I blame Anne Geddes.

I do not have any weird Flemish art in jigsaw puzzle form. Am I depriving my kids? Was this yet another way my parents snuck culture into my life? Because this picture was THE epic jigsaw of my childhood, and one of the measures of how grown up I was...how far could I get before I gave up and put it away for another few years?

Little O (Who turned 7 today, by the way, but I'm ignoring that particular trauma--my baby!) has strawberry shortcake and My Little Pony puzzles, and there is a Baby Bee puzzle from Anne Geddes that still has not been opened, although she is very interested-- for about three minutes.

This concludes my random thought for the day.

Woot! Woot!

On the Vay-Cay!

Sigh.

I was told by someone at work that for someone who cooks, I eat out a hell of a lot.

She knows this because she eats out a hell of a lot, too--and sees ME out.

Maybe I am just statistically more likely to hit the Shitty service lottery because I buy more tickets, or because I was a manager whose whole thing, spiel, schtick--whatever you want to call it--was Good Customer Service.

Let me tell you, I have gone to Marie Callendar's since I was a kid. We had to stop at the MC on Sunrise in Sacramento at least twice a year so my dad could have chili and cornbread. I think my father swooned when they opened one on Hilltop in Redding.

The Honey? Not so fond of it, but an open faced turkey sandwich has broken him on more than one occasion. During the Olympics, he was weak. Little O was overjoyed.

We walked in and I requested a table for four--you can tell the economy is feeling the pinch when there's no waiting at MC. The Honey asked, as she gathered our menus, if we could sit in the bar side so we could watch the Olympics.

Biotch did NOT roll her eyes and huff--I am sure that was NOT what I just saw.

Oh, yes it was, because I'll be damned if she did not take us to the only table in the room that was actually BEHIND every TV. If the Honey sat on the corner, he could look sideways at the big screen. Have we talked about the Honey's temper? I immediately told him we could leave as his eyes got big and slightly crazed. Stupid cow didn't help when she sniffed,

"you can move the table--a little."

A little? REALLY?

We were gathering our stuff back up to go when the Honey looked over and saw Little O with teary eyes. He just caved at that point--resigned himself to not watching the Olympics, and opened his menu.

So the manager comes over to ask if everything is okay, and here's the thing:

The Honey was settled back down, and he is a firm believer that you do NOT complain while any of your food is still in the kitchen.

I told the manager we were fine.

Our waitress was fabulous, and almost made up for the hostess, and the food was fine. After our meal, I asked to speak to the manager. I thougth he ought to know about the eye rolling, huffing, and surly little bitch that had seated us. Did I call her that? No. I simply explained what had happened and that I thought he should be aware.

Fucking unbelievable, because his first response was NOT I am so sorry, or I'll speak to her, it was

"I ASKED you, and you SAID everything was fine."

Pop rocks, people. Pop rocks exploding in my brain. I could hear them fizzing and hissing. I wasn't asking for a discount on my meal, I was not hitting him up for a free pie. I had started by telling him how great our waitress was. I thought he ought to know about his hostess, but it turns out he must have been the one who trained her! He worked up to a half hearted I'm sorry you feel that way, but added that we could have sat anywhere, there were tables open that faced the TV. Um, yeah, that was kind of my point, asshole.

ANYWAY, I wrote a letter to Marie's website, and it was almost completely grown up. I may have used the term stink eye when the Honey asked for bar seating. It was much more rational than my open letter to Chili's and/or Border's.

I have no expectation of anything but a form letter from Marie's, but I felt soooo much better having written it to corporate.

Did I ever tell you about my mother and the feedback form at Italian Cottage?
My roommate Kat, the Bad Boyfriend and I went to IC to meet my folks for dinner, and we got there before my folks. Waitress Paula was a complete cow to us--almost THREW Kat's coffee on her. As soon as my folks showed up she was sweet as pie. We were stunned at the turn about, and told my parents about it.
In place of the hefty tip my parents usually left, my mother wrote on the back of the check:

"We hope that when Paula gets back to her kennel, her mother growls and snaps at her."

My mom rocks.

Shut up, Scary Mary! SHUUUUUUUUUUUUUT UUUUUUUUP.

'Kay, I am not a fan of things that start on their own. If I want to hear it, there is a "Play" button conveniently located. Mary is annoying the shit out of me on my own freaking blog. So Wrong.

So, it's just meh. Yes I had a quiet family dinner the night before my birthday, but upon further reflection, I made dinner and I got us all there, and that was a present to myself. The honey was an ass last night, and if I enjoyed listening to him puke, well, it still doesn't count as a present.

I feel stupid and childish that I am completely butt-hurt that my parents didn't call on or around my birthday. I am 37 years old, it's not like I doubt that they love me, so I feel whiny and needy. My brother called me from Disneyland (Okay, my birthday is also his anniversary, so it's hard for him to forget), my uncle, who I never talk to, emailed me. It's been almost a week and I have not heard anything from my mother.

I hate being whiny and feeling stupid. Hate it. I feel greedy and stupid for wanting the honey to get me a present--but would it kill you to show the foresight to get me a card? To figure something out BEFORE my birthday? I am wallowing here, and I cannot stand to be in my own head. But he was a complete ass last night, so it just unleashed the flood. Resentment and long term grudge, thy name is Jennifer.


This has been another whiny self pitying post by jen. I should probably have some Bon Jovi playing.

Dorky moments...

So I thought and thought about what story to share, and the one that kept popping up is totally inappropriate for a dork post. Someday I will reveal the shame of the sheep named Jenny, but I'm not ready to do that yet (Best Jen, you hush.)

But I will give you two stories from my tiny Hanford, California Bookstore.

Ours was the closest bookstore to the Naval base in Lemoore. We saw a lot of sailors. My store's good numbers were due in no small part to the pretty and friendly girls I hired to staff my store. We loved them and they loved us and there were certain boys we adored. Best Jen still remembers the super tight faded jeans of (James?) Heidi. They were something--so were his eyes... hmmmm....

right. back to it.

One day we got a couple of lovely Australian fellows. When I say lovely, I mean they looked like volleyball gods. We wanted them hot and sweaty and showing those dimples, and hmm? oh. right. Love God number one was trying to find a book for his Navy host, and asked us to look up the "pair of one." I was sooo happy to be helping him, and I searched frantically for his book. No luck. I was looking it up in books in print, even, which back in the day was--literally-- a set of huge books listing every book in print. It finally dawned on my lust-fogged brain to get him to spell the author.

It turned out that he was looking for "The Power of One" by Bruce Courtenay, a book I had sold a thousand times. I was just so ga-ga over him that I hadn't taken his accent into account for anything but it's lust-inducing qualities.

I was beet red.

Now I'll share a dork moment from my ex husband that I found endearing at the time.

I have always been baby crazy. So when a charming family came into the bookstore, with a moon faced baby in a bonnet, I played with that baby all night. The two older boys were well behaved at eight and four, and the parents were nice enough. That night we re-arranged the entire store, and the next day, this guy kept coming into the store, looking at everything and nothing, and then leaving. Best Jen finally told me she thought he was going to ask me out. I looked up and watched as he picked up a book from the shelf and pretended to read it while listening to us do our schtick, and laughing at all of our jokes. He was standing in what, the day before had been science fiction, but thanks to the shuffle, was now romance. I asked him if he had read anything else by that author, and he looked down at the book he was holding in curiosity which turned to horror.

He did, in fact, ask me out, and as I stood there talking to him it dawned on me why he was so familiar. He was the DAD from the nice family the night before. EEEEWWWW. I promptly told him what I thought of him in no uncertain terms and told him to hit the road.
He eventually convinced me that he had been out with his sister and her kids, and I agreed to go out with him.

*********
This has been a very weak post from Jenn Factor 10. I hope to post lots of fabulous pictures from my working vacation next week, up to the blazing heat of Redding to care for my mom after her eye surgery. Actually, my mom is horrifyingly self sufficient, so I'm probably going up to save her from a week of chili and corn from my dad. His entire repertoire consists of chili, corn, and bran buds cereal (Actually, he poaches a mean egg, too.).

Read this blog while I am away....

I know I'm always the last one to know, but have you read Crystal over at Boobs, Injuries, and Dr. Pepper?

I've been stalking her for a few months now, and oh, my Dog, this woman is such a natural Dorkblogger. Laughing 'til I cry.

I'll be calling out to you, my bloggy friends, to see if you are going to play the Dorkteenth. But I'll probably not be blogging much, as my Parental Units will be not only in town, but en mi casa. Starting tomorrow! I think I've talked them into staying for at least part of the Brubeck Festival that starts on Weds, as they are big jazz fans.

Big O is going to be crying from all the golf he's about to play with my father. The Honey will be crying about all the golf he WON'T be playing. Damn The Man, and all his wack work-for-pay bullshit, man. There is golf to be played.

Little O and I would like to shop, but I suspect we'll find a housey project. Last time my mother was obsessed with painting my kitchen...
Maybe I can talk her into some curtains or something easy like that. Cinder Grandma also insists on doing the laundry. Which is not as much fun as it sounds. There's a lot of pressure to find MORE stuff for her to wash, when I've only just gotten it stuffed out of sight for their visit...

Sunday Quizzfest

Your Brain is Blue

Of all the brain types, yours is the most mellow. You tend to be in a meditative state most of the time. You don't try to think away your troubles. Your thoughts are realistic, fresh, and honest. You truly see things as how they are. You tend to spend a lot of time thinking about your friends, your surroundings, and your life.

What Color Is Your Brain?

I'm a Porsche 911!

You have a classic style, but you're up-to-date with the latest technology. You're ambitious, competitive, and you love to win. Performance, precision, and prestige - you're one of the elite,and you know it.

Take the Which Sports Car Are You? quiz.

Yeah, Baby! Got this one from Sayre,and Vroom Vroom, I can live with it. My dad has had a hubcap from his last Porsche hanging in a place of honor in every house my parents have had. It's older than me. He had two, I think, before my mom convinced him that it wasn't going to fly with Two kids, and it was time for another fine piece of German engineering, the Volkswagon.

My Pappa-San, the master of diplomacy.

The Hollywood Patch
Originally uploaded by artist in the ambulance 190.

My dad is a reformed adrenaline junky. I suspect that he was a wild man in the seventies, but by the time I became aware of him as anything other than my Daddy, he had acquired a bit of control, and dare I say, polish. (He probably learned that from living with my mother for Forty years.) When I grow up, I want to be like him.

My dad found his calling in emergency medicine in the late sixties/early seventies. At the time, people still used those funky station wagons as ambulances. My dad had to campaign long and hard to get his employers to run with the idea of converting a bread truck into an ambulance, so they could carry more of the good stuff.
The other thing that my dad pushed was EMT's as opposed to nurses to man those bigger ambulances. So a large part of my childhood was spent around my dad's EMT classes. He taught for years through the local junior college. I think I've written about the weekends my brother and I spent climbing into wrecked cars at the junk yard, and my dad challenging his students on how to get us out.
My dad was looking to supplement his retirement income a few years ago, and went to the junior college to approach them about teaching a few classes. The head of the nursing program smiled condescendingly and warned my dad that the standards had changed since he last taught, and was he sure he was up to it? My father agreed that maybe this was not his opportunity, and left the building.
The reason that I want to be like my folks when I grow up is for all of the things my father DIDN'T say. That condescending prick that my father decided he didn't want to work for failed to notice who WROTE the new standards and Statewide guidelines that he threw in my dad's face. My dad has learned enough of diplomacy not to point it out to him.
I'm trying to learn. I take the high road, and my God, there are days that I think I'll CHOKE on it. I know that it drives the Honey nuts that when I complain, I do it quietly. I just don't get fired up over most things. When I do, a call to my folks usually has me screwing my head back onto my shoulders. I try not to be gasoline, more like the blanket you throw over the flames. Except sometimes I forget to get it wet. I think I forgot to get the blanket wet at work the other day, and I have to say, I enjoyed the results immensely. I still have a little ways to go before I approach the calm self control of my father. But it was delicious. I could have enjoyed it with fava beans and a nice Chianti.

MOM

I was talking with my mom the other day, and I finally know what to get her for her birthday.

She told me that my father, who is retiring in March, is no longer talking about going to work with an old friend.

He thinks he wants to just be a retiree, play a little more golf, hang around the house, maybe do some travelling.

You'd have to know my ADD father to know how funny this is.

Easily 75% of his time is spent playing or figuring out when he'll next play golf. If he's not working to support his habit and stay out of her hair, my mom will strangle him. He'll be found with his latest super-cool putter wrapped around his throat. Since my mom's birthday is in February, and she loves her some sudoku, I'm taking her to a professional. That way she doesn't end up with something that looks like this:

Prison tattoos are just no good unless you've got Martha for a cell mate.

A Good Death.

So I’ve mentioned it before, but let’s address it—what constitutes a Good Death. I grew up in a medical family. Hospitals are not scary places for us. Death is a natural progression, and while it sucks, I think we are sort of fatalistic and clinical about it. It happens, sometimes in spite of everyone’s best efforts, and there isn’t anyone to blame, there is just so much you can do. My paternal grandfather and my maternal grandmother both died while in the hospital, under the best round the clock care, of complications that essentially amounted to old age. It was their time.
My Ex-husband’s family, on the other hand, has had several members die well before their time. The thing that their family does differently is that they bring them home to die. Someday I’ll write about who they were and how they died, but today’s point is that they died at home--Surrounded by family, cared for by the people who loved them best. Everything ground to a halt, and their death was the focus of every family member. In my family, everyone continued to go to work each day, and they fit their visits in around the continuation of life.
I’m nauseated just thinking about it, but when the time comes for my folks, I want to make sure that we change that cycle. I want to give them the kind of loving care that my in-laws received. I’ve talked to my mom about this, and she does not want to die in a hospital room. She would like to pass on surrounded by family, not staff.
I know that it’s not always possible, that life happens, but if I can do that one thing for my mom, it seems so important to try. My brother’s wife is a nurse. I won’t expect her to step into that role (although I know she’d be perfectly willing—she’s a doll), it’s something I’d like to do for my mom, when the time comes. My dad? I honestly don’t know. I don’t know how he feels about it all. But the fact that my mom has said it out loud to me means that I have to make sure it happens the way she wants.
My folks are spry and in their mid-sixties, and I expect that the Honey’s mom will be the next to pass. She will probably be in a hospital bed when it happens. She and I don’t have that kind of relationship where I could take care of her—aside from the whole language barrier. I find myself at a loss each time she goes into the hospital—I just don’t have enough medical knowledge to be helpful. I feel that lack keenly as I contemplate the day my folks are in that situation. I don’t want to force all decisions onto my brother and his wife. That’s a heavy burden. My parents have been the medical experts in my life—who will guide me when it comes to their issues? I know that they will have relationships with medical professionals that they trust and respect, and ultimately, I’m sure I will lean on those people, and be grateful that I can know that my folks respected those people.
I suspect that often the quality of medical care is a crapshoot. The doctor you get is determined by your HMO rather than any firsthand knowledge of their skill level or professional reputation. I don’t want to even think about my parents dying, but I want to be ready to step up when the time comes and make sure that their death is a good death. I hope I have that chance.