I work at a place that revolves around the Badgers. Mostly football, but we see business improve during the college semesters, then die off for the summer when school is not in session. Barry Alvarez dines with us sometimes (very snobby). Bret Bielema comes in sometimes (seems to be the womanizer they say he is). Heck, I've even seen Mark Tauscher at work. But last night topped all of those sports heroes. What made it even better is that this time I got to wait on the star. That's right; I waited on Bob Harlan.
I have always thought Harlan was a class act who furthered the storied franchise of the Green Bay Packers as much as anyone who has ever put his passion into this team. He came in with his wife and they waited for what was obviously a child and his or her spouse. They were patient in the rush that kept me from getting their drinks for a few minutes. For those who are dying to know, Brandy Manhatten-extra sweet vermouth. Hers was a regular Brandy Manhatten. They made me explain a 'fish boil' (which she did have) to the young girl who joined them with the young man. The Harlans ate Madison's Best Fish Fry because as Madeline said, "Oh, I want what everyone comes in for!" The young man had the Perch Fry.
The funny part of this encounter was that on my first approach, I saw those sparkly pale blue eyes and happy face of Bob Harlan and thought, "This is somebody famous. Who is he? I know this guy." That thought stayed with me the entire meal. It's like when you can't think of the name of the famous actor who played in that one film!?! It drove me nuts, but I was busy enough not to be whining about it to my coworkers. Only when the woman asked for the check ahead of schedule, and handed me her credit card did I get the clue I needed. Madeline Marlan? Another look gave me that "Aha!" moment I was waiting for....Madeline HARLAN. "Oh. My. God!"
"I'm waiting on Bob Harlan!" I blurted to my boss who was bartending. "Yeah, he's here," he said very calmly. "Oh my God! I AM WAITING ON HIM!!"
I was very cool and collected on the drop-off, and went about my usual protocol. "This one is for you, and please leave this one for me." It is also my practice to stop back quickly to retrieve the slip and my pen. I stood in the back gushing to anyone nearby that I had just waited on Bob Harlan. Most of the responses went something like this: "Who's Bob Harlan?" All agreed that it was very cool that I ended up with the family since I could appreciate the presence of the former Packer CEO more than anyone else there. As time ticked by, I kept thinking of my best friend, who is fighting cancer and appreciates every single moment in life. She would positively KILL me if I did not jump on the opportunity to say something (ANYTHING!) to Mr. Bob Harlan. I mustered up my courage in light of the new information I had about this table I had just spent the last hour trying to identify, and made the walk back to pick up the slip and my pen.
When I arrived at the table, the two men had their heads huddled, talking. I picked up the slip, thanked Mrs. Harlan, then stood for a moment. When Bob Harlan realized my presence and looked my way, I said in very metered emotion: "I'm sorry, but I have to tell you that I spent the entire meal trying to figure out why I recognize you. I kept thinking, 'Who is this guy? Why do I know him?' and I finally realized who you are." At this point I extended my hand to shake his, and he graciously produced what I then saw was a diamond-studded G-ringed hand to meet my handshake. "I want you to know that I really loved it when you were with the team, and I really, really, REALLY miss you up there. REEEAAAALLLLY miss you."
He was genuinely touched and thanked me for my words. He is such a man of grace and humility. If I loved him before, I'm bowled over 100x more now. This easily goes down as my best moment as a server. And I've been doing this for 25+ years. Wow. All I can say is....WOW!
And yes, they tipped well. Almost 25%.
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
This is Not New!
The following article tells about "new" research that proves how very small children can learn foreign languages easily. While I give kudos to the new understanding on how we might incorporate this into teaching older students, I am disappointed that more exposure has not been given to this solid, and very old news.
You see, I learned about this method over two decades ago when I was in college learning how to be an English teacher. It's well-documented that babies can learn two languages as they learn to talk. I vividly recall my professor telling us about a family who taught their baby just this way. The mother spoke in one language; the father in another every single time they spoke to the baby. That baby had the valuable skill of speaking two languages before he could even walk. And we knew back then that learning a foreign language becomes much more difficult after the age of seven, too! Why? Why don't we teach this to first graders instead of hormone-filled teenagers?
Let this be your public service announcement for today. Parents with babies: Teach them now!
You see, I learned about this method over two decades ago when I was in college learning how to be an English teacher. It's well-documented that babies can learn two languages as they learn to talk. I vividly recall my professor telling us about a family who taught their baby just this way. The mother spoke in one language; the father in another every single time they spoke to the baby. That baby had the valuable skill of speaking two languages before he could even walk. And we knew back then that learning a foreign language becomes much more difficult after the age of seven, too! Why? Why don't we teach this to first graders instead of hormone-filled teenagers?
Let this be your public service announcement for today. Parents with babies: Teach them now!
Unraveling how children become bilingual so easily
AP
By LAURAN NEERGAARD, AP Medical Writer Lauran Neergaard, Ap Medical Writer – Tue Jul 21, 3:08 am ET
WASHINGTON – The best time to learn a foreign language: Between birth and age 7. Missed that window?
New research is showing just how children's brains can become bilingual so easily, findings that scientists hope eventually could help the rest of us learn a new language a bit easier.
"We think the magic that kids apply to this learning situation, some of the principles, can be imported into learning programs for adults," says Dr. Patricia Kuhl of the University of Washington, who is part of an international team now trying to turn those lessons into more teachable technology.
Each language uses a unique set of sounds. Scientists now know babies are born with the ability to distinguish all of them, but that ability starts weakening even before they start talking, by the first birthday.
Kuhl offers an example: Japanese doesn't distinguish between the "L" and "R" sounds of English — "rake" and "lake" would sound the same. Her team proved that a 7-month-old in Tokyo and a 7-month-old in Seattle respond equally well to those different sounds. But by 11 months, the Japanese infant had lost a lot of that ability.
Time out — how do you test a baby? By tracking eye gaze. Make a fun toy appear on one side or the other whenever there's a particular sound. The baby quickly learns to look on that side whenever he or she hears a brand-new but similar sound. Noninvasive brain scans document how the brain is processing and imprinting language.
Mastering your dominant language gets in the way of learning a second, less familiar one, Kuhl's research suggests. The brain tunes out sounds that don't fit.
"You're building a brain architecture that's a perfect fit for Japanese or English or French," whatever is native, Kuhl explains — or, if you're a lucky baby, a brain with two sets of neural circuits dedicated to two languages.
It's remarkable that babies being raised bilingual — by simply speaking to them in two languages — can learn both in the time it takes most babies to learn one. On average, monolingual and bilingual babies start talking around age 1 and can say about 50 words by 18 months.
Italian researchers wondered why there wasn't a delay, and reported this month in the journal Science that being bilingual seems to make the brain more flexible.
The researchers tested 44 12-month-olds to see how they recognized three-syllable patterns — nonsense words, just to test sound learning. Sure enough, gaze-tracking showed the bilingual babies learned two kinds of patterns at the same time — like lo-ba-lo or lo-lo-ba — while the one-language babies learned only one, concluded Agnes Melinda Kovacs of Italy's International School for Advanced Studies.
While new language learning is easiest by age 7, the ability markedly declines after puberty.
"We're seeing the brain as more plastic and ready to create new circuits before than after puberty," Kuhl says. As an adult, "it's a totally different process. You won't learn it in the same way. You won't become (as good as) a native speaker."
Yet a soon-to-be-released survey from the Center for Applied Linguistics, a nonprofit organization that researches language issues, shows U.S. elementary schools cut back on foreign language instruction over the last decade. About a quarter of public elementary schools were teaching foreign languages in 1997, but just 15 percent last year, say preliminary results posted on the center's Web site.
What might help people who missed their childhood window? Baby brains need personal interaction to soak in a new language — TV or CDs alone don't work. So researchers are improving the technology that adults tend to use for language learning, to make it more social and possibly tap brain circuitry that tots would use.
Recall that Japanese "L" and "R" difficulty? Kuhl and scientists at Tokyo Denki University and the University of Minnesota helped develop a computer language program that pictures people speaking in "motherese," the slow exaggeration of sounds that parents use with babies.
Japanese college students who'd had little exposure to spoken English underwent 12 sessions listening to exaggerated "Ls" and "Rs" while watching the computerized instructor's face pronounce English words. Brain scans — a hair dryer-looking device called MEG, for magnetoencephalography — that measure millisecond-by-millisecond activity showed the students could better distinguish between those alien English sounds. And they pronounced them better, too, the team reported in the journal NeuroImage.
"It's our very first, preliminary crude attempt but the gains were phenomenal," says Kuhl.
But she'd rather see parents follow biology and expose youngsters early. If you speak a second language, speak it at home. Or find a play group or caregiver where your child can hear another language regularly.
"You'll be surprised," Kuhl says. "They do seem to pick it up like sponges."
Wednesday, January 07, 2009
Lunchables
When girls get together for lunch, you know it's going to be a gabfest of the highest order. It's not like a business lunch, or a lunch date, or even the quick lunch that girls who work together might share. It is an event to be anticipated, and finally enjoyed upon its arrival. Just this sort of treasure occurred today for me and one other friend.
The woman with whom I shared lunch with today has done so many kind things for me that I insisted upon buying the food today. And when the lunch is set up to catch her up on the astounding events that have made your steps lighter and your heart more hopeful, well then I think it's mandatory that you feed the poor girl.
I suggested Chinese, and she agreed. I picked it up to bring home so that we could enjoy some private time without interruption or distraction from our intended intent conversation. And so it was that we sat at the kitchen table, me starving, she saying she was not that hungry. Her blue eyes were lit with curiosity and the smile said she knew something good was going on with me. As I picked at my rice and she ate voraciously, I tried to contain my story to some kind of chronology and sense. But that's not how it went. I fluttered from one thing to the next while she grew to understand just how surprising my life had become.
She knew when to impose her thoughts, when to listen, and when to assure that the wings I have kept tucked under me are still in perfect working order. She took my compliments to her through the course of the telling graciously. She poked fun at me when I needed that. She did all of this while the weight of her own world sat heavily on her shoulders. Friends like this cannot be bought. Lunches as fabulous as that won't be happened upon. And the encouragement that is given in those precious times of friendship cannot be replaced. A friend who celebrates with you even as her own world wobbles forward is a rare gift.
As we ended our lunch with a hurried goodbye because of appointments I had to keep, we promised to catch up even more very soon. I'm thrilled to know that it thrilled her for me. And I'm happy to have friends like this to invite over for such warm sharing. Thank you, friend. Thank you.
The woman with whom I shared lunch with today has done so many kind things for me that I insisted upon buying the food today. And when the lunch is set up to catch her up on the astounding events that have made your steps lighter and your heart more hopeful, well then I think it's mandatory that you feed the poor girl.
I suggested Chinese, and she agreed. I picked it up to bring home so that we could enjoy some private time without interruption or distraction from our intended intent conversation. And so it was that we sat at the kitchen table, me starving, she saying she was not that hungry. Her blue eyes were lit with curiosity and the smile said she knew something good was going on with me. As I picked at my rice and she ate voraciously, I tried to contain my story to some kind of chronology and sense. But that's not how it went. I fluttered from one thing to the next while she grew to understand just how surprising my life had become.
She knew when to impose her thoughts, when to listen, and when to assure that the wings I have kept tucked under me are still in perfect working order. She took my compliments to her through the course of the telling graciously. She poked fun at me when I needed that. She did all of this while the weight of her own world sat heavily on her shoulders. Friends like this cannot be bought. Lunches as fabulous as that won't be happened upon. And the encouragement that is given in those precious times of friendship cannot be replaced. A friend who celebrates with you even as her own world wobbles forward is a rare gift.
As we ended our lunch with a hurried goodbye because of appointments I had to keep, we promised to catch up even more very soon. I'm thrilled to know that it thrilled her for me. And I'm happy to have friends like this to invite over for such warm sharing. Thank you, friend. Thank you.
Saturday, October 04, 2008
I'm Workin' Here
Years ago, I had a friend who had a Blue Tick Hound dog. Max was a worker dog. My friend lived on a busy street, and when he heard something in the yard, he was "on the job." He would frantically run to the window, eyes ablaze with duty to guard his home. Annie would announce with great glee what was going through Max's mind as he executed this diligent behavior: "I'm workin' here!!"
Life on the avenue is pretty lively. Keeping up with all the shenanigans of the daily grind is difficult. Snippets seem to be the most I can muster. A little laughter goes a long way when you are in the weeds as a server.
Last night, my friend "Shawn" was in the section next to me. I saw him at the peak of the crunch time balancing an ungodly amount of sundries on his arm and hands. Why everyone I work with is so against using a tray is beyond me. I use a tray all the time because my hands are small and I cannot balance even two water glasses in my palm, much less the three or four glasses I see others balancing in one palm while carrying bread plates in the other. Nope, I'll use a cocktail tray, thank you. I raise an eyebrow at Shawn as he scurries on his way with his carnival collection on his person. As I'm doing my own dance of appeasement to my diners, I hear his large table being positively gleeful. I think to myself that it's weird that they are acting so surprised about a birthday cake that they clearly ordered. Did they forget that they ordered the surprise for the birthday girl?
I continue on my mission. A few minutes later, I have to go over by our coffee station for something. That's when I see it. The small birthday cake that was thawed during the course of the diners' meal for its debut is laying upside down on the floor, smooshed out from underneath its plastic plate. I suddenly understand the shouts of delight I heard a few minutes ago. Shawn is in the back of the house, performing the tedious job of unfreezing another birthday cake with short, half power spurts in the microwave. Too long or too high of heat and he will have a melty mess. Still, those other tables he has are waiting for something while he fixes this mistake that is surely costing him in dollars. I had to laugh. In fact, it was just what I needed in the midst of the crazy night we were having. Good stuff, that.
Last week was bizarre. My best friend from the northwoods--the one who died unexpectedly--is always on my mind. I think about her daughter who I have not seen since I left the northwoods shortly after Alissa's death. I think about how my life would be different, if not for her early departure from this world. I struggle with the fact that her husband and I do not get along, and that is what prevents me from seeing her beautiful daughter. Last week, coming from the back room to the hostess station, looking to the booths that run along the front of the restaurant, I see a man who looks like Alissa's husband. I'm thinking that's pretty weird, when I hear him say my name. I go over to a lukewarm hello. The surprise of it all made him call my name, but the reality of chatting is a little tense. Add to the mix that he's on a date. Of course, I'm looking at the woman to see how many Alissa-like features she has. There are many. Todd recently moved back to the area to be near his ailing father. I knew that, but never thought I'd see him where I work.
The crazy part of the whole encounter is that I was utterly lost in trying to remember his first marriage daughters' names to ask about them! Ugh. And I was so uncomfortable at interrupting a date that I could not piece together any of the questions I really wanted to ask. Bleh. He asked about a girl who worked there. Yes, she still works here. Talking to her a few days later was wild. She knew him, knew about his wife dying, talked about their common friends. It was strange to answer her question about what happened to his wife. This is a different world, not that world. The two finding a connection felt surreal and took me back to all those empty feelings I felt when she died.
Several weeks ago, another blast from the past collided with my new life at the place on the avenue. Two women, one man, and an older couple sat in my section on a busy Friday night. They ate, drank, and were merry. When they were finished, the patriarch took the check. Coming back with his credit card and receipt, I glanced at the name. It's good customer service to address the patron by his or her name when they pay with a credit card, and I do it as often as I can. My eyes can't always pick up the name in the dim light of the restaurant, but it was serendipitous that I looked this time. The name on the card instantly clicked with the face of the man I took the card from moments before.
Arriving at the table with his card, I held it before me, looked him square in the eye, and said, "I know you. [pause] You worked with my dad. [pause] And my grandpa."
He looked astonished for only a moment before asking me, "Are you a (insert maiden name here)??" I smiled and said I was. Instant smiles all the way around. This was a family whose house I remember being at the day my father died. We caught up as much as we could in the hurried time I had to give them. Justin said something that made me sad, but somehow comforted too. He got a wistful look for a moment, then said, "I think about your dad sometimes. It's a shame what he did." For those who don't know, my dad's death certificate claims suicide. It is sad that he's not here. It's also comforting to know that Justin, a man my dad saw every work day has given thought to my dad and the family he left behind. They do keep up with my mom with Christmas letters and occasional phone calls, but I have not seen these people since I was very small.
I could not wait to tell my mom about the chance encounter. When I did relay the story, she assured me that they had to have been delighted to see me, and was sure that they would be back to see me again. When I told her what Justin said, she told me that he really thought of my dad like another son. Even though Justin is not that much older than my parents, he was the more mature type and took my dad under his wing. My mom said he took my dad's death very hard. I would love to sit down one on one with Justin to ask some hard questions that have never been answered. How amazing to see him again so by chance! It made me tingle to know that he spent so much time with the dad I have missed so much.
Yes, worlds do collide.
Two weeks ago, on a football Sunday, I wore my #4 Jets jersey under specific approval from the boss. I got a disapproving look from the manager on duty when I came through the door. I told him to lay off because this was owner-approved and if he had a problem he needed to go talk to said owner of the restaurant. I got a few snide remarks that were masked as questions of interest about my jersey. I wore it proudly. Then a drunk woman crammed into an overpopulated booth of friends stepped over my personal boundary. As I stood at the end of the table to take the order, she felt it was okay to 1) grab my shirt above my hip 2) shake it back and forth 3) give me a pathetic look, and 4) condescendingly tell me, "Oh honey, let it go." First of all, do NOT touch me. Secondly, take the attitude elsewhere--and do not tell me how to feel about Brett Favre.
I will just say that she is lucky that I am a professional, and her food was not tampered with. Others would not have been so polite. That's all on that.
Oh yeah. I'm workin' here.
Life on the avenue is pretty lively. Keeping up with all the shenanigans of the daily grind is difficult. Snippets seem to be the most I can muster. A little laughter goes a long way when you are in the weeds as a server.
Last night, my friend "Shawn" was in the section next to me. I saw him at the peak of the crunch time balancing an ungodly amount of sundries on his arm and hands. Why everyone I work with is so against using a tray is beyond me. I use a tray all the time because my hands are small and I cannot balance even two water glasses in my palm, much less the three or four glasses I see others balancing in one palm while carrying bread plates in the other. Nope, I'll use a cocktail tray, thank you. I raise an eyebrow at Shawn as he scurries on his way with his carnival collection on his person. As I'm doing my own dance of appeasement to my diners, I hear his large table being positively gleeful. I think to myself that it's weird that they are acting so surprised about a birthday cake that they clearly ordered. Did they forget that they ordered the surprise for the birthday girl?
I continue on my mission. A few minutes later, I have to go over by our coffee station for something. That's when I see it. The small birthday cake that was thawed during the course of the diners' meal for its debut is laying upside down on the floor, smooshed out from underneath its plastic plate. I suddenly understand the shouts of delight I heard a few minutes ago. Shawn is in the back of the house, performing the tedious job of unfreezing another birthday cake with short, half power spurts in the microwave. Too long or too high of heat and he will have a melty mess. Still, those other tables he has are waiting for something while he fixes this mistake that is surely costing him in dollars. I had to laugh. In fact, it was just what I needed in the midst of the crazy night we were having. Good stuff, that.
Last week was bizarre. My best friend from the northwoods--the one who died unexpectedly--is always on my mind. I think about her daughter who I have not seen since I left the northwoods shortly after Alissa's death. I think about how my life would be different, if not for her early departure from this world. I struggle with the fact that her husband and I do not get along, and that is what prevents me from seeing her beautiful daughter. Last week, coming from the back room to the hostess station, looking to the booths that run along the front of the restaurant, I see a man who looks like Alissa's husband. I'm thinking that's pretty weird, when I hear him say my name. I go over to a lukewarm hello. The surprise of it all made him call my name, but the reality of chatting is a little tense. Add to the mix that he's on a date. Of course, I'm looking at the woman to see how many Alissa-like features she has. There are many. Todd recently moved back to the area to be near his ailing father. I knew that, but never thought I'd see him where I work.
The crazy part of the whole encounter is that I was utterly lost in trying to remember his first marriage daughters' names to ask about them! Ugh. And I was so uncomfortable at interrupting a date that I could not piece together any of the questions I really wanted to ask. Bleh. He asked about a girl who worked there. Yes, she still works here. Talking to her a few days later was wild. She knew him, knew about his wife dying, talked about their common friends. It was strange to answer her question about what happened to his wife. This is a different world, not that world. The two finding a connection felt surreal and took me back to all those empty feelings I felt when she died.
Several weeks ago, another blast from the past collided with my new life at the place on the avenue. Two women, one man, and an older couple sat in my section on a busy Friday night. They ate, drank, and were merry. When they were finished, the patriarch took the check. Coming back with his credit card and receipt, I glanced at the name. It's good customer service to address the patron by his or her name when they pay with a credit card, and I do it as often as I can. My eyes can't always pick up the name in the dim light of the restaurant, but it was serendipitous that I looked this time. The name on the card instantly clicked with the face of the man I took the card from moments before.
Arriving at the table with his card, I held it before me, looked him square in the eye, and said, "I know you. [pause] You worked with my dad. [pause] And my grandpa."
He looked astonished for only a moment before asking me, "Are you a (insert maiden name here)??" I smiled and said I was. Instant smiles all the way around. This was a family whose house I remember being at the day my father died. We caught up as much as we could in the hurried time I had to give them. Justin said something that made me sad, but somehow comforted too. He got a wistful look for a moment, then said, "I think about your dad sometimes. It's a shame what he did." For those who don't know, my dad's death certificate claims suicide. It is sad that he's not here. It's also comforting to know that Justin, a man my dad saw every work day has given thought to my dad and the family he left behind. They do keep up with my mom with Christmas letters and occasional phone calls, but I have not seen these people since I was very small.
I could not wait to tell my mom about the chance encounter. When I did relay the story, she assured me that they had to have been delighted to see me, and was sure that they would be back to see me again. When I told her what Justin said, she told me that he really thought of my dad like another son. Even though Justin is not that much older than my parents, he was the more mature type and took my dad under his wing. My mom said he took my dad's death very hard. I would love to sit down one on one with Justin to ask some hard questions that have never been answered. How amazing to see him again so by chance! It made me tingle to know that he spent so much time with the dad I have missed so much.
Yes, worlds do collide.
Two weeks ago, on a football Sunday, I wore my #4 Jets jersey under specific approval from the boss. I got a disapproving look from the manager on duty when I came through the door. I told him to lay off because this was owner-approved and if he had a problem he needed to go talk to said owner of the restaurant. I got a few snide remarks that were masked as questions of interest about my jersey. I wore it proudly. Then a drunk woman crammed into an overpopulated booth of friends stepped over my personal boundary. As I stood at the end of the table to take the order, she felt it was okay to 1) grab my shirt above my hip 2) shake it back and forth 3) give me a pathetic look, and 4) condescendingly tell me, "Oh honey, let it go." First of all, do NOT touch me. Secondly, take the attitude elsewhere--and do not tell me how to feel about Brett Favre.
I will just say that she is lucky that I am a professional, and her food was not tampered with. Others would not have been so polite. That's all on that.
Oh yeah. I'm workin' here.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
The House Blew Up
I want to text my landlord and tell him, "Your house blew up. Call me." Or maybe I should tell him it blew away, or burned down. He won't respond to phone calls. He won't reply to emails that ask for his confirmation that he's gotten them. He doesn't answer notes left with the rent check.
Ever since I made the complaint about the maintenance man's inappropriate behavior, not only on the professional (professional-ha!) level, but personal level, my landlord has evaporated into thin air. He used to be an awesome guy who took care of every little thing. Now I can't get an affirmative that the furnace repairs from the flood have, indeed, been completed. I don't know if he cares that the kitchen sink and bathtub drains are slow. He hasn't replaced the filter on the sink for my drinking water. I fear the water spots on the ceilings from the roof leaking will be there until I move.
I don't know what else to do. There is absolutely NO response to any question, big or small. My lease is up. I'm wondering if I'm going to be getting the equivalent of a pink slip in my mailbox this week when he picks up the rent check. I'm peeved by the behavior. My last landlord threw me out in a fit of craziness that had no explanation, except some imbalance that turned her into the Jekyll and Hyde. My fear of the same happening again is understandable. However, I am a phenomenal renter. My rent is always on time, and I take care of my rental property as though it's my own. Wisconsin has "at-will" employment, and tenancy when there is no lease. This means a landlord can give a renter 30 days to vacate. If this happens, I will be devastated.
Meanwhile, I'm forced to deal with the infidel for repairs to my home. I think DSMM (DipShit Maintenance Man) knows not to pick up the phone when I call him, for I've been lucky in getting his voicemail. In return, I don't pick up my phone when it reads "Idiot" calling. Actually, it reads "idiot" since I didn't think he was worthy of a capital "I."
When DPMM hooked up my new (used) dryer after the flood, he must have done a half-assed job. The dryer was letting a lot of moisture into the basement. I didn't understand this. Until last week. Last week, I noticed the air vent hose flapping away at the back of the dryer. It was probably loose, and took a few months to come off completely. I had asked for notice when the DSMM would be entering the premises. I got none when he came in to fix the dryer. And yes, I am angry about this. At least he left the premises locked. Does this mean he got at least part of the memo?
Still, enduring his lame ethics and shoddy workmanship is annoying. It took three visits for him to hook up the washer correctly after he used my faucet to power wash the basement. (Yeah, I'll pay that water bill. Don't give me a credit on my rent for the water that went through my drain or got used to clean the entire basement).
I know in the scheme of big world problems, these are peanuts. Even so, this is my "Gool" and he's wrecking it. Hell, they are both wrecking it. I am loathe to call the Landlord-Tenant Agency, but I may have to if things don't change. I am looking for input on this matter. My work friends were quick to jump on the litigation path. As offended as I am by the behaviors of both the maintenance man and the landlord, I do not want to travel that route. I'm not sure if I should be scanning the rentals, or if my tenancy is safe here. The unknown is not fun. I have friends that admire the amount of moving I've done. "You little wanderer, you." I don't relish moving. And I truly love this place. If I have to move, I don't know where I'll land.
Maybe I'll try that text message to see if there's a response. "House gone. Plz call."
I did my laundry after I wrote this blog. Now that the hose is hooked up properly to the dryer, it's loose (off) at the top where it hooks into the metal shoot that takes the humid air outside. I left idiot a message. [sigh]
Ever since I made the complaint about the maintenance man's inappropriate behavior, not only on the professional (professional-ha!) level, but personal level, my landlord has evaporated into thin air. He used to be an awesome guy who took care of every little thing. Now I can't get an affirmative that the furnace repairs from the flood have, indeed, been completed. I don't know if he cares that the kitchen sink and bathtub drains are slow. He hasn't replaced the filter on the sink for my drinking water. I fear the water spots on the ceilings from the roof leaking will be there until I move.
I don't know what else to do. There is absolutely NO response to any question, big or small. My lease is up. I'm wondering if I'm going to be getting the equivalent of a pink slip in my mailbox this week when he picks up the rent check. I'm peeved by the behavior. My last landlord threw me out in a fit of craziness that had no explanation, except some imbalance that turned her into the Jekyll and Hyde. My fear of the same happening again is understandable. However, I am a phenomenal renter. My rent is always on time, and I take care of my rental property as though it's my own. Wisconsin has "at-will" employment, and tenancy when there is no lease. This means a landlord can give a renter 30 days to vacate. If this happens, I will be devastated.
Meanwhile, I'm forced to deal with the infidel for repairs to my home. I think DSMM (DipShit Maintenance Man) knows not to pick up the phone when I call him, for I've been lucky in getting his voicemail. In return, I don't pick up my phone when it reads "Idiot" calling. Actually, it reads "idiot" since I didn't think he was worthy of a capital "I."
When DPMM hooked up my new (used) dryer after the flood, he must have done a half-assed job. The dryer was letting a lot of moisture into the basement. I didn't understand this. Until last week. Last week, I noticed the air vent hose flapping away at the back of the dryer. It was probably loose, and took a few months to come off completely. I had asked for notice when the DSMM would be entering the premises. I got none when he came in to fix the dryer. And yes, I am angry about this. At least he left the premises locked. Does this mean he got at least part of the memo?
Still, enduring his lame ethics and shoddy workmanship is annoying. It took three visits for him to hook up the washer correctly after he used my faucet to power wash the basement. (Yeah, I'll pay that water bill. Don't give me a credit on my rent for the water that went through my drain or got used to clean the entire basement).
I know in the scheme of big world problems, these are peanuts. Even so, this is my "Gool" and he's wrecking it. Hell, they are both wrecking it. I am loathe to call the Landlord-Tenant Agency, but I may have to if things don't change. I am looking for input on this matter. My work friends were quick to jump on the litigation path. As offended as I am by the behaviors of both the maintenance man and the landlord, I do not want to travel that route. I'm not sure if I should be scanning the rentals, or if my tenancy is safe here. The unknown is not fun. I have friends that admire the amount of moving I've done. "You little wanderer, you." I don't relish moving. And I truly love this place. If I have to move, I don't know where I'll land.
Maybe I'll try that text message to see if there's a response. "House gone. Plz call."
I did my laundry after I wrote this blog. Now that the hose is hooked up properly to the dryer, it's loose (off) at the top where it hooks into the metal shoot that takes the humid air outside. I left idiot a message. [sigh]
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Friday, September 12, 2008
Grammar Lesson for Friday, September 12
I know. I know. It's mostly me. And it's mostly because I have always been a complete nerd about grammar, and spelling, and all things neat and organized. I'm a detail person, and yes, it is a curse. And no, I don't want you to pick apart all those commas and try to decide if that last sentence was a run-on, or if this one is, for that matter.
Okay. All kidding aside, I was aghast at a sign I read at a corporate chain restaurant in its drive-thru. ITS drive-thru. Do you see the proper form there? Apparently, Culver's does not have this information within its corporate offices. (Yes, I used the correct form AGAIN). I wish I'd had my camera. Their drive-thru has a sign that tells you that their food is: "worth it's wait for the freshness."
Herein lies the lesson. It's equals "it is." The apostrophe tells us that it is two words. It's two words. It is.
Its equals possession. "Worth its wait." Who owns the wait? The food and its freshness. The food is fresh. Thus we wait. It's worth its wait because it's (it is) fresh. Get it? The way the sign reads now means: Worth it is wait for the freshness. Does that make any sense? No. No, it does not.
I know I should get a life, but that hasn't been working out for me. It's my lot in life to be its own worst enemy.
Join me next time when we discuss the difference between then and than.
Okay. All kidding aside, I was aghast at a sign I read at a corporate chain restaurant in its drive-thru. ITS drive-thru. Do you see the proper form there? Apparently, Culver's does not have this information within its corporate offices. (Yes, I used the correct form AGAIN). I wish I'd had my camera. Their drive-thru has a sign that tells you that their food is: "worth it's wait for the freshness."
Herein lies the lesson. It's equals "it is." The apostrophe tells us that it is two words. It's two words. It is.
Its equals possession. "Worth its wait." Who owns the wait? The food and its freshness. The food is fresh. Thus we wait. It's worth its wait because it's (it is) fresh. Get it? The way the sign reads now means: Worth it is wait for the freshness. Does that make any sense? No. No, it does not.
I know I should get a life, but that hasn't been working out for me. It's my lot in life to be its own worst enemy.
Join me next time when we discuss the difference between then and than.
Friday, September 05, 2008
The Bandit
Sometimes, all you have is the visual evidence of a misdeed to try to piece together what happened. Figuring out who (or what!) did it can be downright taxing. The story that follows is just one of those incidents.
I do some work for a woman who has several health issues that keep her from rigorous physical activity. We have been cleaning out her old farmhouse where she still has belongings. When we go over, she is the SWAT team who forges ahead to get rid of spider webs and peruse for any ugly bugs before I start packing. I'm still twitchy the whole time we are in this year-long unoccupied house. It's been bug-bombed once, and her uncle checks in weekly there, but you have to believe that the bugs have had free reign to do what they want and to make themselves at home.
We tackled her library the other day. I stood on a small footstool and reached for several books at a time from a top shelf that I couldn't see completely. I dusted them off and stacked them while she sorted and put them in boxes I provided. When one box would fill, I would take it away and bring another. This went on for about an hour and a half until we ran out of appropriate-sized boxes. Every time I went to the back room to get another one, she would tell me that there were more upstairs. I continued to ignore this information because I did not want to travel up to the dreaded second level where the bugs really had the place to themselves! But, because of her great wealth of books, I was finally forced to admit that we needed those boxes that loomed upstairs.
I opened the door to the steep, narrow steps and sucked in a deep breath while I stared it down. "I can do this," I mentally pumped myself. I stepped through the doorway with a duster waving wildly in front of me to knock down any cobwebs I might discover on my upward journey. My eyes were alert and moving quickly to every area I was passing and coming up to, while I made bold strides to get to the boxes in the spare room.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I stopped, stunned. I called down to her, "Did you have your son over here when he was visiting?" She assured me she had not. I took in the scene in the hallway, aghast at what might have happened.
"Why?" she called up to me.
"Well, there's stuffed animals all over the place. It looks like a massacre, and there's one ripped in half over by the bedroom."
"WHAT? There must have been a mouse!" she cried. I assured her I did not think a mouse did this. She got her oxygen tubing and came up. We stared at the scene before us in confusion.
"What if it was a raccoon?" I gulped.
"Well, let's pack these stuffed animals back into that hamper and take them with us." she decided. So we began to pick up the animals and put them in the mesh basket that housed them before the invasion. As we did so, I started finding the eye buttons on the floor. What the hell? It suddenly came to me! A squirrel must have thought he'd found a mother lode of nuts tucked safely up in this attic. We started laughing, envisioning the entrepreneurial squirrel plucking eyeballs and trying to munch on them, only to find that they did not taste good! We could see him discarding the eyeball, grabbing another stuffed animal, plucking the eye out, finding more disappointment, and repeating the scenario. Perhaps this frustration at so many great-looking foodstuffs that really weren't was what brought him to the eventual ripping in half of the poor little brown teddy bear we saw by the bedroom. So sad.
We covered up the chewed hole in the wall with a heavy box of books, but you know those crafty squirrels always find a way to get what they want. In the end, we got the boxes we needed to finish the library. I only had one (wispy) spider crawl across my hand. And it's one more step in my therapy to lose some of this fear of the creepy crawly things that should not scare me like they do. And who knows? Maybe cleaning out the upstairs will bring a whole new fear while I tread lightly around Skippy the Squirrel who loves to steal the eyes from unsuspecting stuffed animals.
I do some work for a woman who has several health issues that keep her from rigorous physical activity. We have been cleaning out her old farmhouse where she still has belongings. When we go over, she is the SWAT team who forges ahead to get rid of spider webs and peruse for any ugly bugs before I start packing. I'm still twitchy the whole time we are in this year-long unoccupied house. It's been bug-bombed once, and her uncle checks in weekly there, but you have to believe that the bugs have had free reign to do what they want and to make themselves at home.
We tackled her library the other day. I stood on a small footstool and reached for several books at a time from a top shelf that I couldn't see completely. I dusted them off and stacked them while she sorted and put them in boxes I provided. When one box would fill, I would take it away and bring another. This went on for about an hour and a half until we ran out of appropriate-sized boxes. Every time I went to the back room to get another one, she would tell me that there were more upstairs. I continued to ignore this information because I did not want to travel up to the dreaded second level where the bugs really had the place to themselves! But, because of her great wealth of books, I was finally forced to admit that we needed those boxes that loomed upstairs.
I opened the door to the steep, narrow steps and sucked in a deep breath while I stared it down. "I can do this," I mentally pumped myself. I stepped through the doorway with a duster waving wildly in front of me to knock down any cobwebs I might discover on my upward journey. My eyes were alert and moving quickly to every area I was passing and coming up to, while I made bold strides to get to the boxes in the spare room.
Reaching the top of the stairs, I stopped, stunned. I called down to her, "Did you have your son over here when he was visiting?" She assured me she had not. I took in the scene in the hallway, aghast at what might have happened.
"Why?" she called up to me.
"Well, there's stuffed animals all over the place. It looks like a massacre, and there's one ripped in half over by the bedroom."
"WHAT? There must have been a mouse!" she cried. I assured her I did not think a mouse did this. She got her oxygen tubing and came up. We stared at the scene before us in confusion.
"What if it was a raccoon?" I gulped.
"Well, let's pack these stuffed animals back into that hamper and take them with us." she decided. So we began to pick up the animals and put them in the mesh basket that housed them before the invasion. As we did so, I started finding the eye buttons on the floor. What the hell? It suddenly came to me! A squirrel must have thought he'd found a mother lode of nuts tucked safely up in this attic. We started laughing, envisioning the entrepreneurial squirrel plucking eyeballs and trying to munch on them, only to find that they did not taste good! We could see him discarding the eyeball, grabbing another stuffed animal, plucking the eye out, finding more disappointment, and repeating the scenario. Perhaps this frustration at so many great-looking foodstuffs that really weren't was what brought him to the eventual ripping in half of the poor little brown teddy bear we saw by the bedroom. So sad.
We covered up the chewed hole in the wall with a heavy box of books, but you know those crafty squirrels always find a way to get what they want. In the end, we got the boxes we needed to finish the library. I only had one (wispy) spider crawl across my hand. And it's one more step in my therapy to lose some of this fear of the creepy crawly things that should not scare me like they do. And who knows? Maybe cleaning out the upstairs will bring a whole new fear while I tread lightly around Skippy the Squirrel who loves to steal the eyes from unsuspecting stuffed animals.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Spiderpalooza
It's well-documented that I am deathly afraid of creepy crawly things. I have no less than four sprays in my house to combat these abominations of nature. This is not a creepy crawly story though. It is a pretty funny foray into my last few days.
Last week, I killed a spider in the bathroom. Several days ago, I killed two spiders in the kitchen--one in the morning (the mommy), and one in the evening (the daddy). Little itty bitty babies began appearing in the areas where I killed these parent spiders. Huh. Fortunately, I'm not afraid of the teeny ones that you can squish with your finger.
So the squishing commenced. They wispily crawled across my stove and I mushed them instantly. In the bathroom, they littered the angled ceiling. When they were within reach, I crushed them. The other night, I noticed one coming down a tiny strand of webbing he created, so I got him too. Squish-Squash-Mush-Crush. Gone, gone, gone.
Thank goodness, once again, that these babies are not scary. Coming from the bathroom to resume my reading on the internet, I sat in my desk chair and got comfortable. A minute later, I notice something out of the corner of my eye. A teeny spider baby is rappelling his way down my hair and onto my keyboard. Ew. I squish him. When will it end? How many frigging babies do spiders have? I would look it up, but I can't see scary eight-legged pictures coming up in lightning fast speed on my screen. I'll just keep squashing them as fast as they keep appearing, I guess.
This festival of babies and mamas and papas comes in on the heels of a very traumatizing day last week when I had to call my neighbor (who is as afraid of them as I am) over to kill a centipede that was on the wall above my bed. The possibility of losing that monster in my BEDROOM was more than I could handle. She is my hero now. And I am scanning every wall, floor, and ceiling in every room before my foot takes the next step forward more than ever. Fall is here. They want in. I'm afraid the spiderpalooza has just begun. I better keep those sprays handy.
Last week, I killed a spider in the bathroom. Several days ago, I killed two spiders in the kitchen--one in the morning (the mommy), and one in the evening (the daddy). Little itty bitty babies began appearing in the areas where I killed these parent spiders. Huh. Fortunately, I'm not afraid of the teeny ones that you can squish with your finger.
So the squishing commenced. They wispily crawled across my stove and I mushed them instantly. In the bathroom, they littered the angled ceiling. When they were within reach, I crushed them. The other night, I noticed one coming down a tiny strand of webbing he created, so I got him too. Squish-Squash-Mush-Crush. Gone, gone, gone.
Thank goodness, once again, that these babies are not scary. Coming from the bathroom to resume my reading on the internet, I sat in my desk chair and got comfortable. A minute later, I notice something out of the corner of my eye. A teeny spider baby is rappelling his way down my hair and onto my keyboard. Ew. I squish him. When will it end? How many frigging babies do spiders have? I would look it up, but I can't see scary eight-legged pictures coming up in lightning fast speed on my screen. I'll just keep squashing them as fast as they keep appearing, I guess.
This festival of babies and mamas and papas comes in on the heels of a very traumatizing day last week when I had to call my neighbor (who is as afraid of them as I am) over to kill a centipede that was on the wall above my bed. The possibility of losing that monster in my BEDROOM was more than I could handle. She is my hero now. And I am scanning every wall, floor, and ceiling in every room before my foot takes the next step forward more than ever. Fall is here. They want in. I'm afraid the spiderpalooza has just begun. I better keep those sprays handy.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
On The Record
I am sitting at my computer with this really cool "vinyl to cd" record player that you hook up to your computer. It's DN's. She bought it to convert her own vinyl, but kept others in mind when purchasing it. It will surely make the rounds of her family and friends. But for now, it's mine to play with, learn about, work the bugs out of....
I'm enjoying this blast into the past. I finally set this thing up after hearing "Blister in the Sun" by the Violent Femmes (no, they are not violent, nor are they femmes) on Charlie FM, not once, but twice in the last week. . I specifically got determined to learn this machine after remembering how much I love, love, love this album. I'm listening to it now, and ohhhhh, the college days memories this is bringing back. I used to have a cassette walkman blasting while I traipsed the campus. This music was often the beat to which I climbed the hill at UW-Eau Claire.
I so love this album. It is spectacular. It is extraordinary. It reminds me of Erik, who introduced me to this off the wall, beautiful music. I saw them live on my campus (for cheap!) in their hey day. I would not have thought then, nor now, that this music would be something I love so much, but it truly is! Here is a sample song, which is not, by the way, safe at work--or for children.
I'm enjoying this blast into the past. I finally set this thing up after hearing "Blister in the Sun" by the Violent Femmes (no, they are not violent, nor are they femmes) on Charlie FM, not once, but twice in the last week. . I specifically got determined to learn this machine after remembering how much I love, love, love this album. I'm listening to it now, and ohhhhh, the college days memories this is bringing back. I used to have a cassette walkman blasting while I traipsed the campus. This music was often the beat to which I climbed the hill at UW-Eau Claire.
I so love this album. It is spectacular. It is extraordinary. It reminds me of Erik, who introduced me to this off the wall, beautiful music. I saw them live on my campus (for cheap!) in their hey day. I would not have thought then, nor now, that this music would be something I love so much, but it truly is! Here is a sample song, which is not, by the way, safe at work--or for children.
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