So, I'm hanging out with Brady, my grandson. Something I do pretty much every Friday afternoon, since I don't work on Fridays and he gets out of school early on Fridays. I pick him up, we run a few errands, get something to make for dinner (I'm teaching him to cook), and hit Starbucks. Yes, he actually drinks coffee. An odd aperitif for an 8-year-old, but the boy loves the mochas (decaf, of course) and I, as the grandma, reserve the right to buy them for him. No matter what his mother says.
Anyway, we're driving around town and he starts asking random questions, as little boys are wont to do. Finally, after asking about the number of miles on my car, and how old you have to be to get married (I told him 37), and why cats can't talk, among other things, he hits on a topic that holds his interest.
"Gramma, when were you born?"
"1959, honey."
"I was born in 2000, right?"
"Yes, you were."
"When was Ma born?"
"1941."
"And she's 67, right?"
"Yep."
On and on and on we go, down the entire family list. Mom, dad, aunts, uncles, cousins, in-laws... finally we get to this:
"When was Gigi born?" Gigi being his name for my grandmother, who had recently had to cancel her trip to visit us due to weather and who is, at 88, the oldest person Brady's ever personally met.
"Gigi was born in 1920." I say, hoping he'll ask questions and I can explain some things about how the world has changed in 8 decades. You know, mochas and history, right?
"Wow! That's a long time ago!"
"Yes, buddy, it sure is."
"She's really old, isn't she?"
"Well, 88 is getting up there, that's for sure."
I can hear the gears turning and almost smell the smoke as he cogitates on this for a minute, and finally...
"Is she the first baby born?"
Sorry, Grandma, I don't make this up, I just report it.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Saturday, December 6, 2008
Grandma's coming
My grandmother is coming to visit. My sweet, silver-haired, widowed little grandmother, who so looks the part of the pastor's wife she was for nearly 50 years that you'd think my grandfather found her in central casting, is risking being strip-searched in an airport to come visit her daughter's family for Christmas.
Personally, I believe she comes to visit not because she loves and misses us so terribly (I'm sure she does, as we do her, but I don't believe that prompts her bi-annual visits to us) or because she doesn't want to spend Christmas at home in Arizona. I believe she comes to visit us to keep us from visiting her.
My grandmother lives in Cottonwood, Arizona. The small, but growing, little community she and my grandfather retired to many years ago. She has friends, activities, a church, and a life. She's a hospital chaplain, she plays piano at the old folk's home (now that's ironic) and more. Grandma has a complete life and if she decided to stay home for Christmas, it's not like she'd be alone or lonely. No, I think Grandma has a much more sensible reason to come visit us.
See, here in Washington, there's my mom, the previously mentioned daughter. Then there's me, my brothers (one of whom is currently a guest of the governor in a fine and very secure facility located three hours from here) and one of whom is unemployed and lives with my mother. There's me and my sister. And we all have families. There are kids and grandkids all over the place. It's ridiculous, when you think about it.
My grandma was one of... one. And only child. She had two children. My mother, and a son. From these inauspicious, humble, meager beginnings, we have grown nearly exponentially. (Except that doesn't really work as my grandmother being an only child means that multiplying by any exponent would only result in one. Again. Some more. But I'm not here to teach calculus, so let's not dwell on it.) Nowadays, this side of the family includes the four original kids, 8 grandkids, one great-grandchild, two spouses, and two near-spouses. There are enough of us to start our own trailer park. Don't laugh; it's something we've considered.
Age wise, we range from the late 60's (my mom) through our 40's and 20's and teens and clear down to 8 years old. It's a lot of people and a lot of noise and a lot of stress. Especially on Christmas morning when we're all crammed into Mom's double-wide and everyone under 25 is clamoring for their presents and their breakfast, and the ones who smoke are huddled together on the uncovered porch sucking on cancer sticks as if their lives depended on it (again with the irony, huh?) and the rest of us are downing coffee - some of which is not laced with alcohol - and begging for a small amount of personal space in which to tear our hair out. Trust me, it's not pretty.
Now, my grandmother has been known to do things like pick up a full cup of coffee, toss the drink, and wash the cup, simply because the person drinking the coffee had the temerity to go to the bathroom and leave their cup unattended. If you're cooking, and you lay a spoon in a spoon rest to stir your pot with a little later, don't expect to find it there when you need it. Grandma will wash it, dry it, and put it away. This is a woman who used to work me for hours when I was a kid, on Saturdays, changing the beds in the guest room (even though no one had used them), dusting, mopping, waxing, scrubbing, sweeping, and even *gasp* making me wipe down the legs and pedals on the piano. For fifty cents. That's right. I'm not kidding. She worked me like a Hebrew slave for fifty cents. Not fifty cents an hour. Not fifty cents a chore. Not fifty cents with bonuses for good work. Just fifty cents. Which I promptly took to the neighborhood grocery store and blew on candy. Especially Milkshake candy bars, which you can't even get anymore, but that's not the point here, is it?
Anyway, this woman, my dear grandmother whom I love like no other human being on the planet, has actually said that she can't sit down and unwind if she knows there are dishes in the sink. She has seriously made the following statement: "Vacuuming relaxes me." Grandma has some very weird ideas, like that towels should match, the dishes aren't done until they are dried and put away, and you should actually wipe the stove off after you spill stuff on it!
Now, what does all of this have to do with why my grandmother comes to visit? Well, consider that we have an 8-year-old who believes if he doesn't get to eat Ritz crackers in the living room while watching SpongeBob on the DVD player, it constitutes cruel and inhumane conditions. Consider our 21-year-old who eats no fewer than 7 bowls of cereal a day, and has never become conversant with the mechanics behind how exactly the dishes get from the stack of dirties on the counter to the cupboards, clean and ready for use again. He believes it's a mystery, like the pyramids, Stonehenge, and Paris Hilton's "career". Consider a 40-year-old who, because he doesn't have a job to go to, thinks that showering should be reserved for special occasions (a visit from the pope, Queen Elizabeth, or Rebecca Romijn), or those times when even skunks give wide berth to the yard because they can't stand the smell. Consider having all 16 members of the Washington contingent of my family in your nice, quiet little neighborhood, telling everyone they can find that you're their grandmother! You get my point, yes?
So, I sincerely believe my grandmother comes to visit us not only because she loves us, and misses us, and wants to spend the holidays with us, but also because, by coming to visit us, she keeps us from coming to visit her. And I think that may be a very wise thing for her to do.
Personally, I believe she comes to visit not because she loves and misses us so terribly (I'm sure she does, as we do her, but I don't believe that prompts her bi-annual visits to us) or because she doesn't want to spend Christmas at home in Arizona. I believe she comes to visit us to keep us from visiting her.
My grandmother lives in Cottonwood, Arizona. The small, but growing, little community she and my grandfather retired to many years ago. She has friends, activities, a church, and a life. She's a hospital chaplain, she plays piano at the old folk's home (now that's ironic) and more. Grandma has a complete life and if she decided to stay home for Christmas, it's not like she'd be alone or lonely. No, I think Grandma has a much more sensible reason to come visit us.
See, here in Washington, there's my mom, the previously mentioned daughter. Then there's me, my brothers (one of whom is currently a guest of the governor in a fine and very secure facility located three hours from here) and one of whom is unemployed and lives with my mother. There's me and my sister. And we all have families. There are kids and grandkids all over the place. It's ridiculous, when you think about it.
My grandma was one of... one. And only child. She had two children. My mother, and a son. From these inauspicious, humble, meager beginnings, we have grown nearly exponentially. (Except that doesn't really work as my grandmother being an only child means that multiplying by any exponent would only result in one. Again. Some more. But I'm not here to teach calculus, so let's not dwell on it.) Nowadays, this side of the family includes the four original kids, 8 grandkids, one great-grandchild, two spouses, and two near-spouses. There are enough of us to start our own trailer park. Don't laugh; it's something we've considered.
Age wise, we range from the late 60's (my mom) through our 40's and 20's and teens and clear down to 8 years old. It's a lot of people and a lot of noise and a lot of stress. Especially on Christmas morning when we're all crammed into Mom's double-wide and everyone under 25 is clamoring for their presents and their breakfast, and the ones who smoke are huddled together on the uncovered porch sucking on cancer sticks as if their lives depended on it (again with the irony, huh?) and the rest of us are downing coffee - some of which is not laced with alcohol - and begging for a small amount of personal space in which to tear our hair out. Trust me, it's not pretty.
Now, my grandmother has been known to do things like pick up a full cup of coffee, toss the drink, and wash the cup, simply because the person drinking the coffee had the temerity to go to the bathroom and leave their cup unattended. If you're cooking, and you lay a spoon in a spoon rest to stir your pot with a little later, don't expect to find it there when you need it. Grandma will wash it, dry it, and put it away. This is a woman who used to work me for hours when I was a kid, on Saturdays, changing the beds in the guest room (even though no one had used them), dusting, mopping, waxing, scrubbing, sweeping, and even *gasp* making me wipe down the legs and pedals on the piano. For fifty cents. That's right. I'm not kidding. She worked me like a Hebrew slave for fifty cents. Not fifty cents an hour. Not fifty cents a chore. Not fifty cents with bonuses for good work. Just fifty cents. Which I promptly took to the neighborhood grocery store and blew on candy. Especially Milkshake candy bars, which you can't even get anymore, but that's not the point here, is it?
Anyway, this woman, my dear grandmother whom I love like no other human being on the planet, has actually said that she can't sit down and unwind if she knows there are dishes in the sink. She has seriously made the following statement: "Vacuuming relaxes me." Grandma has some very weird ideas, like that towels should match, the dishes aren't done until they are dried and put away, and you should actually wipe the stove off after you spill stuff on it!
Now, what does all of this have to do with why my grandmother comes to visit? Well, consider that we have an 8-year-old who believes if he doesn't get to eat Ritz crackers in the living room while watching SpongeBob on the DVD player, it constitutes cruel and inhumane conditions. Consider our 21-year-old who eats no fewer than 7 bowls of cereal a day, and has never become conversant with the mechanics behind how exactly the dishes get from the stack of dirties on the counter to the cupboards, clean and ready for use again. He believes it's a mystery, like the pyramids, Stonehenge, and Paris Hilton's "career". Consider a 40-year-old who, because he doesn't have a job to go to, thinks that showering should be reserved for special occasions (a visit from the pope, Queen Elizabeth, or Rebecca Romijn), or those times when even skunks give wide berth to the yard because they can't stand the smell. Consider having all 16 members of the Washington contingent of my family in your nice, quiet little neighborhood, telling everyone they can find that you're their grandmother! You get my point, yes?
So, I sincerely believe my grandmother comes to visit us not only because she loves us, and misses us, and wants to spend the holidays with us, but also because, by coming to visit us, she keeps us from coming to visit her. And I think that may be a very wise thing for her to do.
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
It can't what?
I was worked to a frazzle and had been 25 minutes late getting off because some jackass refused to believe that we wouldn't knock $200 off the price of something simply because he said it was on sale for that much earlier in the day. Not. Thank goodness the call dropped (I still don't know why; I tend to believe there is an angel in charge of call centers who makes calls just disappear when it's really necessary) and I finally got to come home. After my daughter came and picked me up because, of course, my car wasn't running (a whole 'nother story), I got home and sat down at my computer and booted her up and.....
"Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage"
Huh? What the hell does that even mean???????? I cursed. The angel would not have been pleased.
I tried again.
"Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage"
@*)$&#@$+)&!^$@##*"?>@#^%*><":":
At this point, I'm fairly certain the poor angel blushed a lovely shade of crimson and left me to my own devices.
So, I unplug the plugged in things, and I turn off the turned on things and I watch thirty seconds tick by interminably and then I replug the things with plugs and restart the things with buttons and....
"Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage"
@*)$&#@$+)&!^$@##*"?>@#^%*><":":!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, I'll just call Verizon. Their friendly, helpful automated system explains to me that many of my internet connectivity problems can be solved by going to their website.... Of course, the stupid robot doesn't know that "Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage"
I get Louise on the line. Now, I'm sure she's a lovely human being. I bet she's smart. Clearly she is, because it's obvious to me that English is not her first language and yet she's speaking it, so she knows at least two languages, which makes her smarter than me, right? I'm also betting her name isn't really Louise, but that's a minor quibble; I'm reasonably certain that her name was something that my poor, uneducated American tongue couldn't properly pronounce anyway.
So, after about 45 minutes of unplugging the plugged in things and plugging them back in, and turning things on and off and counting off the ticking seconds and pinging and advanced pinging and verifying IP addresses and giving my name and address and phone numbers and my blood type and what I had for lunch and how many eggs I had left in my fridge - you get the idea - nothing happens.
And eventually, after a lot more questions and diligent script-reading (don't ever try to throw those off-shore techies off their scripts! It confuses them and they get that deer-in-the-headlights sound to their voices), Louise concludes that I am, in fact, online.
mm-hmm.
Clearly, Louise would know better than I do. After all, she speaks two languages.
"Louise," I say, as kindly as I can, "I am most assuredly not online. There is no flapping butterfly, no 'Good evening, Nancy', no e-mail. There is not even so much as a viagra pop-up to confirm your diagnosis."
In her infinite wisdom and based on what I'm sure is at least 25 minutes of thorough, in-depth training, and in a voice that indicates she has exhausted every bit of her vast technical knowledge and soaring intellect while helping me, Louise decides that the problem is with my browser software. I should call the computer's manufacturer.
What Louise doesn't realize is that my computer is about the same age as my car and my daughter. Okay, not quite. But I'm actually fairly certain that my daughter was pregnant with my-just-turned-eight-years-old grandson when the friend who gave it to me bought this computer. Still, I'll give Gateway a try.
The Gateway guy, Arnold, who also clearly speaks two languages, the first of which was not English, doesn't care that the computer is old, or a hand-me down. His big concern is that my computer has been "upgraded" and is therefore out of warranty. Seems that I should be happy to be running Windows 98. Even after ten years and two program upgrades (assuming you consider Vista to be an upgrade, which I know a lot of people don't, but that's a story for another day). Anyway, he couldn't help me, really, but he was kind enough to rattle off, in his heavily accented second language, a list of the 3865 simple steps to roll back from IE 7 to IE6. I got as far as "click on programs" and was lost.
Now, IE 7 is a bug-infested little gem, and is incompatible with just about every other browser or operating system in the known universe; I'm betting even Bill Gates himself can't get IE7 to run smoothly. Steve Jobs praises God every day for IE7 because it makes everything Apple and Mac seem darn near perfect. But, I digress.
Well, I decide that if Arnold is correct, maybe I should call Microsoft. So, I called Microsoft. And I got a wonderful woman, also a speaker of more than one language, and whose native tongue also was not the same as mine. Again, I'm sure she's a lovely, intelligent woman. And I'm betting Bill Gates gives his techies a lot more than 25 minutes of training. Probably upwards of 45. Maybe 50. No sense sparing the training when your company is the propogator of the biggest computer software and electronics developments in the modern world. Microsoft is to computers what McDonald's is to hamburgers, right? McInternet and all.
Now, here is where I began to get ... testy. Some might say belligerent. Unreasonable, even. See, (and if you haven't "upgraded" to IE7, you're going to want to pay attention here) Microsoft Internet Explorer v.7, meant to compete with Firefox (a wonderful and non-buggy browser that is so superior to IE7 that it's like comparing Abe Vigoda to Greg Vaughan , but again, not the point) is a free download, so Microsoft - who made the program, put it on their website, promoted it, encouraged its download and use, and who KNOWS the thing is buggier than a Tijuana taco stand - doesn't offer technical support for their product! Well, let me rephrase that. They don't offer FREE tech support for their product. If you download the program, and it messes up your computer, it's $59.99 an hour for their well-trained, articulate, empathetic, multi-lingual staff to help you. Undo the damage their product did. That they darn near begged you to download in the first place. Yeah, I wished whatshername a very $%&^@*^$#%" target="_top">#$%&^8743*^$#% day, and hung up.
I finally realized that there was something I could try. I have a registry cleaner that I pay $40 a year for, and it's totally worth every penny. It's a great product and includes a function that, when correcting any errors which develop in your Windows registry, creates a "restore point" in your computer. You can, basically, set your computer back to the way it was days or weeks or months ago and any damage done in the interim is essentially, and with some exceptions (viruses, hardware failure, grape soda...) erased! Yes, I know Windows has this function, too, but I've never used it, so I'll stick with what I know.
And now I'm back. Which is good considering that most of my friends, all of my bills, and the great majority of my interests, all live on my computer.
Oh, and Louise, Arnold,and Microsoft girl? I hope you have to call the place I work sometime. I'd looooooooooooove to help you the way you helped me. 'Preciate it.
"Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage"
Huh? What the hell does that even mean???????? I cursed. The angel would not have been pleased.
I tried again.
"Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage"
@*)$&#@$+)&!^$@##*"?>@#^%*><":":
At this point, I'm fairly certain the poor angel blushed a lovely shade of crimson and left me to my own devices.
So, I unplug the plugged in things, and I turn off the turned on things and I watch thirty seconds tick by interminably and then I replug the things with plugs and restart the things with buttons and....
"Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage"
@*)$&#@$+)&!^$@##*"?>@#^%*><":":!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, I'll just call Verizon. Their friendly, helpful automated system explains to me that many of my internet connectivity problems can be solved by going to their website.... Of course, the stupid robot doesn't know that "Internet Explorer cannot display the webpage"
I get Louise on the line. Now, I'm sure she's a lovely human being. I bet she's smart. Clearly she is, because it's obvious to me that English is not her first language and yet she's speaking it, so she knows at least two languages, which makes her smarter than me, right? I'm also betting her name isn't really Louise, but that's a minor quibble; I'm reasonably certain that her name was something that my poor, uneducated American tongue couldn't properly pronounce anyway.
So, after about 45 minutes of unplugging the plugged in things and plugging them back in, and turning things on and off and counting off the ticking seconds and pinging and advanced pinging and verifying IP addresses and giving my name and address and phone numbers and my blood type and what I had for lunch and how many eggs I had left in my fridge - you get the idea - nothing happens.
And eventually, after a lot more questions and diligent script-reading (don't ever try to throw those off-shore techies off their scripts! It confuses them and they get that deer-in-the-headlights sound to their voices), Louise concludes that I am, in fact, online.
mm-hmm.
Clearly, Louise would know better than I do. After all, she speaks two languages.
"Louise," I say, as kindly as I can, "I am most assuredly not online. There is no flapping butterfly, no 'Good evening, Nancy', no e-mail. There is not even so much as a viagra pop-up to confirm your diagnosis."
In her infinite wisdom and based on what I'm sure is at least 25 minutes of thorough, in-depth training, and in a voice that indicates she has exhausted every bit of her vast technical knowledge and soaring intellect while helping me, Louise decides that the problem is with my browser software. I should call the computer's manufacturer.
What Louise doesn't realize is that my computer is about the same age as my car and my daughter. Okay, not quite. But I'm actually fairly certain that my daughter was pregnant with my-just-turned-eight-years-old grandson when the friend who gave it to me bought this computer. Still, I'll give Gateway a try.
The Gateway guy, Arnold, who also clearly speaks two languages, the first of which was not English, doesn't care that the computer is old, or a hand-me down. His big concern is that my computer has been "upgraded" and is therefore out of warranty. Seems that I should be happy to be running Windows 98. Even after ten years and two program upgrades (assuming you consider Vista to be an upgrade, which I know a lot of people don't, but that's a story for another day). Anyway, he couldn't help me, really, but he was kind enough to rattle off, in his heavily accented second language, a list of the 3865 simple steps to roll back from IE 7 to IE6. I got as far as "click on programs" and was lost.
Now, IE 7 is a bug-infested little gem, and is incompatible with just about every other browser or operating system in the known universe; I'm betting even Bill Gates himself can't get IE7 to run smoothly. Steve Jobs praises God every day for IE7 because it makes everything Apple and Mac seem darn near perfect. But, I digress.
Well, I decide that if Arnold is correct, maybe I should call Microsoft. So, I called Microsoft. And I got a wonderful woman, also a speaker of more than one language, and whose native tongue also was not the same as mine. Again, I'm sure she's a lovely, intelligent woman. And I'm betting Bill Gates gives his techies a lot more than 25 minutes of training. Probably upwards of 45. Maybe 50. No sense sparing the training when your company is the propogator of the biggest computer software and electronics developments in the modern world. Microsoft is to computers what McDonald's is to hamburgers, right? McInternet and all.
Now, here is where I began to get ... testy. Some might say belligerent. Unreasonable, even. See, (and if you haven't "upgraded" to IE7, you're going to want to pay attention here) Microsoft Internet Explorer v.7, meant to compete with Firefox (a wonderful and non-buggy browser that is so superior to IE7 that it's like comparing Abe Vigoda to Greg Vaughan , but again, not the point) is a free download, so Microsoft - who made the program, put it on their website, promoted it, encouraged its download and use, and who KNOWS the thing is buggier than a Tijuana taco stand - doesn't offer technical support for their product! Well, let me rephrase that. They don't offer FREE tech support for their product. If you download the program, and it messes up your computer, it's $59.99 an hour for their well-trained, articulate, empathetic, multi-lingual staff to help you. Undo the damage their product did. That they darn near begged you to download in the first place. Yeah, I wished whatshername a very $%&^@*^$#%" target="_top">#$%&^8743*^$#% day, and hung up.
I finally realized that there was something I could try. I have a registry cleaner that I pay $40 a year for, and it's totally worth every penny. It's a great product and includes a function that, when correcting any errors which develop in your Windows registry, creates a "restore point" in your computer. You can, basically, set your computer back to the way it was days or weeks or months ago and any damage done in the interim is essentially, and with some exceptions (viruses, hardware failure, grape soda...) erased! Yes, I know Windows has this function, too, but I've never used it, so I'll stick with what I know.
And now I'm back. Which is good considering that most of my friends, all of my bills, and the great majority of my interests, all live on my computer.
Oh, and Louise, Arnold,and Microsoft girl? I hope you have to call the place I work sometime. I'd looooooooooooove to help you the way you helped me. 'Preciate it.
Friday, August 22, 2008
Out of the mouths of babes.
Because I am a glutton for mental and emotional torture, and also because I'm not that smart, I agreed to have my brother's 16-year-old daughter come live with me. Not only does the kid have the normal teeny-bopper angst/hormone-induced melancholy/ennui/misery thing going on, she's had a hard life and is dealing with some very real issues, as well.
One of the things that made Savannah's life hard was the fact that she wasn't really taught any manners as a child. No, she doesn't chew with her mouth open, and she knows how to hold a fork, covers her mouth when she sneezes, says please and thank you at the appropriate times. So what the heck am I talking about?
Me: I think I'll go take a shower. Have to shave my legs.
Savannah: Why are you shaving your legs?
Me: I have knee surgery tomorrow. Be nice if they didn't need a weed-eater to find the surgery site.
Savannah: Oh. I was gonna say. If I was old and single, I wouldn't ever shave my legs!
Me:
Savannah: Not that you're old...
Right.
One of the things that made Savannah's life hard was the fact that she wasn't really taught any manners as a child. No, she doesn't chew with her mouth open, and she knows how to hold a fork, covers her mouth when she sneezes, says please and thank you at the appropriate times. So what the heck am I talking about?
Me: I think I'll go take a shower. Have to shave my legs.
Savannah: Why are you shaving your legs?
Me: I have knee surgery tomorrow. Be nice if they didn't need a weed-eater to find the surgery site.
Savannah: Oh. I was gonna say. If I was old and single, I wouldn't ever shave my legs!
Me:
Savannah: Not that you're old...
Right.
Friday, July 11, 2008
Welcome to my world.
I live in West Richland, Washington. Home of... not much. Hogs and Dogs. And no, I'm not talking about the women. Hogs and Dogs is a late spring tradition of motorcycles, free food, and music in the park. One night a year. Aside from the annual Veteran's Day Parade, it's the high point of our year out here.
I have a family, I have a job, I have 2 cats, and I have a 35 year old trailer and a 27 year old car. Livin' large in the wilds of Washington, huh?
Oh! You know how you can tell we live in Washington? There are seven espresso stands within three miles of my house. We northwesterners cannot be expected to go for long without our venti quad-shot, half-caf, skinny caramel mocha no-whip add cinnamon latte, and espresso shops are conveniently located to avoid such an unthinkable possibility. There are, in fact, three of these places within less than two miles of my front door. We West Richlanders have our priorities straight, by cracky. We don't have a single doctor or emergency clinic within five miles, but we can get espresso when we need it.
So, this is introductory. I'll wax poetic, I'll scathe, I'll pontificate and vacillate and castigate at length. Later.
I have a family, I have a job, I have 2 cats, and I have a 35 year old trailer and a 27 year old car. Livin' large in the wilds of Washington, huh?
Oh! You know how you can tell we live in Washington? There are seven espresso stands within three miles of my house. We northwesterners cannot be expected to go for long without our venti quad-shot, half-caf, skinny caramel mocha no-whip add cinnamon latte, and espresso shops are conveniently located to avoid such an unthinkable possibility. There are, in fact, three of these places within less than two miles of my front door. We West Richlanders have our priorities straight, by cracky. We don't have a single doctor or emergency clinic within five miles, but we can get espresso when we need it.
So, this is introductory. I'll wax poetic, I'll scathe, I'll pontificate and vacillate and castigate at length. Later.
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