has metal in it. those are the ladies who thought that the liquid restrictions only applied to water. those are the dudes who look me in the eye and place their boarding passes underneath their laptops - under their laptop bags - and then roll their eyes when we have to go fetch it all back again. and then there are the truly stellar dumb-fucks. i write about those. people do some crazy shit over the holidays. i mean, peeps lose their cotton-pickin minds.

there were a couple of individuals (on different days) who warranted a second look. mannerisms that just weren't quite right for various reasons. like....ShoeMan, who was talking to his shoe and then licked it before sending it through the xray. yeeeah-no. and then there was Jesus Freak who claimed to have diplomatic immunity because he was a man of the cloth. he went ape-shit after being selected by his airline to undergo additional screening, calling my colleagues names like "fucking arab scum" and "low-life government monkeys." he was trouble from start to finish, telling us that we did not have his spiritual permission from his god above to touch his holy book. it was a bible...wrapped in dirty underwear with cheese slices used as bookmarks. i wish i was kidding, folks. he sprinkled as many merry-christmases as he did fuck-all-of-yous into each sentence. the last thing i heard from him was, "you do not have the right to treat me like a criminal!!!!" as he was being cuffed for threatening to blow us all away. that guy didn't make his flight.

then there was the day that we had some interesting ladies entertain us. Light-Fingered Susie was wearing four shirts, three pair of jeans and a skirt....all with security tags attached. because she set off the metal detector (um, duh) and we could not clear her to pass to the airplane, she (along with her two bags stuffed full of merchandise) was asked to leave and return without security-tagged clothing. the same day, while observing my trainee complete a bag check, a sweet little cockroach crawled right up out of that handbag - purse, folks! used every day!! - and scared the piss out of my trainee. i took the woman's wallet and smeared that little fucker all over the inside of her purse. then we changed our gloves. and both washed our hands. twice. and bathed in alcohol.

of course, it wouldn't be christmas without all the pissed off passengers who wrap their stupid prezzies and send them through the xray. man, i rip through those bad boys like they were wrapped for me. makes a sucky day brighter to open presents, especially since i can't keep them. and then we have the odd assortment of people who simply must bring their own 20 pound christmas ham in their carryon. and cell phones removed from their clamshell cases and wrapped in newspaper, walmart sacks and duct tape. stacked with 8 jars of kimchi. or a five pound brick of cheese with watches scotch-taped to it. wait, what?? yeah, send that guy into the box and check all his stuff. cheese and watches don't make good appetizers.

and it isn't just the passengers. the crew members, unfortunately, must go through this set of hoops as well. the ones that make me mad are the ones that know the rules and just ignore me. metal detectors don't care if you fly the plane. neither do i. empty those pockets into the bowl and take your electronics out of their bags. and for the love of socks, to the skycaps who push wheelchairs through the airport 700 times a day: GET SOME PANTS THAT FIT!! your belt has to come off, your pants always fall down and i am done, past done, with your boxers.

but the very tippety-top this year, the custom, hand-sculpted topping on the lemon-chiffon-with-ribbons-of-cream-cheese-and-whipped-lemon-curd-icing-cake, was Chainsaw Sally (and Friends). because really, who brings a chainsaw on an airplane? anyone? anyone have that answer? Chainsaw Sally not only brought her tool, but lube for it, and fuel as well, and was completely aghast at being told to pack her shit and check that bag. and no. no one offered to help her re-pack. in the wise, wise words of supervisor Patty: "you should know better than to bring that on a plane. you got it in there in the first place. you figure out how to get it back in. now go." that was a first for every single solitary person on the checkpoint. but it doesn't stop there. in the past seven days, we have had not one, not two, but three (count 'em!!) THREE chainsaws through our checkpoint. a record for the airport. ever.

cotton-pickin minds.


stupid questions of the season (asked by grownups, i shit you not):

what's a boarding pass?
what i said: um, that paper thingy with your name and that special place you want to go printed on it. it's prolly in your bag because i asked you to hold on to it.
what i thought: that piece of paper that you just had in your hand less than 5 seconds ago, dumbass.

is that mine?
what i said: well, it doesn't look like santa's. his has white fur on it.
what i thought: how the fuck should i know? do i look like your fucking babysitter?

where did you put my bag?
what i said: i did not at any time place my hands on your belongings. where did you put your bag?
what i thought: up your ass, next to your head.

what happened to my shoes?
what i said: that depends on where you left them.
what i thought: your feet stank, so they totally left you behind to fend for yourself.

how does it go in? (pointing to the xray machine)
what i said: um, when i'm ready to press this button, the black part moves and your suitcase rolls in like magic.
what i thought: ask your mom. she has lots of experience with things that go in.

(from a woman with no foreign accent whatsoever, prolly 2nd gen, born & raised red, white & blue...)
are we in america? are you sure? because the water here tastes like mexican water. i went to the university of maryland and the water tasted good there. it didn't taste like this water, so we must be in mexico. are you sure we are in america?
what i said: yeah. you're definitely in america. matter of fact, i'mma get you someone to help you with that question. he's a nice man. we call them police officers in america.
what i thought: you are off your meds in a serious way, lady. no one in that state of mind should be able to get on a plane.


cotton-pickin minds.