Small Stories: This one probably wasn't so small

Kitchen renovation draws near, as in "tomorrow" near. As I was moving things out of the room today, I came across an old postcard mixed in with my boxes. It caught my eye because the front was almost completely white, though it was scuffed and blotchy. I turned it over because I couldn't remember receiving anything like that, and lo and behold, I hadn't: (address erased)

There are a few mysteries to solve here:

The first was how this postcard came to mixed in with my stacks of boxes. As I flipped the card over again, I realized why the front looked strange. It was covered with paint. Then the tape on the front made sense--someone had taped this thing to the wall, then painted over it. Somehow I'd knocked it off and into my stuff. I scoured the wall for a postcard sized mark in the paint, and didn't find one, until later I happened to notice the mark on the bottom of a shelf in a cupboard. Mystery...uh, solved?

Here are the facts:

Holmes is the name of the people who lived here before us. Earldine and... her husband had some equally awkward name.

Here is Earldine in her heyday.

When we bought the house, Mr. Holmes had broken a hip and was unable to navigate the stairs. They were both in their 70s, it seemed.

Their son was supposed to be taking care of the house while they lived in an assisted facility. He didn't. There was a pile of trash out front that looked like a Jersey landfill when we first saw the place. There were heaps of junk in the garage, basement, and every other conceiveable palce something could be stuffed. Their son was supposed to move the remaining junk and furniture out of the house before we moved in. He took the tv and left everything else, including family photos and book keeping. I don't think much of their son.

One of the bedrooms was obviously used by someone younger (I can only assume their son). It was covered in chewed gum, and a lock was defiantly adhered to the bedroom door using several gazillion nails. Whatever kid lived there had absolutely no respect for the house. I assume it was the same kid who clumsily nailed a million random nails into the stairs to keep them from squeeking when he snuck out. Okay--that's a bit of artisitc license, but it makes sense, right? Some pissy kid--punches holes in his wall, insists on locking his room, leaves chewed gum all over everything, and sneaks out at night. Sounds like an absolute joy.

The second mystery seems to have solved itself. I can only assume that Bill was the son in question. It stands to reason that HE is that damn gum chewing kid. The postmark on the card looks like either 1986 or 1996, which would put Bill in his 30s or 40s at the time, maybe?

So for whatever reason, it seems Bill was living with/mooching off his parents, having an affair with a married woman (codename: Legs ?!), and bitching to his mistress on the phone (on his parents' tab) about how boring it was living with Mom. What a winner. I knew I hated that guy from the start.

Another mystery is who this "Legs" is, and why she didn't just hand-write the darn postcard. I also can't conceive of why she'd cheat on her husband with a whiney schmuck living with his parents.

Why the heck would someone tape this postcard to the bottom of a shelf, and paint over it? Was it Earldine, who found it first and was hiding it from her son? Was it the ever-juvenile Bill, hiding it from his parents, and if so, why the kitchen, of all places? Why paint over it? Perhaps someone stuck it there and it was inadvertantly painted over later? We'll never know.

The final mystery will most likely remain unsolved forever. And it is:

Cletus??!? Seriously??

It's good to have fiends. Er, friends.

First of all, it's even better to have fiends who also happen to be your friends. We spent the better part of an afternoon at IKEA yesterday buying a kitchen, and Shaundrea (That's 2 links in one word) stuck around the entire freaking time while we did ordering paperwork, waiting, and more waiting. I am kind of boggled. Thanks, guys! You're very patient and brave. Seriously. Next time we hang out, maybe we can do something other than sitting on a (albeit very cute) waiting room couch at IKEA for 4 hours.

Now that stuff has been delivered, the living room looks like a cardboard forest that's slowly blossoming into various cabinets as we build them. It's actually gotten to the point where the downstairs is so taken over by stuff that it's not distressing anymore, which is nice. It's more about anticipating a new kitchen, and packing up extras and having them out of the way. Whee! I can do both of those things very well.

One good thing about knowing where we'll end up living is that we know there will be a Costco there. Blessed be--there are 2 in Cinci, so we renewed our membership today and trawled the aisles, gathering massive packages of toilet paper and such.

We also got some fresh trout, which is NOT something we would have considereduntil recently, but for some reason we both ordered fish when we ate out not too long ago, and it was downright scrumptious. Tonight we improvised and made a variation on the earlier dish--trout fillets rolled in finely crushed almonds and spices, then pan-fried in butter. We cut up a whole lime and squeezed it over the fish, and it was really nice--suddenly the toasted almonds had more flavor, and it was nice with the more subdued flavor of the trout. Yum. I did homemade whipped cream with splenda and a vanilla pod, and we dipped a bunch of fresh strawberries in it for desert. Hurrah for low-carb meals where you still feel a tad luxourious! It's weird to realize we're actually losing weight while we're eating like that. Whatever. It works, and I'm not going to question. The evidence is both the Boy and I each being able to step out of our favorite jeans without undoing them. But, you know... not in public.

Surprise!

You know, Dream Cruise was really not that bad this year. We bought some new video games and stayed home all weekend. It was actually pretty nice, though I was only slightly disappointed that in this version of Zoo tycoon, park visitors cannot be eaten by escaped animals. It ups the stakes, and makes the game more exciting. I'm pretty sure that's not pathological in any way. The Boy was playing Sith Lords. After about an hour of freaking out every time a wookie talked, the cats gave up and settled down.

Traffic on Woodward is already completely back to normal as far as I can tell. We drove the new car down to hang with the Boy's mom tonight. It was good to see her. I think I must have the best mother-in-law the world has ever known. She doesn't play that passive-aggressive game many in-laws seem to do, she's not at all prissy, and she's totally laid back. "Are you glad to be done with asshole finance guy?" she asked as we took her for a spin in the new car.

One word of wisdom gleaned from our night, though--and I know this is probably an unnecessary warning for most of you, but sweet mother of gastronomical goodness!! --Stay the heck away from the buffet line-style restaurant called "Sign of the Bleefcarver" on Woodward. It was seriously almost funny how bad the food was. We thought it would be fine, since we're eating low-carb, and beef and beefcarving fits pretty well into that sort of thing.

Our first warning should have been the little sign next to the BBQ beef that said"Don't worry! Not very spicy!"

Now, when I say "beef," I'm talking "severe memory throwback beef." Every Sunday when we were little, and our mom would put a "roast" in the oven before whisking us off to church, and when we returned hours later, the meat was dry, grey, and not even redeemable with massive amounts of gravy and horseradish. Every Sunday. She'd also boil the heck out of various vegetables until they were sodden and sad looking, and then garnish the grey meat with them. No wonder we all lived for the yorkshire pudding. It was the only thing on the table that actually had a color.

Ah, memories.... uh, anyway, back to the restaurant. When I put a brussel sprout into my mouth, the mere pressure of being on my tongue caused it to collapse into a pulpy mass. It had no taste, to speak of, but it did have that strong, bitter smell that can be tempered by simply cooking them correctly. I didn't even spit it out. Mom would have been proud. However, I did get a wicked stomach ache later in the evening. Hmm.

So, on a scale of 1 to delish, I would rate this restaurant a little less than a 1. On the adjusted "Perfect for Old People" scale, this would rate very highly.

Buuuut, we did stop in at a place called Little Daddy's Parthenon earlier this week. We got omelets, which in my world, usually tend to be serviceable, unremarkable food (that happens to be low-carb) . Not these--they were just luscious, and opened my eyes to various omlettey possibilities. That meal rated a pretty darn highly, and wasn't all that expensive, either.

The science of car dealing

People who infuriate me in that... special way are people who lie and manipulate while assuming I have no idea what they're up to. In our search for the new car, we met a couple dealers who gave us the usual schpeal about extended warranties and all that, but that's their job. No hard feelings. The people who made me want to frog-kick them in the solar plexus were from the finance department. One guy in particular. We shouldn't have had any sort of issue whatsoever--we were already financed through a company that gave us a good rate, was lightning quick, and sent us a check we could take car shopping. It should have been simple.

First, let me say that if any of you are planning on purchasing a vehicle from Scion of Troy, for God's sake--think again! Second, please know that if there were any other xA's in the state, we would not have put up with the kind of crap this guy dealt. But the closest one was 350 miles away in Illinois. A long road trip. We decided it was worth wading through the BS to just be done with it and have this car.

Our salesman was just doing his job. We arranged a trade in. We signed papers. We handed him the check. He handed us off to the finance asshol--er, guy, and things should have been golden. However, Guy greeted us with the hard-sell on his financing, and wouldn't. let. it. go. "We can give you better rates than whatever rates you've got," he declared. We let him know we were done with the financing side of things. We let him know several more times as he pushed and pushed. We deflected unnecessary questions about our rate and our credit score. He tried to make us feel guilty by implying we were somehow trying to screw over the dealership. He claimed he'd never heard of our financing company before. Then he claimed they'd screwed over someone at that very dealership. Wha--huh? He read the back of the check over and over, aloud, making overly-dramatic hemming and hawing noises, and tapping it with his finger to emphasize just how out of the ordinary and fishy this was, and to scare us into taking his financing. "I don't know about this," he whined. Knowing exactly what he was playing, and that there was nothing wrong with the financing, we stuck to our guns.

When we didn't budge, he claimed he had to make some calls about it, and walked away, leaving us to "cool down" for an HOUR and a HALF. When he finally marched back, he pointedly dialed our financier on speaker-phone so we could hear the message that they were closed for the evening (They hadn't been closed at the point he'd walked away). "I'm helpless," he grunted, waving the check at us. "I can't let you walk away with a car, and all I get is a piece of paper. "

Pray tell, how do you sell cars, then? Do people often leave a large pile of cash on your desk? Isn't a personal check a piece of paper? Isn't your financing a piece of paper? Aren't you a piece of... ...something smelly and warm that's not paper?

Why yes. Yes you are.

We knew full well that it shouldn't be an issue. We'd spoken to our financier about what was supposed to happen, and they said the dealer should let us go home in the car, then the check could be deposited the next day. The people we know who've dealt with the same financier went home with the car. However, Finance Number One A-hole Guy was determined to punish us for not being malleable enough.

Having already switched plates and given them the title for our trade-in car, we were forced to drive the old car home with dealer plates on it.

The next morning I called our financier to ask what was going on, and found that Guy had faxed some of the info they needed, but he didn't fax 2 of the most obviously necessary things. I called Guy. Guy claimed he'd sent them all, and whined and moaned when I told him to refax. He said he'd call us just as SOON as he knew anything, and we could come get the car. Then he waited several hours before faxing anything to the financier. By that time, the workday was over.

Today, I called the financier again because I didn't trust Guy farther than I could throw him. Good thing, too. They let me know everything was set, and that they'd called to notify Guy of that 2 hours ago. She also mentioned that he'd complained to them about the fact that we hadn't gotten the extended warranty and tried to make a big deal out of it so they wouldn't finance us (presumably so he could do it instead). Now, that's out of the realm of slimy business practice and more into along the lines of bratty third grade temper-tantrums.

I called Guy a minute later, and before I could get a word in edgewise, he said he hadn't heard a peep back from our finance company, and that he'd been calling and calling and they were all rude to him and he hated dealing with such an "unprofessional fly-by-night outfit." Wah-wah, bitch. Sorry you have to do your freaking job.

When I informed him that essentially I knew he was flat-out lying about the fact that he hadn't heard anything from them, he got harried and defensive. "Well, I swear I haven't heard from them and maybe they left a voicemail, but I seriously haven't, but I guess they could have possibly left a voicemail. Uh, let me call you back, or you'll have to sit there on hold." I told him I would hold as long I needed to. He growled something, put me on hold for about three seconds, and then picked up again to tell me, yeah--he guessed they'd called. "Congratulations," he grumbled. "You have to be here before 6 to get your car."

Fuck you very much, Guy. Have a nice life.

I'm really looking forward to taking all the surveys I'll undoubtedly be inundated with about the dealership and our experience. Mwahaha!

----

Despite the fact that we had to deal with...that, we're excited to finally have our new car, and it's a little dreamboat with built-in satellite radio, mp3 player, and iPod connection and interface. Fancy, dancy. Okay, It's really not that fancy, but it's pretty sweet.

My favorite thing about it? When you unplug the pod, the interface blinks, "bye bye, ipod!"
Eeeee!

Infuriating Commercial Alert!

Does this make anyone else grind their teeth and shake their fists at the tv?

A woman is blithely going about her day at a fruit market, when two plastically chipper women appear out of nowhere. "That's a nice white shirt!" they chirp, lunging at her with mushy fruit, which they smear triumphantly onto her clean blouse.

My split second reaction to the commercial up until this point was, "wait--is this one of those celebrity pieings?" But no, Sandy is not a celebrity. She's just a nice lady who got up that morning, picked out a nice white blouse, thinking, "that'll look pretty," and went about her day, never expecting to be physically assaulted by fruit wielding yobs at the market.

Moving on. After mashing strawberries and whatnot into poor shocked Sandy's shirt, the robotically gleeful women demand, "How are you gonna get this stain out?? How about this one?"

_____

Cut to the smug fruit assailants applying some kind of stain remover to Sandy's shirt, as she cowers, shivering, in an awful t-shirt advertising the very product that has hijacked her day and will doubtless cause nightmares and teary therapy sessions for years to come. The humiliation!

I'm sure they carefully edited out the tape of the women handing Sandy the t-shirt and growling, "Oh you WILL be excited about our product. You'll be thrilled about our freaking product. Show it! MORE!!!"

Sandy clearly lacks self esteem and confidence, because, instead of clocking the women in the face with her purse and roaring, "What the hell, you asshats??!!!" she actually plays along. "Oh! That's...great!" she offers, as her shirt finally comes out of the dryer, 45 minutes after she should have been picking her son up from soccer practice.

The two women laugh, wild-eyed, and declare that their product is the best. I can imagine Sandy slinking off, humiliated, to cry in her car for a few hours before slowly driving home.

It's happening again. Hide.

I know it's coming when I notice people lounging in portable chairs on street corners, when the roar of engines at stoplights through downtown Pontiac is deafening, when more than 60% of people are driving 20 miles below the speed limit with their arms slung carelessly out the windows or over the edge of their meticulously restored convertibles, and when traffic, no matter where you intend to go, is intensely bottlenecked at all hours of the day and night.

It is the Woodward Dream Cruise, and it has no mercy.

It's not all that bad if you have no place to go and nothing to do during the weekend that it's held. One can walk to the end of our block and watch amazingly gorgeous old cars roar by. On the other hand, if we wish to go anywhere---anywhere at all, we have to wade through cruisers like a salmon trying to up-stream Niagara Falls.

Unfortunately, this is a weekend during which we have a lot of places to go and things to do. In anticipation of putting the house up for sale in about a month, we've got to work frenetically on getting things rennovated, organized, and ready.

*sigh* Ah well. I suppose Dream Cruisers could be far more annoying. There are many lovely cars to look at (though people feeling the need to rev their engines always makes me roll my eyes), and it could have been worse. It could have been the annual Nails on Chalkboards festival.

Well, I guess we shall move semi-south.

Yup, after the marathon o' interviews on Tuesday, the new company offered the Boy the job, and he's accepted. Assuming they're okay with his requirements for vacation, etc., I suppose that means we're heading to Cincinnati in the OH.

We're not going to be moving completely until our house sells, since we'll need the profit from this place for a down payment for our next. This means I'll probably be hanging here for the next several months (realistically), fixing things up and holding down the fort such as it is, while Boy lives in the housing the new company's arranged for him down there.

I'm still in a little bit of shock about the whole thing, but aside from a couple of inevitable future teary episodes, I'm really excited to see what the next chapter has in store for us. It will be hard not being able to hang out on short notice with the dear people who compose our friends/family. However, if you give us 4 1/2 hours notice, and we'll be there! That doesn't sound so bad. If we left at lunch, we'd be here by dinner. Also, we're planning on making sure whatever house we buy has enough bedrooms that we'll always have room for guests, if anyone wants a vacation or pit stop.

One of the main things that makes me happy about this is that it's a huge break for the Boy's career, and he deserves it after working so hard. (My freelance work is totally mobile, which makes one thing in this whole event that's very simple.) He's moving into a good position with some nice big steps up the ladder. If we eventually move back to SE MI, he'll be able to wrangle a job in a strata of jobdom (?) that involves things like bonuses, stock options, company cars, and no excuse for paying bills late. We plan to work on being really snobby and boring in order to fit the profile perfectly. I'm going to develop a nasally voice, bleach my hair, and tan myself leathery, and the Boy will yap pompously via mobile to his "business contacts" while looking down his nose at everyone else in line at Starbucks.

Har! Never mind. We'll always be nerds who think Alton Brown is awesome, have little crushes on our favorite authors, and thumb wrestle to solve our disagreements (the Boy cheats).

Er. Now to begin the daunting task of super-speed final renovation, and putting the house on the market.

I'll be in touch with our dear folk to let you all know the details as they come up. As for now, nothing will be happening for a little while, anyway, until the Boy packs down to Cinci in a little over a month. We'll be driving up and down on alternating weekends, so he'll be up here plenty for the next few months.

As for the lovely Traverse City, things aren't over there yet. There's an even better possibility after working this job in OH, that the Boy can get a really awesome job up there in a few years. Not that I want to consider a potential move after the move that hasn't happened yet. Either way, I think we'll try to spend a little time up there each summer.

I have a feeling it that though it won't be simple, whatever comes will be good.

Booop! Good afternoon--this is your captain speaking...

Attention all audiophiles and gear-lovers: Out the left side of the plane, you'll see Sinepost, the latest internet offering from sound genius, pal, and incidental brother-in-law, Justin.

It's a secret portal into the minds of people who know way more about recording gear than I could ever pretend to hope to know.

And it's a darn good read, too.

The siren call of the Scion

Hello to our most recent family addition (uh, photo clearly ganked from Edmunds.com):

It's cute! It's round! Yup, we're getting a new Scion xA (Little x, big A. Why? I have no idea.) It is a neato car that gets crazy good gas mileage and has a huge amount of space in it. It's also rated pretty darn well in safety, and has built in satellite radio w/ iPod jack. Woo for technology!

The stork hasn't quite arrived, but we put in our order at the dealership this past weekend. We're going to have the plates from the Saturn transferred over, so I'd better get thinking about what the SNV in the plate number will stand for. It stood for "Super Nasty Vehicle" on the Saturn (Thanks to the lovely Jenny Haney!) but I think maybe something different is in order for our little Scion pal...

Any suggestions? Silly Nihilistic Vehicle? Swell Narcotic Vortex? No?

Oral Tradition in a Digital Age

Peter is an 79 year old widower living alone in England. A couple weeks ago, he stumbled onto YouTube. After watching other people's postings for a while, he decided that he would try putting a video of his own on, in an attempt to connect somehow with anyone else, or at least have an outlet for his thoughts. He wryly made his login name "geriatric1927."

His first posting was a week ago. It's a nervous, awkward offering that is also quite sweet. He fiddles with the stereo to include some blues music for his beginning and ending, he gets a little short of breath, and without introduction, bursts right into explaining that he's gotten addicted to YouTube, and even though he's old, he thought he'd give it a go.

After a few videos, more and more people began watching, commenting, and asking him to tell about what his life has been like. He's been sucessful in making contact with people and becoming a part of the YouTube community. He's been very, very successful. In his video, "Telling it All, Part 1," he's absolutely floored by the number of people who've contacted him. He's just received notification of the thousands of comments people have given, and is still shaking when he turns on the camera. He tries to express just how thankful and amazed he is by it all, and breaks down crying at the end as he tries to stop recording.

In the past week, well over a million people have tuned in to hear Peter's continuing stories of life in World War II, his passion for motorcycles, his time as a radar operator in the war... He's an intelligent, interesting man, who's lived through more than I can imagine. I highly recommend watching his postings. I've been turning him up and listening as I do the dishes and such.

Congratulations, Peter. You deserve this happiness.

If I looking for frog...

It makes me sad that there are millions of little stories that disappear every day when people die. Little treasures that won't ever get passed on or documented disappear because no one has told them or remembers them.

One of my very favorite things about the digital world is that it's possible to know the fascinating real little stories that would have evaporated otherwise. Not only do we get the story, but we get the internet community's response. One of my favorite examples is Hopkin Green Frog (I may have mentioned it before--forgive me.) In 2004, hand made posters began appearing in a Seattle neighborhood. They were "Lost Frog" posters, in a child's handwriting, with a carefully drawn mugshot of said frog from the front and side. The poster was signed, "Love, Terry." The earnest quirkiness and odd grammar of the posters caught the interest of someone who scanned a few and put them online.

20 years ago, very few people would have known or ever remembered that Terry lost a frog in Seattle. But today, not only do I know, but I can look at the poster, (click on it for more) find out the back story, and see the rather funny responses of people who were inspired to make their own versions of it. (very much like the "All your base" phenomenon.

Hurrah for technology, and for quirky stories to tell with it!

Cin City

It's lovely to have a little vacation, but even more lovely when someone else pays for it. We'll be down in Cincinnati on someone else's tab for a few days this week, while the Boy does the day-long "marathon o' interviews" with this potential new company. It'll be nice to poke around the areas we've been researching, and possibly see some of the amazing (and dirt cheeep) houses we've been looking at. It still boggles me how inexpensive housing is down there, even compared to our relatively buyer-friendly neighborhood. In order to live in a large, interesting reasonable fixer-upper house in a neighborhood comparable to the one we're in now, we'd only have to drop about 40k. That's FOR-TY.

Or we could break the bank and drop 60 on this one.

If you're willing to live in a cheap, cool house painted silly colors, you're in luck.

If you want a to live in a castle in a nicer neighborhood, you'll have to drop a massive 120k.

As it stands, we're shooting for some of the beautiful woodsy neighborhoods near where the Boy would potentially work. Whatever we chose, we'd never be more than 30 minutes of downtown. There are also some really cool mid-century modern houses I don't want to bother finding to post pictures of.

Even if the rest of Cincinnati turns out to be sucky... if we end up moving there, at least we know we'll live in a sweet house.

We Shall Live in Either the North, or the Semi-South

That would be "semi-south" because moving any farther down than the border of Ohio would be so not cool. Literally.

I lived in the deep South for quite a while. I sweated and got sand in my eyes in Texas. I withered in the humidity of Florida. Eight years in the South, all told, and unless something exceedingly drastic happens (e.g. I'm offered 7.5 million dollars if I'll just live in the Bible Belt for a year), I will not live there again.

My mother, on the phone from Mississippi, often comments that we should just move on down near them. La-dee-dah! Just move on down! Into the 105 degree, sweltering backwater around Jackson! Move on down, Dear! Everyone here adores Wal-Mart, and harbors a suspicious attitude toward any "Yankees" from north of Kentucky! It's whimsical! I haven't the heart to tell her I'd sooner have all my teeth pulled and replaced with thumb tacks.

Sharp, sharp, thumb tacks.

Moving on. So it looks as though we'll either move to Traverse City, which I would adore, or to Cincinnati, which I would still be happy about, but would adore only slightly less since, as far as I know, Lake Michigan's gorgeous beaches and dunes do not touch Cincinnati. No, after some thought, they certainly do not. Nevertheless, I would be happy with either city. Both have their merits. Both are real, thriving cities with art, culture, and interesting things. Yay for both.

It's just the "not knowing which thing will be happening" (or when) that drives me crazy.

DENIED.

Dear Vapid Adolescent,
My condolences. You will find that you are able to log onto Stardoll...no longer. Collect your pervs and imaginary boyfriends someplace else, please.

According to the email I received, they apologize to me for any inconvenience I may have experienced. Oh--no inconvenience, Stardoll. It was a delight.