Erma Notes 2.108

I'm not sure which was more difficult for this quiet introvert: Transitioning from the solitary introspection of a seven-hour road trip to the boisterous celebration of the Erma Bombeck Writers' Workshop Tribe of Loud, Smart, Funny Women and Men (emphasis on the loud), or re-acclimating to the silence on the way home.

Speaking of quiet car rides . . . I was a little surprised to find that I hadn't worked my way through all the Billy Joel albums on my iPod by the time I got to Ohio. I was a little embarrassed to find I still hadn't made it through my play list by the time I returned home to Iowa.

And another thing about driving . . . One of the best but overlooked aspects of the workshop? The door-to-door shuttle service between the hotel and the classes. Back home I am the shuttle service. And, unlike my kids, my fellow shuttle-ers were always ready to talk!

Speaking of kids . . . When I returned to my hotel room each day, my bed was made-made (not just straightened) and all my crap was neatly arranged on the bathroom counter. I wondered if this is what my family feels like when they come home at the end of the day.

Speaking of being a mom . . . Shout out to the guy at the gas station in Indiana who called me “Miss” when trying to get my attention. I wasn't ignoring you. It just took me a while to realize you were talking to me.

Speaking of Indiana drivers . . . Does everyone there drive like they're qualifying for the Indy 500? I worried I might lose time by taking a two-lane “shortcut,” but pulled in behind a line of cars going darn near the same speed we were on the interstate! Not that I'm complaining!

Speaking of GPS shortcuts . . . This was the second time I relied solely on my car's navigation system. There's something reassuring about the confidence with which Sally (my GPS) gives directions. I may not know where we're going – heck, Sally may not know – but by god, we're going there with confidence!

Speaking of Sally's confidence . . . I'm good with her confidence, but does she have to sound so exasperated when she says “recalculating”?

Speaking of recalculating . . . I'm not willing to take all the blame for Sunday morning's little excursion through downtown Dayton in search of an on-ramp, Sally. “Keep left” is a bit wishy-washy, don't you think? It's either turn or don't turn. On the plus side, there's very little traffic in downtown Dayton on a Sunday morning.

Speaking of speaking . . . About the fourth time Sally exasperatedly told me she was “recalculating” I started wishing she had a little of the warmth and wisdom of the Erma Tribe. The new and improved Sally – nicknamed “Erma,” of course – would have laughed and joked when I missed that turn. “ErmaGPS” would have known instinctively that I was not ignoring her demands, but searching frantically for a Waffle House. “ErmaGPS” would have pointed out that I could never make it 65 miles until the next rest stop.

In other words . . . Sally's a great gal and all, but if she really wanted me to listen to her, she'd try to sound a bit more like Erma.

Or like Billy Joel.

Sandwich Mom in the Sky With(out) Diamonds

Yesterday I made my annual trip to the happiest place in the midwest – the Iowa State Fair. Other state fairs may come close, but I agree with the marketing geniuses who declared “Nothing Compares to the Iowa State Fair.” Nothing compares to the food (deep fried, bacon-wrapped, chocolate dipped, and on a stick), the fun (outhouse races), the culture (balloon sculptures), the spectacle (the gargantuan bull, boar and ram), the long lines (for the butter cow), the butter cow (at the end of the line), or the traditions (all of the above).

And for me, nothing compares to the terror of The Sky Glider.

I've had my moments of unbridled emotion before, but nothing compares to the near-hysteria of The Sky Glider this year – not even the time my Billy Joel concert ticket was so close I could see the stage with my bare eyes!

After a full day of fair fun my fair-going friends and I decided to wrap things up with a round-trip Sky Glider ride. Twice the ride, twice the terror.

The ride got off to an rocky start when it stopped – briefly – just after we reached cruising altitude (far enough off the ground to make my palms sweat). The ride restarted and I resumed my white-knuckle grip on the safety bar just before The Princess – my daughter, rock of bravery and gondola partner – said “Oh.”

“Oh?” I asked, WITHOUT turning my head OR MOVING in any manner.

“I can't do this.”

“Oh.”

I realized I would have to dig down deep into my Super Mom Power reserves to keep it together and set a good example. I had no choice but to suck it up and my assume my resp-Mom-sibilities. I relaxed my grip a little, forced a smile, and began chatting about all the ways this ride WAS NOT ABSOLUTELY TERRIFIYING. I even managed to LET GO OF THE SAFETY BAR WITH ONE HAND long enough to point out the lovely architectural details adorning the roof line of the historic agriculture building. I pointed out the happy people in the gondolas on the return side, the lovely breeze, the dense foliage BENEATH US AND OHMYGODLOOKUP! Look UP, UP! at those fluffy, white clouds.

All the while I was mentally cataloging the things that TERRIFIED ME:

What happened to those riders?

• Looking DOWN at the roof line of the ag building.
• The riders on the return side who were smiling and laughing as if UNAWARE OF THE DANGER WE WERE IN.
• The riders who looked AS TERRIFIED AS ME BECAUSE THEY REALIZED WE COULD PLUMMET TO OUR DEATH AT ANY MOMENT.
• The gondolas which were empty BECAUSE OBVIOUSLY THE PASSENGERS ALREADY FELL TO THEIR DEATHS.
• The dense foliage BENEATH US that would IMPALE US BEFORE WE CRASHED TO THE GROUND.
• The asphalt roads BENEATH US which we would SOON BE SPLATTERED UPON.
• And the fluffy clouds WHICH SHOULD BE MUCH FARTHER ABOVE US.

By that time we were NEARLY three-quarters of the way up the hill – or nearly three-quarters of the way to the HALFWAY point if you have forgotten AND HOW COULD YOU FORGET? that we were making a round trip – and I had begun to giggle nervously, and maybe cry a little . . . because that's just what happens when I start to giggle uncontrollably/hysterically.

It was at precisely this moment The Third Musketeer – who was riding solo in the gondola behind us – announced that she WOULD NOT BE MAKING THE ROUND TRIP ON THE SKY GLIDER OF TERROR. And I started to giggle/cry a little harder because I HAD JUST BEEN THINKING THE SAME THING! I gave her a thumbs up over my shoulder BECAUSE I COULD NOT TURN MY HEAD AND LET GO OF THE SAFETY BAR AT THE SAME TIME.

That was when we FINALLY began our descent, and I was able to take an actual breath and look around me and that stubborn, pig-headed, go-big-or-go-home, warrior-princess within me said AWWW HELL NO! I WILL NOT BE BEATEN BY AN IRRATIONAL FEAR! I WILL NOT BACK DOWN!

And in a quieter but no less convincing voice, the cheapskate in me said I will not waste a return ticket. I MAY BE A CHICKEN BUT I AM A CHEAP CHICKEN AND BY GOD I PRE-PAID FOR A ROUND TRIP RIDE SO I'M DAMN WELL GOING TO MAKE A ROUND TRIP RIDE.

So I TURNED to face The Princess and I asked her if she wanted to get off or if she wanted to ride back down the hill WITH me. She looked at me with admiration – or as if I had sprouted a horn on my forehead – and considered her answer carefully before answering.

“I will ride back with you. Because I don't think we can pry your hands off the safety bar.”

I would love to say that we bravely continued our ride and we lived happily ever after.

But the truth is I had just dried my cheeks and started to realize I HAD MADE A HORRENDOUS MISTAKE when our gondola came around the end point to begin the return ride and the nice young man checked the safety bar and smiled at us.

“Enjoy the ride,” he said.

And I started laughing so hard I SNORTED and the look of surprise on his face was so funny that I laughed HARDER and when we reached cruising altitude and the RIDE STOPPED AGAIN DEAR GOD IN HEAVEN my eyes filled with tears. And for the entire two-and-a-half hour (or five minute) return trip The Princess and I laughed and “ooohed” and “awwwed” as we watched the lights of the midway, and talked about the breeze and the architecture and the foliage and the smell of deep fried, bacon-wrapped, chocolate-dipped fun on a stick.

And made plans for doing it ALL again next year.

If you're not afraid of heights, or if you want to experience them vicariously, check out this video (not shot by me, obviously because there is no screaming): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lcSwm-5V5Zs

Drivin' Like a Big Shot

In today's edition of Small Town Driver In The Big City, I am pleased to report that I did not get lost in Minneapolis.

Suburban Waterloo/Cedar Falls, Iowa, however, was another story.

But first: What, you might ask, could possibly prompt me to drive – by myself – in downtown Minneapolis? The answer is simple, and is the same reason I took on the streets of Chicago: Billy Joel. And so, now I must digress a little further for a mini concert review that isn't really a review at all.

** SQUEEE!!**

Billy Joel. Sigh. He was wonderful. I mean the concert was wonderful. Although I'll admit I'm not very objective when it comes to Billy Joel (SQUEEE), or the talented group of musicians performing with him. Mike DelGuidice and Crystal Taliefero singing “Nessun Dorma” and “Heatwave” – A. Maze. Ing! Instrumental solos by Mark Rivera, Tommy Byrnes, Carl Fisher and David Rosenthal – Swoony! Andy Cichon and Chuck Burgi – the bassist and drummer never get enough appreciation (and I'm not just saying that because The Little Prince is a drummer.)

The only drawback was the drunken fans in front of me. There's a not too fine line between singing along, and shut the flock up and sit down because if you flail about one more time and hit me things are gonna get ugly. Er.

So yes, while the concert was the highlight of the trip (or maybe it was meeting up with my high school pal for breakfast/gabfest), Driving through downtown Minneapolis without getting lost was a close second (or third).

And I will admit I was more than a little nervous after my last (solo) trip up North – also for a Billy Joel concert – although I did not get lost then, either. Technically, that is.

I did, however, try to check in to the wrong hotel. What can I say? It was dark, it was late, it was raining, there was traffic (there is always traffic). It was not my finest driving hour.

Determined not to make the same mis-adventure a second time, I pored over the maps and directions before I left home and planned my arrival for non-rush hour. In fact, I was so surprised by the easy route, minimal road construction and non-rush hour traffic, that I had to make up reasons to hyperventilate.

Google directions through the Twin Cities were surprisingly simple: “Keep Left,” “Use Left Lanes,” “The Other Left, Dummy.” There was no actual exiting. (Unlike that final “Keep Right/Exit” north of Waterloo, which the truck behind me almost missed, too. Dear God, I hope they weren't following my navigation!)

Since all the downtown Minneapolis traffic was in the right lanes, I hugged the leftest-left lane (after a brief moment of flop sweat when I couldn't remember which was left and which was right), and accelerated to Big City Speeds, meaning I passed almost as many people as passed me. It was glorious.

Until I realized I was driving solo in the car pool lane. And I was going too fast to read the hours for the car pool lane, but not too fast to read the part that said “Do NOT cross white line.” A quick check of the mirror, however, revealed that people obeyed the “Do NOT cross white line” sign about as much as they observed the “Speed Limit” suggestion.

I was just beginning think that perhaps I was not equipped to drive, read directions, seek out road signs, and PANIC at the same time, and hoping that somehow MN-65 would miraculously turn into a quiet-ish 3-lane, one-way, city street from a mega-lane, concrete pretzel when . . . it did.

And I was downtown and I was just a turn and a turn away from the hotel, and I was feeling like a Grizzled, Big City Driving Veteran.

I was feeling so much like a Grizzled, Big City Driver that I wasn't even rattled (much) by the occasional, random honking. Because obviously that car wasn't honking at me when I was stopped at a red light. And obviously they weren't honking at me when I was waiting my turn to zip around the double-parked car and glare at the empty driver's seat.

The car (which came out of no where and) honked at the Small Town Girl walking across the Big City Street despite the flashing “Don't Walk” sign?

They might have been honking at me.

Cell Phone Fable-tale

Once upon a time, a family of four bears got new cell phones.

Papa Bear and Baby Bear got their phones first. They transferred the data from their old phones to the new phones with no problem.

“Easy peasy,” said Papa Bear.

“Lemon squeezy,” said Baby Bear.

“So, all I have to do to make my new phone work is read the instructions and follow directions?” asked Mama Bear.

“That's right,” said Papa Bear.

Baby Bear rolled his eyes.

Sister Bear got her phone next. She transferred the data from her old phone to her new phone with no problem.

“Easy peasy, lemon squeezy,” said Sister Bear.

“So, all I have to do to make my new phone work is read the instructions and follow directions?” asked Mama Bear.

Sister Bear rolled her eyes. Then she went online and found instructions on how to activate “Grandparent” mode, making the Galaxy s7 “super easy” to use. Then she rolled her eyes again.

At last, Mama Bear got her new phone.

“So, all I have to do to make my new phone work is read the instructions and follow directions?” Mama Bear asked Papa Bear.

Papa Bear rolled his eyes.

Mama Bear carefully took the phone and all the accessories and instructions out of the box. She read the instructions thoroughly, because the instructions had big pictures and few words. She followed the directions and called the 800 number to transfer service to her new phone. She followed directions to turn off her old phone. She followed directions to turn on her new phone. She watched the spinning circle and read the cheerful greeting.

The cheerful greeting said it could take up to five minutes to transfer service.

She waited and watched the spinning circle spin some more.

“Is it supposed to take this long?” she asked Papa Bear.

“It takes a while,” he said, rolling his eyes, “but it's easy.”

Mamma Bear waited and watched and surfed the net on her laptop and looked at all the pictures from Billy Joel's latest concert at Madison Square Garden and played a game of spider solitaire and checked her email again and repainted the Sistine Chapel.

Finally, the spinning circle stopped spinning.

The cheerful message told Momma Bear the data from her old phone could not be transferred to her new phone.

Mamma Bear considered throwing the phones across the room, but it was a very small room and she figured they would probably ricochet and hit her in the head, killing her or causing extensive brain damage. At the very least she knew she would have to clean up the mess herself.

Mamma Bear cussed and read the instructions even more carefully. She Googled “How to Transfer Service” and cussed some more. She followed the directions she found on Google. She looked through her secret files to find the WiFi password. She found the WiFi password. She found her Googlemail password, her social security number the name of her great-great-grandmother's dog's veterinarian's cousin's neighbor's first-grade teacher, the square root of Pi, and her natural hair color. She typed it all in.

None of her information transferred.

“That's OK, “ Mamma Bear sighed, “I can put all those numbers in by hand.” Then Mamma Bear tried calling the home phone land-line number, just to check out her fancy new cell phone.

It didn't ring. Service had not transferred.

Mamma Bear tried to call from her old cell phone. No service there, either.

Mamma Bear considered punching a wall, but the contractors had just installed new drywall and she didn't want to impede progress.

Mama Bear took a nice, hot, relaxing shower. She poured a glass of wine. She poured a BIG glass of wine. She took a deep breath.

Mama Bear turned the new phone off. She did another Google search. She told Google what they could do with their search results. She told Samsung what they could do with their 3-step instructions. She took a wild guess.

It worked.

“Easy peasy,” she said.

“My ass.”

Why Can't We Be (Facebook) Friends

Dear Potential Facebook Friend,

Please don't take this the wrong way, but, who are you?

I'll be the first to admit that I have a terrible memory for names, and lately my facial recognition skills are starting to slip, too. I already have some (four) FB friends who I thought I knew because we have so many friends in common, and because their name sounded familiar (or kinda sorta did), or their profile picture looked (vaguely) familiar. It took me months after clicking “Confirm” to realize that I don't, in fact, have any clue who these people are.

Not that it's a problem. I've never unfriended them because, quite frankly, their lives are so much more exciting and fun to read about than mine. And they share the best jokes! I have no idea why they haven't unfriended me, but I'm glad. I'm sure there have been times when my posts came across their newsfeed and they thought “who the heck is she and why did I click Confirm?”

I also have several FB friends who are friends of friends, or with whom I share a common interest – like running, writing or our community. Again, love reading their posts and reposts! Because, like I said, we have something in common.

But you.... You are an enigma. Quite frankly, I find your lack of personal information intriguing.

First of all I'd just like to say how honored and surprised I was to receive your friend request. Honored, because apparently I will be your first Facebook friend (Yay me!). Surprised because, let's be honest, you are some kinda hot. I mean, like, male-model hot. And single. And, apparently, friendless, which is kinda sad. And not at all suspicious.

I get it. You're from America, but you recently moved to Afghanistan or France or England and you haven't had time to make friends among the locals. Hey, you've been too busy to post any information in your profile, let alone meet people. In person, or on-line.

Quite frankly, as a proud American, I am a little concerned that we seem to be exporting such a high number of extremely attractive, middle-aged, single men lately. And you all are sending friend requests to little old me! I'm honored. And surprised. Again.

It's charming how you all seem to pose for the same style photos. What are the odds so many of you would own convertibles and speedboats, or that you would all be pilots or businessmen or part of such a large, large crowd? Not that I have anything against your profile picture or your cover page photo. They are stunning. And obviously not photoshopped. Not at all. Nope. Nope-er. Nope-est.

OK, I'll admit I was starting to get a little suspicious, especially when I received so many similar requests in such a short amount of time.

Then I received a FB friend request from Billy Joel. (True story.)

And? He used the same photos they used on the Billy Joel FB page I'm already following.

And? And? He only had one friend and no profile information.

My flabber was gasted.

Unfortunately someone at Facebook must have removed his request before I could click “Confirm.”

ConfirmConfirmConfirmConfirmCONFIRM.

So.

Obviously this means all you other 2-photo, 1-friend, no-info Friend Requesters are totally legit. Not that I ever suspected any of you were scammers or hackers or ne'er-do-wells.

And I realize that I may have hurt your feelings when I denied and deleted your friend request. I'll totally understand if you do not send me another friend request.

Really. It's OK. Don't do it.

Unless you're Billy Joel.

In which case....

Billy Joel (Traffic) Drives Me Crazy

That I totally enjoyed the Billy Joel concert in Chicago Friday (August 26) goes without saying. He is an incredible entertainer – as are all the musicians in his band. Of course, I have such a huge crush on him that it would take something truly horrendous to dampen my enthusiasm.

That I totally hated driving (by myself) through Chicago traffic to get to the concert also goes without saying. You know that “something truly horrendous” I mentioned earlier? The drive from West Branch to downtown Chicago nearly did me in.

I thought maybe getting lost cruising past the Quad Cities (again), a construction-zone traffic standstill, AND a closed exit to the last rest stop for 30 miles (!!!) might have used up my bad traffic karma before I even got close to the Windy City.

I was wrong.

I would like to take this opportunity to apologize to the residents of the greater Chicago area, and anyone else hindered by my poor traffic-coping skills. Again.

After the potty/exit closed emergency, the drive was pretty uneventful until I reached the outskirts of Aurora, Illinois. (Although I did cuss myself for not purchasing an I-Pass. Frickin' tollway.) Traffic had just started to pick up, and I had just started to practice my deep breathing exercises, when I realized that in Chicago, 5 o'clock rush hour traffic starts at 4, and 4 o'clock rush hour traffic starts at 3:30, and it was currently 3:20. I began to wonder if delaying my departure in order to clean the kitchen counter had really been worth it.

My deep breathing turned to deep cursing when I noticed an Escalade riding my tail. I glared as he finally passed me, then realized that I was riding the tail of the Lexus ahead of me. Ooops.

Remember my love of frickin' tollways? I had just traveled across three lanes of traffic to reach the far left lane, when I had to make my way back to the extreme right lane to prepare for yet another cash-only transaction.

But wait! Six successful lane changes later I realized the toll was only for the exit. Which I was not taking. I decided to stick to the middle lanes from then on, just in case.

Up ahead, an electronic sign offered a helpful traffic update: Downtown 37 min. Really? Already? That long?

Yeah, no. Not so much. After another toll booth – for reals this time – and a good 20 minutes, the next electronic sign announced Downtown 30 min. Time. Had stood. Still.

Eventually I reached the I-290 exit, keeping to the left, as my Googlemap directions said. But I was the only one. After being in 4 lanes of heavy traffic, it was a little eerie suddenly seeing empty lanes. Had I made a wrong turn?

Then traffic stopped. Obviously I was right where I was supposed to be.

Good news! According to the next electronic sign, it would only be 10 more minutes to what I thought was my exit.

Ten minutes? On Venus maybe. I could have read War and Peace in the time it took me to get to the next exit. Heck, I could have written War and Peace.

I decided this was good news! As slow as we were going, I shouldn't be able to miss my exit. Then the traffic clog broke free and we were flying! Or going 25 mph, whichever.

Then we were stopping. Again.

This was still good news, because I had finally reached the exit to Lower Wacker Drive. And – get this! – “lower” doesn't refer to north or south, but “lower” than street level! (Who knew?) Suddenly I was driving through a narrow, 4-lane tunnel, which was really cool, but it was kind of dark and there were stoplights and traffic and I couldn't find the cross streets and I didn't know where I was and then WOW! A boat! I was next to the Chicago River and now I was turning onto Lower Michigan Ave (also lower than street level) and the next thing I knew I was turning onto Grand and I was at street level and then I was pulling into the parking garage and checking in to the hotel and getting ready and walking to the corner to catch the red line L-train to . . . .

Trust me. We shared a moment.

OH CRAP! I couldn't remember where Wrigley Field was!

Officer Posey of the Chicago Police Department very patiently explained how to buy my train tickets (return trip, too), and which train to get on and I practiced more deep breathing as I waited in line for 30 minutes to buy my tickets and then I was on the train, and chatting with all these other nice, middle-aged women, and we all got off the train at Addison and we were at Wrigley Field!

The lights went down, the lights went up and there he was! Billy Joel, center stage, sitting at his piano, hands flying across the keyboard, singing and joking. And that grin! Oh gosh! I swooned because I'm pretty sure I made I contact with him. And gee, isn't he just adorable?

And all that anxiety about traffic and getting lost and Lower Wacker was forgotten, because, wow, what a great show!

Sigh.

Then it was time to head home, and I headed out of Chicago for Iowa.

Via Milwaukee.

Just Say Whoa

 It was bound to happen sooner or later.

After all, we live just to the left of the middle of nowhere, surrounded by fields of every stripe and contour. As much as I hate to admit it, most urban-dwellers would say we live in the country.

But The Princess is still just a baby in my mind. She's a sweet, little thing. So young and impressionable.

Of course that's the problem, right there. She's young and impressionable. Prone to errors in judgment, like all youth. Like I was once. Although never like this. I swear.

Somehow I always thought she would benefit from the influence of nearby, uber-hip Iowa City. Sure, I worried a little about the University of Iowa's party school reputation, but this?

Never saw it coming.

I just wasn't ready for it yet. Then again, maybe no parent ever is.

I mean sure, she drives a pick up truck. Sure, she's in FFA – which used to stand for Future Farmers of America but now just stands for FFA (but only FFA members know that) – even though she's a good two generations removed from actually living on a farm. Go figure.

And yes, the local FFA chapter still has a Drive Your Tractor To School Day during FFA Recognition Week. And yes, she really, really wanted to drive a tractor to school. But we don't have one.

In the end, it was her FFA connections that proved to be the bad influence.

I blame FFA and Iowa State University.

She left home for the Iowa FFA Leadership Conference at ISU as my little radio hog. She came home a changed young woman.

She came home a stranger to me.

She came home listening to country music.

It seems like just last week she was listening to a playlist that almost exclusively featured rap and hip-hop music. Tunes – to use the term loosely – in which every other word should have been bleeped out. And the words that didn't need to be bleeped out couldn't be used in polite or politically correct conversation.

It seems like just last week when she wasn't listening to hip-hop lyrics that caused even me to blush, she was listening to overly-harmonized boy bands and the high-pitched, breathy whining of the latest pop-Tart of the month.

It seems like only last week because it was only last week.

Where has the time gone?

I feel a little (very little) like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof:

Is this the little girl I weaned on 80s music?

Is this the little girl playing those awful Kidz Bop CDs?

I don't remember voluntarily handing her the aux cord,

When did they?

There she was, fresh off the school van, excitedly telling me about the food and the architecture, and the mullets (or lack thereof), and oh, yeah, there were presentations and stuff, too, when – as The Gap Band would have said – she “dropped a bomb on me, baby.”

“Who knew country music could be my jam?”

OK, now the very fact that she used “jam” and “country music” in the same sentence with “jam” being slangfor “my favorite” and not slang for an “improvised musical performance,” is just wrong.

Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.

This is not about the fact that I am not a big country music fan.

OK, maybe it is. Full disclosure: My least favorite Billy Joel song is “Shameless.” It's not that I don't like the way Billy Joel sings it, but no matter how many times I hear the Billy Joel version, I am always reminded of the Garth Brooks version.

Shudder.

The only country music song I have ever actively sought out (that I will admit to) is "The Rodeo Song" (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tX6ggRByE8g). Come to think of it, every fourth word of that song should be bleeped out, so maybe country music and hip-hop aren't always so different after all.

Not that it really matters because tonight when I hopped in the truck, she had the radio tuned to pop music again.

But I'm still not handing her the aux cord.

The Best Part of Waking Up (Not)

I am awakened by a muffled sound from my alarm. It's the pre-alarm sound that always startles me so that I am ready with my ninja-like reflexes to hit the snooze button when the alarm proper goes off.

It is not full day light yet, as it should be at 7 a.m. I know I set the alarm for 7 when I went to bed last night. I was looking forward to that extra hour or two of Saturday sleep. It should not be this dim, even if it is overcast.

I wait impatiently for the alarm to begin softly playing hits of the 70s and 80s so that I can hit snooze.

The mattress sags by my calf. I sense hesitation.

The mattress sags by my hip. I tense.

Twelve pounds of pressure are transferred through a two-inch round-ish paw, exerting a multiplied force of at least 100 pounds on my belly.

I reach blindly for the snooze button – finding a cold, wet nose. I recoil. Blech.

“Hmphf.”

All four paws step across my abdomen in sequence – 100 pounds each – boom, boom, boom, BOOM. The last includes an extra push, extra force, then a thud on the floor as the snooze is set.

I slip back into my dream. Billy Joel is playing the piano. He looks deep in my eyes and sings:

“Mrack?”

His voice sounds like a cross between a congested baby duck and a mangled squeeky toy. A mangled, squeeky duck toy? What?

I squinch my eyes shut and flail over the edge of the bed for the alarm. Something warm and fuzzy slides between my grasping fingers.

“Meh.”

Quiet.

There is a gentle nudge on the side of my mattress next to my head. Soft puffs of air. I'm being sniffed for signs of life.

“Sleepy time,” I hiss-whisper.

“Meh-eh.”

“Shhhh.” I try not to wake my husband. He snores on, a back-up alarm.

A plastic bag rustles near the foot of the bed. I knew better than to leave that there. I throw a wadded up Kleenex, but it falls short.

The sound of claws shredding carpet.

I toss back the covers. The shredding stops.

“Mreh. Mreh.”

The tiny dancer leads me around the foot of the bed, fakes right then darts left across my toes and leads me to the bathroom.

He sits expectantly on the sink, blinking, puffing out his chest, preening, posing.

“Eh?”

I reach around and over him to wash my hands. He bumps my arm. Bumps my other arm. Sniffs the water I slopped on the edge of the sink while being bumped. I sigh.

“Mreh?”

I open the door.

THUD. Cat-like grace, my fanny.

He ankle-tackles me in his haste to regain the lead. He waits for me in the hallway, then races ahead, changing lanes without signaling, cutting me off. I stumble, stop mid-step and swear softly.

He sits in the kitchen doorway, blinking. Oblivious.

“Meh!”

His food dish is . . . completely . . . full. Horrors! There has been no one to stand guard and watch him eat for at least eight hours!

“Meh!”

Big, green eyes, staring.

I pet him in one long, full swipe. Firm pressure is applied evenly from his ears over his shoulders down his back across his hips and along the tail. To. The. Very. Tip. Whichisheldfor precisely, three, seconds. Then twitched away.

The head is raised expectantly, the process begins again, muscles ripple one by one to the tail, two, three.

And

Done.

Crunching.

I am dismissed. The alarm has been reset.

Will Run For Chocolate

Running can be an opportunity to spend some quiet time alone with yourself. A time to meditate, a time of mindful awareness. Whether alone, or at a crowded race, it's just the runner and their thoughts.

Some people may use this time to reflect upon their lives and make meaningful plans. Some people may think deep thoughts and build their character. Some people may get in touch with their spiritual side.

Not me.

For me, a 5k is really just an excuse for me to spend 30 minutes pondering any and all random thoughts that wander through my brain. For example, during this morning's Lagomarcino's Cocoa Beano 5K in East Davenport, my thoughts were a mix of highs and lows, goods and bads, just like the “moderately” hilly course.

The Bad: In a crowd of 3,750 plus, it is possible (I suppose) that a few people didn't read the multiple emails requesting walkers line up towards the back of the crowd. It is possible they missed the multiple signs towards the back of the crowd that said “Walkers Line Up Here.”

It is possible they didn't realize that your “pace” refers to how fast you intend to run the entire race (or most of it), and not how fast you plan on running the first three whole blocks before stopping abruptly to bend over, hands on knees gasping for breath in the middle of the road. Directly in front of me.

These people should be slapped.

The Bad: People who complain – even if they just think about complaining – about people who run three whole blocks before abruptly stopping to bend over, hands on knees gasping for breath in the middle of the road. Directly in front of me.

I should be slapped.

The Bad: People who get to the race at the last minute, find the small parking lot already stuffed to overflowing, yet insist on shoehorning their cars (and gigantic Escalades) into any semi-open space they can find, regardless of how that affects, or, ahem, almost completely blocks off traffic flow after the race.

These people should be slapped.

The Good: People who take the time to help other motorists maneuver their 72-inch wide vehicles through the 74-inch wide gap left between the back bumper of the shiny, new, black Escalade, and the driver's side door of the fragile, white Toyota Prius.

Those people deserve medals. Because if it weren't for them, I would have gotten out and hit those cars even if I didn't hit those cars.

The Bad/Not Inspirational: The runners who cross the finish line and then turn around and run the course backwards as a cool down, or to double their mileage. Especially if I meet them before I reach the half-way point.

These people deserve to be slapped.

The Good/Inspirational: The runner with the perfectly coiffed bun, designer sweats, aviator-style sunglasses and perfect running form. I want your hair and your style. If I can't run fast, I should at least be able to look good doing it. (Although I did pass her, so there's that.)

The Good: My music playlist for this race was amazing. I don't think many people would put Sammy Hagar, The Kinks, and Steve Winwood (and Billy Joel) on the same playlist.

The Bad: I MAY HAVE HAD THE VOLUME TOO LOUD. Wait? Is that even a thing?

Good, Better, Best: It's not called the Chocolate Beano for nuthin'. Runners got a piece of Lagomarcino's candy and hot chocolate at the end of the race. The only better way to end a race would be to have Billy Joel at the finish line. The only thing better than that? Billy Joel waiting at the finish line with Lagomarcino chocolates.

The Bad: People who think Iowa is flat. These people should be slapped and forced to run a 5K in a river town.

The Good: West Branch isn't near a river, but it has plenty of hills. I eat hills for breakfast. I love powering past others on hills. (I should probably be slapped for that.)

The Bad: Ending a 5K route with a long incline. You could hear the roar of the crowd, but you couldn't see it. That last quarter mile up hill was a real spirit breaker.

The Good: My spirit doesn't break that easy.

But I am going to lie about my pace next time.

Let Me Introduce to You The One and Only... No Talent Slugs

No Talent Slugs to Play Fundraiser

J. Salemink

Special to The Pleasant Glen Daily Herald Tribune Gazateer Times

A podiatrist, an accountant, an orthodontist and a Home Ec teacher all walk in to a bar.

It sounds like the set up to a bad joke. And it may be.

It's also the line up for Pleasant Glen's most unlikely popular underground band, The No Talent Slugs.

 The group will be... performing... Saturday at The Bar, downtown Pleasant Glen, to raise funds for the high school fine arts program. Doors open at 7 p.m.

Jim Johnson: We recommend you get there early and start drinking quickly. The drunker you are, the better we sound.

I recently sat down with members of the group at The Bar to discuss their upcoming show and their surprising popularity. Johnson, a graying, 54-year-old podiatrist, is the rhythm guitarist, lead singer, and spokesperson for the band. 

Jane Smith: Graying? Graying? That's like describing a blizzard as “snowing.” And "singer" might be stretching it a bit.

Smith, a Home Ec teacher at Pleasant Glen High School, is….

Smith: “A smokin' hot babe who makes middle-age look good. As a keyboardist and vocalist with the group, she also gives the band some much needed class.”

So, Mr. Johnson, Ms. Smith has cast aspersions on your singing ability. Based on other comments I've heard, I have to ask... can you sing?

Johnson: “Well, yes. Of course I can sing. You might not want me to sing.”

Smith: We've had to re-program the auto-tune synth three times so far. Shout out to Matt “MC” Currand, our electrical technician and roadie. We've relegated Jim to lead screecher on the heavy metal tunes.

Johnson: We all serve our time behind the microphone now.

Smith: It's harder to know who to boo that way.

Bill Jones: I wouldn't call it singing so much as “vocal stylings.” Remember William Shatner's spoken word performances? We're not that good.

Pleasant Glen orthodontist Bill Jones is the group's bassist and a founding member. Can you explain how the group came together? Or, more curiously, why?

Jones: Our kids – who actually do have talent – joined a high school rock band program at the local music store. They teased us about taking an adult Learn to Uke class... one thing lead to another....

Smith: One beer lead to another. Each of us claimed to have the least musical talent....

Johnson: Dares were made....

Smith: Bluffs were called....

Johnson: Aspersions were cast. You dirty, rotten aspersion caster.

Smith: I'll never live that one down, will I?

Jones: And the next thing you know, we all had signed up for lessons.

So you all play the ukulele?

Smith: Oh, God no. But it's not for lack of trying. I've taken the beginning ukulele class three times, and intermediate twice. I can play a “C” chord pretty reliably. Or is that a “G” chord? Which one's the open one?

Jones: Jim and I switched to electric guitars, because, well, they're electric and we're guys so....

Johnson: And they're much more expensive than ukuleles. Double bonus! Between the two of us we've got the big three chords – C, G, D – down cold.

Jones: Ish. I still have a little trouble with “G” too, Jane.

Smith: I know. Believe me. We all know. Anyway, the kids were having so much fun, that we decided not to let our lack of musical talent get in the way of forming our own band.

Johnson: What we lack in talent we more than make up for in enthusiasm.

Three chords? Doesn't that kind of limit your play list?

Johnson: You'd be surprised how many songs only have three chords.

Yeah, but... not the same three chords.

Jones: You're right. And that's what really sets the No Talent Slugs apart from … well, everyone else. GCD, DAG, EBA, EAG, FBI, CIA....

Smith: It's still rock and roll to me.

So you transpose those other chords?

Johnson: Pffft. Heck no. We just play them as G, C or D.

Smith: Reminiscent of a song, yet not a song.

Interesting. I can't... I can't think of any other band to compare you to. Can you?

Johnson: We used to say we played like first year band students.

Jones: Until the first year band students threatened to sue us for defamation of character.

Smith: We've been compared to Milli Vanilli.

Johnson: Technically, we were urged to lip synch.

Jones: And have someone else play our instruments.

Smith: And appear on stage for us.

Any chance you've been compared to Spinal Tap?

Johnson: Dude. Our amps go up to 12.

Do you take requests?

Jones: We get a lot of requests not to play.

Johnson: Really? From who?

Smith: Your wife. His wife. My husband. The neighbors. Our kids. No, I take that back. The kids upload videos of us to YouTube and wait for them to go viral.

Anything you won't play?

Smith: Billy Joel. His music is sacrosanct.

Johnson: And he uses more than three chords. Show off.

Jones: You'd think we could at least play “Piano Man.” It's the same damn thing over and over again.

Johnson: Yeah, but she can't play the piano, man.

Smith: Aspersions cast, aspersions carried.

Saturday's show will also be the public debut of the band's newest (and quietest) member, Andrew Jefferson James Washington, Accounting Professor at the local junior college.

Johnson: He's the whitest black boy you'll ever find.

Washington: I resemble that remark.

Jones: He holds the dubious distinction of having the least natural rhythm of us all. And that's saying something. He's going to fit right in with our percussion section.

But isn't rhythm kind of a requirement for a percussionist?

Johnson: Not necessarily. For us, anyway. Laurie Anderson, our drummer, sets a pretty steady beat... for the most part. It depends on what she's been working on that day.

Smith: She's a clerk-typist at PG JuCo. If she's had to catch a lot of grammatical and spelling errors that day she tends to be a little edgy. Sets a quicker tempo. If something came in from the athletic director... it's “Katy bar the door!”

Washington: “I may not have much soul, but...”

Johnson: “Any. You don't have any soul.”

Washington: “No, I don't have any funk. I don't have much soul, but I play a mean tambourine. I think. I've never actually played with a band before, but I've got the moves down from watching “Josie and the Pussycats” cartoons. Mostly I just shake a paper plate along with the kitchen radio while I'm getting dinner ready.”

Jones: I saw him playing air tambourine at our neighborhood picnic and I knew he would fit right in.

Smith: We stole him away from the Tambourine Tamers. They put up a good fight, but the group kind of fell apart when the lead 'bourine developed tinnitus.

Washington: Rumor has it he was experimenting with adding a triangle to the group.

Johnson: Sad, really. Know your limits, I always say. Don't let them stop you, but know them.

Washington: I also had an offer from Martha and the Accordion All-Stars.

Smith: You play the accordion?

Washington: Play... own... potato, potahto. I was a punch card operator in another life.

Smith: Mad skills, A.J. ...J. Mad skills.

Sad situations and, dare I say, scandal, seem to lurk in the Slug's backstory, in particular when it comes to percussionists....

Johnson: Ahh, yes. Patty the Postal Worker, our original drummer. Such force, such precision, such a stickler for the rules. You know, I really can't comment on her situation, other than to say the court-ordered anger-management classes conflicted with our practice schedule.

Sounds a little cliché.

Johnson: Isn't all rock cliché?

Washington: It's like Freud said, “Sometimes a cigar is just a cigar.”

Smith: Did Freud really say that?

Washington: Beats me. But he should have. Anyway, sometimes a postal worker goes postal. Don't we all? But if you said “she went accountantal,” it just wouldn't have the same... umph.

Smith: I can't believe you didn't tell us about the Accordion All-Stars. You're a man of mystery. I like that.

I have to say, you don't seem like the stereotypical rock and roll band members. The talent limit, the whole three chord thing, the white-collar jobs...

Smith: See? I told you I added credibility to the band.

Jones: How do you figure?

Smith: I spent one summer filling all the tampon dispensers on the University of Iowa campus. Definitely not white collar.

Washington: We're the new face of “Dad Rock.”

Jones: We're not just the face. We're the gut, receding hairline and bifocals of “Dad Rock.”

Smith: You guys do look more like Richard Simmons than Keith Richards.

Johnson: We're not a typical band, or typical band members. Amy Yoder, our … well, we're not really sure what Amy plays...

Jones: She calls it's “rock oboe.”

Johnson: Ummm, yeah, we'll go with that. Anyway, Amy works as a parking garage cashier...

Jones: In a pre-paid pass only parking garage.

Johnson: She says if she didn't have The Slugs, she'd go...

Washington: Accountantal? That woman is hard core. Joan Jett has nothing on her. Except for talent.

Smith: Jon Nesmith, our theremin player-slash-manager, works summers as a detasseling crew leader when he's not holding a stop/slow sign for road construction crews.

Jones: And in the off season he candles eggs and works as a mall Santa. He says he's used to herding cats, so we keep his skills sharp.

So your band is a cure for mass mid-life crises?

Johnson: No. That name's been trademarked. And they protect it ferociously. We're the No Talent Slugs. Or at least Pleasant Glen's No Talent Slugs. Sheesh. And you call yourself a journalist. Try to keep up.

I'm beginning to think that's not just soda that you're drinking.

Smith: Reminiscent of a soda, yet....

Johnson: Now who's casting ashpersh... asbergs... oh, you know what I mean.

Jones: We're just a group of people who like music and have a good time playing music.

Smith: But through some horrible, horrible twist of fate, none of us have any talent for it.

Washington: We're very serious about our band. We couldn't be this bad without being serious.

Johnson: We're like the kids that always get picked last for the dodgeball team, but who really like dodgeball. So we decided to make our own damn team.

In a weird way, I think I kind of get it. But what I don't get is why the legendary Bob Viner, owner of The Bar, and avowed patron of the musical arts, the man credited with launching the career of near-superstar recording artist Joe Davenport of The Average Joes...

Smith: I had Joe autograph my boob once, when I was in college.

Johnson: I have Joe's autograph on a restraining order.

Jones: I have Joe's partial crown on display in my office.

Washington: Who's Joe?

My question is, why is Bob is letting you play at The Bar? This is one of Eastern Iowa's most popular and respected venues for live music. I've heard rumors of bribes. Care to comment?

Johnson: No bribes were exchanged. He lost that card game fair and square.

Washington: Never bet against an accountant.

Smith: Boobs for beads... or bookings.

Jones: Nepotism is alive and well, right Uncle Bob?

Viner: You! (Pointing at Jones) I'm not your Uncle. You! (Pointing at Smith) Keep those things covered up. You. (Pointing at Washington) Hand over the ten bucks you owe me. And you (Pointing at Johnson) couldn't win a game of “Go Fish” if you cheated. Because you did cheat. And I still beat you. Your friends better drink as much as you say they do, or you'll be scrubbing toilets to pay off your bar tab.

As for you, Miss Reporter Lady, it's a fundraiser for the school. These yahoos play for free. Fewer expenses equals more money raised. End of story.

Well, that clears that up. Any final comments?

Jones: Get there late. Leave early.

Smith: Drink lots. Please.

Washington: Tip your waitress... but, like, with money... don't actually tip her over.

Johnson: Support Pleasant Glen's Fine Arts, so your kids don't end up like us.

Viner: Amen.

For booking information, contact jsalemink through this publication.

Viner: After consulting a licensed health care provider.

Sharing 5 Seconds with The Princess

The Queen Mother did many, many wonderful things for me, but she never took me to a rock concert.

Plays, musicals, speech contests... heck, we even saw dancer Bobby Burgess (of Lawrence Welk fame) at the Muscatine County Fair... but never a rock concert.

In her defense, she did buy me tickets to see Richard Marx at the fair, and she didn't quibble when I wanted to see Billy Idol in concert (I may have led her to believe he was a modern-day Pat Boone).

I thought of all this while I was sitting next to The Princess at the 5 Seconds of Summer concert last weekend in Tinley Park, Illinois.

This was our Second-Annual Boy Band Concert Excursion, having successfully navigated St. Louis to see One Direction last summer. Throw in rapper Huey Mack (an introduction to the Iowa City bar-band scene) and I'd say we've hit the trifecta or scored a hat trick or, well… let's just say she's widened my range of musical influences.

Some people who are not as hip as me (and obviously I'm pretty damn hip), have asked me what the difference is between One Direction and 5SOS (pronounced “five-sauce” by the cool kids). Originally I thought the only difference was that 5SOS had four members, while 1D had five. But now that Zayn has left 1D (drama!), you can't judge a band by the numbers.

At the concert I decided the real difference is in how those band members fit the time-honored, boy band line-up stereotypes. From the Beatles and the Monkees to NSYNC and Backstreet Boys, they've all had one “bad boy,” one “smart boy,” one “cute boy,” one “fun boy,” and one “sensitive boy” (as needed).

1D have (or had) one of each.

5SOS has 2.5 bad boys.

Of course The Princess' favorite 5SOS member is the lead singer – the .5 bad boy. At the concert he was wearing a grey t-shirt (not “bad boy”) in contrast to his pierced lip (“bad boy”). The other “bad boys” are the drummer (he's the drummer, so, duh, and he was wearing his hair in a “mun” or man-bun), and the guitarist (eyebrow piercing and Harley Davidson t-shirt). The bass guitarist, he of the baby face and prep-logo t-shirt, I figure is about as clean cut as possible these days.

When I ran my bad boy ratio theory by The Princess she looked at me like I was totally not cool, and explained that 5SOS plays punk/pop, while 1D plays pop/pop. That may be why I like 5SOS both more than and at the same time less than 1D. I like the edgy sound to the 5SOS songs (although they all sounded like one long teen-age girl's scream until their cover of Green Day's “American Idiot”). But the mom in me likes 1D's lyrics (“You don't know you're beautiful/That's what makes you beautiful), better than 5SOS's (“You look so perfect standing there/In my American Apparel underwear”).

When it comes right down to it, it's not about parents enjoying their children's music (although I like it all well enough). It's about parents enjoying their children's happiness. I'm certainly not a perfect mom – when I offered to spend an equivalent seven-hours travel-time in the car with The Prince he looked horrified – but I'm trying. And of course I'm not alone.

The mom next to me at the concert said Led Zeplin was more to her liking, but she was at 5SOS to make her 14-year-old daughter happy. They had gone to 1D last summer, too. As the speakers blared Europe's “The Final Countdown” in preparation for 5SOS's big opening all four of us sang along.

“This is what we went to back in the day,” laughed the almost-as-cool-as-me mom.

Despite the age differences and the relative hip/unhipness of parents, most of us stood and kind of swayed along to all the songs – except for the parents who had their camera phones trained on the stage (presumably at their kids' request). And when 5SOS played their latest song, "She's Kinda Hot"  – which they had just “dropped” (see? I even picked up the cool lingo) a couple weeks earlier – we all knew the words and sang along.

Just like everyone sang along when 5SOS covered The Ramone's “What I Like About You” to end the show. Green Day and The Ramones? Those bad boys are growing on me.

The Princess and I had such a good time enjoying the mix of old and new music that I offered to take her with me to see Billy Joel at Wrigley Field. It was kind of hard to read her expression, what with all the lasers and strobe lights, but I'm pretty sure she looked excited.

Especially when I said we could spend the day shopping along Chicago's Magnificent Mile instead of going to the Art Institute.

It's all about compromise and sharing what you love.

With the ones you love.

Take the Long Run Home

It was a beautiful morning for a run.

Sunny and cool, with a slight breeze. A mostly-flat route, with a potential hill-filled detour if I was feelin' cocky.

Perfect for letting my mind wander. Luckily it sent postcards from the road....

Mile 1

My old buddies the cows have stopped grazing to watch me. It really creeps me out when they stare like that. Wait a minute, they're turning... turning... and Holy Crap! They're out-sprinting me! Damn show offs.

Now they've stopped to wait for me. Have you ever heard a cow laugh?

Not cool, cows. It's a marathon-ish, not a sprint.

Cows suck.

Mile 2

The farm dog has a better memory than the cows. He takes his own sweet time, meanders out to the edge of the driveway, sits down, yawns, scratches, takes out a Thermos of coffee, opens up the paper, shakes his head at the grain futures report, and gives a half-hearted “Woof” as I run by.

Then another “woof” just for good measure.

Not cool, dog. I'm running as fast as I can.

Smart-ass dogs suck.

Mile 3

Running downhill! Yay!

On a rutted, washed-out dirt road!

Dirt roads suck.

It's a long, slow decline with a short, steep incline. Steep like "climbing out of a ditch" steep. Like "where's the ladder" steep.

Morris Day launches into “The Bird” on my playlist (Honest. I couldn't make this up):

“Last call for alcohol/ If you ain't got what you want/You got to get the hell up outta here!”

Thanks for the boost, Morris!

Popping up over a hill rocks.

Mile 4

Finally get to leave the gravel roads behind.

Gravel sucks.

I have to make a choice. Should I take the flat, shady trail, or the sunny, quarter-mile-long hill?

Hill it is.

Hills suck.

Mile 5

The good thing about going uphill is that eventually you get to go down hill.

Yay!

Forgot that this side-route has more hills. Lots more hills.

Uphill sucks.

Downhill. Yay!

Up. Suck.

Down. Yay!

Suck.

Yay!

Mile 6

If I finish six miles, I can have a cup of coffee and half a monster-sized cinnamon roll.

Another freakin' hill?

Make that the whole cinnamon roll.

Cinnamon rolls rock.

Mile 7

I have a cramp in my ass. Who gets a cramp in their ass?

How can my ass cramp up when it feels like it's bouncing around back there like a basketball?

Wait a minute, it's only the left side that's cramping and bouncing. The right side feels... nothing.

Holy Crap! My ass cheeks have merged into one giant, lop-sided, crampy basketball.

Ass cramps suck.

Mile 7.5

One more.

Hill.

Suck.

The end is near.

Yay!

Not near enough.

Suck.

This run was too far.

It's taken too long.

I've outlasted my playlist and my iPod has switched to shuffle. It's like musical Russian roulette at this point.

And the winner is (I shit you not): Billy Joel's “I Don't Know Why I Go To Extremes.”

Me neither Mr. Joel. Me neither.

I DO know finishing a 7.5 mile run ROCKS!

HARD!

I'ma hava cinnamon roll!

And a steak!

Take that you smart-ass cows.