Bridging the Political Divine

One possible upside to my being so busy I missed November, is that I didn't have time to kick off my political career. I've long known that I have the answers to all of life's problems. As election day 2009 rolled around I considered blessing everyone with my insight and knowledge. I just couldn't decide who would benefit the most from my brilliance, and this wasn't a Supreme World Dictator election year.

My political aspirations began after a typically crazy day of so-called "stay-at-home" mom chores. I was seriously considering a career change. I mentally listed my strengths (keen sense of fashion, razor-sharp wit, infallibility) and my desires (unlimited power, a huge paycheck, to be worshiped in a manner befitting royalty). Two job possibilities immediately came to mind: politician and mob boss. Since there are fewer politicians in jail than mob bosses, the choice was obvious.

Besides, I've always enjoyed spending money. Particularly other people's money. OK, that was really what tipped the scales in favor of politics.

What could you expect from a Jomama administration? A chicken in every pot, pot for every chicken. Something for everyone at no cost to anyone, all financed by OPM (Other People's Money).

Anyone can make empty campaign promises and vacuous slogans. I offer real plans, solid solutions to the most pressing problems. The first stop on my roadmap to prosperity is right here in eastern Iowa.

The Johnson County Board of Supervisors continues to wrestle with the question of what to do with the historic Sutliff Bridge. At last report it would take a mere 2.4 million dollars of OPM (news flash, you are the other people) to replace the span washed away in the flood of 2008.

If only the raging Cedar had been considerate enough to wash away the other end and leave the span next to Sutliff. That span could have become Eastern Iowa's biggest and best back porch! The bridge was always a great place to enjoy burgers and beer from Baxa's Sutliff Store and Tavern. Half a bridge would be even better -- short and sweet and closer to the bar!

But that's not the way Mother Nature rolled. Most people would look at that half a bridge and see a problem. Not me. I'm a bridge half-full kind of gal. Where others see problems, I see possibilities.

Let me take you through my solution-making process. Part one: the Sutliff Bridge was over a river. The river flooded. Big problem. Solution? Move the bridge. Seems obvious, I know, and yet people continue to put bridges over rivers. Go figure.

OK, part two: it's an historic bridge. I think "historic," I think history, I think... West Branch! Heck, the tavern building would fit right in with the downtown architecture. Now we're getting somewhere.

Speaking of getting somewhere, let's face it, Sutliff is not in the middle of somewhere. West Branch, on the other hand, is right off the interstate. Bingo! Bring the history to the masses!

For you purists, West Branch is located on the west branch of the Wapsinonoc Creek, so the bridge could still be a "bridge." The creek has even been known to flood occasionally, so the element of danger would still be there.

In fact, the creek plays a vital role in my plan to move the remaining span to its new and improved home. What the Cedar River hath started, let the Cedar River finisheth, I say. Just attach a couple pontoons and an outboard motor to the remaining span, wait for the next flood and sail her on down to the Wapsinonoc. I'm not sure the two waterways connect, but have you ever heard of a little thing called the Panama Canal? Where there's a will there's a way, baby. This thing has "made for Discovery Channel" written all over it.

Oh yes, I have a dream. A dream that some day West Branch will not only be the birthplace of the 31st President of the United States, but home to the Sutliff Bridge, and campaign headquarters for the Supreme World Dictator.

Single-fan-tasking

So, what have I been doing since Augtober?

Eh, a little of this, a little of that. It's amazing how time flies when you're not really accomplishing anything. You would think, with as many different things as I try to do, something would get done. I mean, what are the odds? Random, dumb luck should take over at some point and finish up at least one project.

It's the old infinite monkey theorem. Give a room full of monkeys typewriters and sooner or later one of them will pound out the works of Shakespeare. Ooops, I guess the secret to my blogging is out now. Of course the primates have a much easier time of it with my prose than with iambic pentameter:
Forsooth, I have forsworn the use of "thou."
The apes protest the ban and cry "alas."
Enough, I say, you pain me in my ...

Yeah, well, monkey kibble doesn't buy the same quality text it once did. It does explain the proliferation of limericks, though.

But I don't have a room full of monkeys. It's just me and my inability to say "No. I can't do that. I'm busy." I know I'm not the only one with that disability. I'm not even in the same league as some people who juggle multiple projects, jobs and volunteer positions. And I don't want to be.

I recently read an article about a man who noticed he was being pulled in too many directions and decided to make a bold move: He decided to spend an entire month single-tasking.

He didn't talk on the phone while putting away dishes. He didn't try to supervise homework while making dinner. He didn't fold laundry while surfing the net.

When he spoke with someone he gave them his full attention. When he worked on a project, he worked only on that project until it was complete. Then, and only then, he moved on to the next task.

Wow. What a concept. I was fascinated. I was ready to convert. I could single task. I could! And I would!

Then the Little Prince knocked on the bathroom door and asked if I could help him.

It took a couple of days, but eventually I finished the article. The author must have had some serious single-tasking time to dedicate to writing, or maybe his own room full of monkeys, or maybe he had just trained his children not to bother him while he was in the bathroom. Whatever his secret was, I wanted it.

The author warned that it took him a couple of days to adapt to single-tasking. He even enlisted the help of his wife keep him focused. I considered asking His Royal Highness, the King, to help me stay on track, but that would be asking him to multi-task and seemed like cheating.

In other words, trying to single-task cold turkey didn't work. In fact, I'm not sure I have ever had a sustained single-tasking experience lasting more than a min- (gotta switch the laundry) -ute. But I have become more aware of my multi-taskingness. I think I have cut back from capitol "M" Multi to lowercase "m" multi. And best of all, I have actually finished a few projects!

That first feeling of accomplishment was so sweet! And it encouraged me to focus on another project and finish it! And other, and another.... It was like a row of dominoes falling, or the leading edge of an avalanche.

In fact, I was so efficient I decided to take on a few more projects. So tomorrow, between doing loads of laundry, I'll be getting the crafts ready for CCD, and while I've got the glue gun out I'll work on a new wreath for Mom, so that will be done when I run to the bank on my way to the post office before picking up the kids for piano lessons to check on the information for PTO and finishing the newsletter after cross-checking the mailing list.

I think I'm getting the hang of this single-tasking.

No Novel November

Holy Guacamole! What happened to November? It's already the 30th, and I've missed all but the last few hours of National Novel Writing Month. I have just hours to either write a 50,000 word novel -- at this point that's approximately 25,000 words an hour -- or face being a miserable failure once again.

NaNoWriMo has very few rules, you can check it out at nanowrimo.org, or just take my word for it. Write fast, write furious and write often, with the goal of producing a 175-page novel. Quantity, not quality. No plot? No problem. What's not to love? That Nov. 30 deadline, that's what. One little rule that has been my downfall the last three years.

But no more.

Rules? I don't need no steenking rules! I'm the Queen. I issue the rules around here. And so, by Royal Decree, I am ordering a re-do on November. Well, maybe not a re-do, exactly. I'm not sure November was good enough to repeat. It wasn't bad, but hey -- been there, done that, crossed the days off the calendar already.

It's not like I have anything against December, either. It's been waiting patiently -- through 11 long months -- for its turn. Repeating November would be like cutting in line. And I hate line jumpers.

Instead of a repeat or a delay, let's just call it "Nocember" and split the difference. If stores can market Christmas in July, and all but trample over the turkeys in their rush to welcome Santa, I can create Nocember.

Handy, don't you think, that Nocember starts the same day as the Gregorian calendar's December? Yep, that's my OCD showing. I have enough trouble remembering the dates of appointments and events without trying to figure out some sort of exchange rate between calendars. Once I get a little more comfortable in this new role of Queen of Everything, Including Space and Time, I might adjust the numbering or naming of days. A Monday by any other name would still smell just as rank, but troubled spellers the world over would thank me for changing Wed-nes-day.

Quite frankly, I'm tired of this 24-hour, 7-day a week schedule. The rest of the world can conform to my schedule for a while. Some days you just need an extra hour or two to get things done. And sometimes things need to move along a little faster. Ooops, sorry, Thursday has been canceled this week, we'll have to schedule that meeting for another day.

After all, isn't our entire concept of time just an artificial construct? Hours, days and weeks are just units of measure created to give structure to man's existence. They create the impression of order while ultimately limiting our experience to the here and now.

By the way, I spent my Augtober getting my PhD in BS.

But this is not a time to look backward, nor a time to wax philosophical. Now is the time to make plans for Nocember, and more specifically my own personal NaNoWriMo. So I suppose you could call it JoNoWriMo. Hmmm, that sounds a little too much like the way my November actually turned out -- Jo no write month.

NoProBlameOh.

Since my goal isn't to create a novel there's no "No" no mo'. Instead I shall challenge myself to blog everyday of the month, making it JoBloWriMo. That sounds vaguely... weird, but it will have to do.

Now for that word count. To reach 50,000 in 30 days I would have to write about 1,667 words every day. Considering this is number 537, this project may run into Nocemburary.

What the heck. I've got all the time in the world.

Getting the Best of Bad Luck

Way back when, when I was a kid, I remember watching Hee-Haw with the Good King Dad. (Obviously this was before DHS, because cornball, redneck humor is surely child abuse). There was one recurring sketch that featured someone singing "If it weren't for bad luck, I'd have no luck at all."

Well, I was trying to explain to someone the other day how that could probably be my theme song. I know of no silver lining too shiny to dispel a dark cloud. But I've come to accept and, to some degree, expect that thunderhead. Instead of moping (too much) about the hole in my umbrella, I just look for the humor in the tarnished silver lining.

They didn't get it.

You see, in the cosmic storms of fortune and fate, I'm a lightening rod for bad luck, catastrophe, inconvenience and misfortune. It's no one's fault -- just the opposite. People try to do nice things for me, but once I get involved it turns out all higgledy-piggledy. And when I try to do nice things for me, it's "Whoa Nelly! Bar the door!" Which brings me to what I thought was a funny story.

About a year ago I had to go in for a follow-up mammogram because of a shadow on the initial x-ray. Given my family history, I wasn't too surprised. In fact, I had an eerie feeling when I left the imagining center that first time.

Happily, the second x-ray was clear. (Yay me!) I decided to treat myself to a little caffeinated goody to celebrate. I was in downtown Iowa City anyway, and I needed to go to the library, so I figured I'd visit one of the hundreds of coffee shops on the ped mall.

The shine of my silver lining must have been absolutely blinding, because I found an on-street parking spot only half a block from the library. I fed the parking meter, slipping but not falling on the icy curb. Did I mention it was February and colder than a witches' mammogram?

After a quick (but careful) sprint to the library I decided it would be best to limit my outdoor exposure, so I popped in to the adjacent coffee shop. My silver lining was frosted but still shining, and Lady Luck favored me with a comfy chair near the window, toasty warm from the sunlight.

I enjoyed -- nay, savored -- my latte and sinfully delicious blueberry muffin, while losing myself in the trials and tribulations of Elinor and Marianne Dashwood of "Sense and Sensibility." At length, my cup was empty, the crumbs cleared, and the Dashwoods had reached the end of a chapter.

I headed back to the car, filled with bonhomie. My tummy was full, caffeine level high and the girls had received a clean bill of health. All was right with the world.

I also had a parking ticket.

Take that, you silver lining!

Most expensive coffee I've ever had. And worth every penny.

Look Ma Bell! No Hands!

I have got to get me one of them hands-free, cell phone headset thingies.

Not because I need to be available by cell phone at all times. Duh. Why do you think the ringer is usually off? OK, it's because I forget to turn it back on, but that's not the point.

Not because I need an outward symbol of how important I am. I think the tiara pretty much says it all.

No, I need a headset to disguise my crazy ramblings and outbursts. Oh sure, talk to yourself a little and people thing you're eccentric. Talk to yourself a lot and they lock you up. Give random strangers constructive criticism and they take offense!

But! Talk into a headset and no one bats an eye!

This morning I saw a woman carrying on a conversation all by herself outside the ice cream parlor -- which is closed for the season by the way -- in beautiful downtown West Branch. We assume that she was talking to someone on her headset, but how do we really know that? Sure, she had her Franklin Day Planner in one hand, and she was dressed in comfortable yet professional-looking business casual style. But how do we know her cell phone was even on?

This hands-free headset fetish has its place, but leave them in the car, people. I don't give a crap if they're hard to connect and disconnect and it's easier to just leave them on when you go in the store. And don't give me that "Oh, I forgot it was there" crap. Hellooo, it's a growth sticking out of your ear. You know it's there.

Yes, you do look like a crazy person talking to yourself in line at the grocery store. It is almost, but not quite as annoying as the people who talk on the phone in public restrooms. Do me a favor people, don't answer or -- God forbid -- place a call while in a stall. It will save me from repeatedly flushing in an attempt to annoy you and drive home a point to whoever is on the other end of the line.

Don't even get me started on how much I don't want to hear your conversation.

But since you brought up the subject, no! I don't want to hear your conversation. In fact, I don't want to hear your conversation so much that I usually just tune out anyone around me who is talking. Someday I'm going to be run down by a truck because I ignored the people shouting "LOOK OUT! THERE'S A TRUCK ABOUT TO RUN YOU DOWN!" because I thought they were talking to someone else on their cell phones.

On the other hand (and I would have both available!), I could use this to my advantage. I already feel perfectly free to offer much needed advice on driving (and, occasionally, fashion) from the enclosed and nearly soundproof comfort of my car. They can't hear me, but on some level -- whether it is psychic or body language -- I think I get my message across.

The headset would give me a similar sense of freedom to offer advice while outside my car. The random pedestrian would never be quite sure if I was talking to them or not, but subconsciously they would absorb my advice and use it to better their lives.

The moron blocking traffic in the cereal aisle would hear "Aisle hog on lane 3." He would look around, sheepishly, then decide to stand behind his cart instead of next to it, allowing other shoppers to pass.

The lady with the screaming kid at the mall would hear "future juvenile delinquent" and would probably assume I was talking about someone else. However, one day in the future while she's talking to Junior via a whole different type of "cell" phone and remarking on how that orange jumpsuit really brings out the blue in his eyes, she'll have a flashback and think "I really should have tried a more proactive approach to discipline when you were younger."

Viola! Another problem solved, another life improved.

All thanks to hands free technology. And me.

Teaching 'Snot for Me

Recently I took the "What is Your Ideal Job" quiz on Facebook. I expected the answer would somehow reflect my regal status -- something like "Queen of the Universe," "Royal Bon Bon Inspector," or the straightforward "Boss of Everything and Everyone."

But oh no. The answer was "Teacher."

These are the same insightful people who brought me such meaningful (and accurate) time wasting quizzes as: "Which Peanuts Character are You?" (Snoopy, of course), "Discover Your Birth Number" (2, a natural born diplomat. Well, duh), and "Which TV Mom Are You?" (Peg Bundy. Girl's got style). How could they let me down with "Teacher"?

Sorry. Been there, done that, warped a few teenage psyches along the way.

I can turn the most mundane occurrence into a "sign" of something, so I knew that getting "Teacher" as my quiz result was a sign. A bad sign. An omen of end of the world proportions. It was just a matter of time.

Today my time ran out. My second day of substitute teaching during the 2009-10 school year. The day that I learned without a doubt, that "Teacher" is not my ideal job.

If I wasn't feeling so melodramatic, I would amend that to "'Kindergarten Teacher' is not my ideal job." But after the day I had today, I deserve to be melodramatic. And technically I should amend that to "After the two and a half hours I had today, I deserve to be melodramatic." It was the longest two and a half hours of my life.

In my defense, kindergartners this early in the school year (12 days in) are basically tall preschoolers. And the preschool teacher has at least one aide. I would have settled for a roll of duct tape. With that I could have not only taped their mouths shut (Please be quiet, pleasebequiet, bequietbequietbequiet!), but also taped their little hands to their sides (No touching, notouchingnotouchingnotouching!)

The phrase "herding cats" kept running through my mind, but only as an example of a much easier job.

It's not a matter of adapting instructional techniques from high school to small fry. It's the whole caretaker thing. Here's an example:

As I was herding -- I mean escorting -- little "Regan" (name has been changed to protect the guilty and to insert a sly reference to Linda Blair's character in "The Exorcist") back to his seat, he sneezed a mighty sneeze. Being a thoughtful and polite child, he covered his mouth and nose with his hands the way you do when you sneeze.

At this point, everything went into slow motion.

Little Regan lowered his hands slightly, took a look at them, then turned to look at me, eyes wide in amazement. A snot/spit mix puddled in his hands and ran down one arm to his elbow. Another drippy strand connected the puddle to twin rivulets coating his nose, lips and chin. I quickly handed him a couple of tissues, turned him toward the sink and told him to wash up.

Then I wiped down the faucet, the soap dispenser and the paper towel holder. And washed my hands. Several times.

I seriously need to re-evaluate my career choice.

Is anyone hiring cat wranglers?

Winning is for Losers

Once upon a time, there was a beautiful Queen who had lost her sense of humor. She looked everywhere, but just couldn't find it. The everyday foibles of the peasants around her just didn't amuse her anymore.

She still dispensed driving advice from her royal carriage. But her heart just wasn't in it. She still had trouble finding just the right glass slipper to wear with her ball gown. But instead of pitching a royal hissy, she quietly submitted to the geriatric loafers without the stroke-of-midnight clause. Many, many, many times her fashion police and grammar police alarms went off. But instead of cutting the offenders down to size with a snarky remark, she merely sighed and went about her royal business, not even bothering to refer to it as "bidness."

Then one day she registered for a prize drawing because one of the prizes was a free latte. "Free" and "latte" are two of her favorite words. Put them together and how could she resist?

Flash forward to after the drawing. Much to the Queen's surprise she won the Grand Prize! At first the Queen was disappointed because she really, really wanted a free latte. Then she decided it was rude to look a free gift horse in the mouth (carelessly disregarding the hard-learned lesson of the Trojans). Besides, it was a "Grand" prize, and she really should cut back on the caffeine, anyway.

So the Queen started to get a little excited about the Grand Prize. (This is where the Greek Chorus hiding in the horse whispers "wait for it, wait for it.")

"Guess who's a Grand Prize winner! Woo Hoo!" the Queen asked the Little Princess. There may have been some car-dancing, singing, fist pumping, and gloating involved. Just enough mayhem to mask the sound of the trap door opening in the big wooden horse.

"This certificate expired last month," the Little Princess said. Oh yes, the Greeks had most certainly arrived in the center of Troy. That's right, the certificate had expired about three weeks before it had been awarded.

The Queen, who had lost her sense of humor, did not find this funny.

So she sat, prize-less, latte-less and humorless, brooding and moping in a most un-royal manner. She wondered WWDAALD? What would Dear Abby and Ann Landers do? Nothing, that's what, because they are both dead! She was going to have to figure this one out on her own.

She thought about calling someone, but who? And asking for something, but what? Because every time she played the conversation in her head the words FREE and GIFT kept coming out in ALL CAPS, and it always sounded RUDE and GREEDY. Especially since what she really wanted was a free latte.

Then she finally smiled. Because in a really twisted, sick, perverse, it-could-only-happen-to me kind of way, the whole thing was sort of funny.

Sort of. Not much, but a little.

To recap: The Queen did not get the Grand Prize. She did not get a free latte. But she may be on her way to finding her sense of humor.

So maybe she did get the Grand Prize, after all.