Finding The Thompsons

I've been doing genealogy since 1999 with the thought that it would be easy. Create an account on Ancestry.com, enter a few names, a few locations, and wa-lah! Instant answers! HA.

My core family was small to begin with: two sisters, a set of parents, one maternal grandmother and two great aunts. My parents were only children, which means there were no aunts or uncles. Simple, right? But my parents are tough. I can't find my dad's mom, Eva D. Marquette. I can't find my mom's dad, Emil V. Johnson. (You try finding a Johnson in Chisholm, Minnesota.) My dad's dad had died long ago and he didn't talk about him much. But my mom's mom was right there with us. She either lived with us, or we lived with her, or she and I worked side-by-side in her restaurant, which was attached to my parents' business. This meant she and I spent a lot of time together. I was her favorite grandchild, and she was like a second mother to me. I adored that woman.

Her name was Gram Florence. Well, we called her Gram. Everyone else called her Florence. Florence Thompson, from Marengo, WI (AKA a wide place in the road up by Lake Superior). Her parents immigrated from Finland, bought a farm and had 12 kids. Twelve! (Gram said there were 15, but I've only found 12.) Either way, can you imagine? Well maybe some of you can, but I sure couldn't. That was like having all your classmates from school living in your house! Or at least it seemed that way to a pipsqueak with two siblings. Gram used to tell me stories about her brothers and sisters, her parents and life on the farm in general. This usually occurred while she was cooking (she was always cooking) (and if she wasn't cooking, she was cleaning, knitting, crocheting or volunteering). I was fascinated by the idea of all those siblings. I was entranced by the idea of a huge farm, out in the middle of nowhere, and with animals! I peppered her with questions like, "how on earth did you manage with seven sisters and only one bathroom?" "You really had to help your mom make breakfast, lunch and dinner every day for all those people?" "How could you bake bread in an oven that had no thermostat? How could you tell it was at 350 degrees?" "Your mother didn't speak English? How could she talk to anybody?" "What do you mean you butchered your own meat? EW."

She'd answer my questions and off I'd go, into a corner and write stories about Millie, Bertha, Irene, Hilma, the twins John and Jalmer, her mother Sophie, her father Matt. I'd illustrate 'em too. The girls were always princesses with tall cone hats and veils swirling everywhere; the boys were invariably riding prancing ponies that had enormous hooves. Everybody had arching eyebrows and buck teeth. I had a thing about arched eyebrows (this is called too much TV) and being obsessed with drawing every single tooth in a person's head, along with all the lines and shadows of hooves. It was important for some reason and all that attention to detail made them larger. (The word 'perspective' wouldn't arrive in my vocabulary until later.) It also never occurred to me that veils would be a hindrance while kneading dough, scrubbing floors and killing chickens. It didn't register that her brothers would have a hard time baling hay or milking cows if they never got off their trusty steeds. But Gram never said anything. I read her all the stories, showed her my drawings and she'd smile and laugh and tell me how great it all was. Grandmothers are wonderful, aren't they? I still have some of those stories tucked away in a box.

But I still didn't ask enough questions. Or at least not the right ones. I never asked, for example, what is your mother's full name? Or, where ARE all these brothers and sisters? I only knew two siblings. One sister was funny and adventurous, unmarried, no kids and lived far far away in California. The other was married, had four kids, lived five miles down the road and was a regular Miss Fussbudget. She didn't approve of me because I climbed trees, got dirty and sat on the floor in a dress, cross-legged. I should've been sitting properly, with my ankles together and doing 'girl things', not playing with live ants and plastic army men. Her sister, the fun one, would've just laughed, tossed her shoes into the weeds and climbed the tree with me. In a dress. And then laugh like a loon when Gram, holding her sides trying to keep her own merriment in, would whisper-shout "Girls girls, I can see your undies!"

They're all gone now; Mom, Dad, Gram, both great-aunts. There's no one left to ask. But I know there has to be more of us Finlander Thompsons out there. So I'm going to try again. Only this time, I'm going to start by tracking down living relatives. I've run into a wall tracking down the dead ones.

With age comes wisdom.

A Song To Melt Your Heart, A Voice To Stir Your Soul

La Vie En Rose. If you want to melt her heart and convince the girl to slow dance with you, play this song. Rachael Leahcar. If you want said girl to melt in your arms, remember this name.

Hubby and I love "golden oldies", and especially those romantic tunes that make one weak in the knees and foggy in the brain. For example, when we got married in 2010, we started off our music playlist with a little fun (Going To The Chapel by The Dixie Cups). When my sons walked me down the aisle, romance wafted through the air: namely the incomparable Johnny Mathis's Misty.

The lyrics:

Look at me
I'm as helpless as a kitten up a tree,
And I feel like I'm
Clinging to a cloud
I can't understand,
I get misty just holding your hand. 

Walk my way,
And a thousand violins
Begin to play.
Or it might be the sound of your hello,
That music I hear
I get misty
The moment you're near.

:dreamy, glazed over look: Mmmmmmm.

Where was I? Oh yeah [ahem], sorry. If you haven't heard these songs before, click and listen. This is music that isn't anymore . . . and that's just sad. Most people think hubby and I like this stuff just because we're middle-aged. Au contraire. We've always liked it, from the time we were toddlers. Even many of these songs were older than we were. It didn't matter. The music spoke to our souls. But our childhood friends thought we were weird. Our first spouses rolled their eyes. But we listened anyway; in the middle of the night, alone in the car, or with headphones stuck to our ears. And then we found each other. Now we listen with abandon, with glee, walking around inside a happy fog.

Second marriages are wonderful, aren't they? We know exactly what we want.

And more importantly, what we don't.

Now this isn't to say we don't like some newer music, too. White Horse by Taylor Swift and You Don't Even Know Who I Am by Patty Loveless come to mind. But in this current rappin', rockin', angry, female-butt-swingin' musical desert, these are more the exception than the rule. But perhaps there's hope. The other night honey and I watched the 1954 version of Sabrina and suddenly realized we didn't have a copy of La Vie En Rose on our iPod. In case you're not familiar, let me introduce you to some samples first. The song is heard twice in the movie; the first time is an instrumental in the background while Sabrina (Audrey Hepburn) is writing a letter to her father back in the states.

Dearest Father,

We shall be graduating next week and I shall be getting my diploma. I want to thank you now for the two most wonderful years of my life. I shall always love you for sending me here. It is late at night and someone across the way is playing “La Vie En Rose”. It is the French way of saying, I am looking at the world through rose-coloured glasses. It says everything I feel. I have learnt so many things, Father. Not just how to make vichyssoise or calf’s head with sauce vinaigrette, but a much more important recipe. I have learned how to live, to be in the world and of the world…and not just to stand aside and watch. And I will never, never again run away from life, or from love, either.

(La Vie En Rose can be translated as "Life in Rosy Hues" or "Life Through Rose-Colored Glasses". The song title's literal translation is "Life in Pink".)

The second time, Audrey is singing snatches of the song to Bogie (that's Humphrey Bogart for you youngin's).

So, to remedy the situation, we go off in search of the song. Good heavens, I never knew there WERE so many versions! Apparently, the most popular rendition is by Edith Piaf. We'd never heard it before. (And even more honestly, we didn't like the way she sang it.) The version I'd always heard in my head was by Louis Armstrong. It's played in the movie Wall-E. This is one cute clip. (Wall-E's watching a romantic scene from Hello, Dolly! on the tv, in case you can't place the movie.)

After many listens and rejections, we tripped over what has to be the most amazing, utterly heartstopping version of La Vie En Rose ever sung. It was a clip from YouTube, from the Australian version of The Voice. The singer is Rachael Leahcar, a legally blind teenager. Listening to her, it's hard to believe this voice, this range, this sheer emotion belongs to an 18 year old. From the first note, we were stunned. Mesmerized. Enraptured.

I immediately went out to buy a copy, but the only place I could find it is on iTunes.au. When I tried to purchase it, the site told me I couldn't -- and sent me back to the iTunes USA -- which doesn't carry it! What's up with that?

After an extensive search, I finally found Rachael's full (minus audience and cheering noises) professionally recorded version on YouTube. Have a listen. Better yet, share it with someone you love.

Bugs Bunny Wouldn't Survive Here

Dead critters in my back yard is not something I was expecting when we bought this house last fall.

I would describe where we live as a "sort-of rural" area. What I mean by that is, this county consists of a lot of small towns that are connected by country roads. I think of it as a big city where all the suburbs haven't quite grown together yet. Give it another 5 years.

In my 8 months here, I've seen more dead animals by the side of the road than I've seen in the last 30 years living in Colorado. Opossums, deer, raccoons, squirrels, ducks, chipmunks, cats, dogs, pretty much any animal you can think of, run over by cars and left for dead. They lay there for weeks. I don't think the county crews can keep up.

Last fall, I found a dead bird lying on the ground in my back yard. I'm not sure how it died, but I picked it up, using a plastic bag (fear of lice or whatever those creepie crawlies are that reside on dead bodies) and tossed it out. Okay, no big deal. Then, on Friday before the long Memorial Day weekend, I let my little 11 lb. Poochon (Bichon and Poodle mix) out for his morning constitution. Ten minutes later, when he still hadn't come back in, I looked out the kitchen window to see what he was up to. He was standing there, stock still, tentatively sniffing at something on the ground. I could see a small lump of grey and red in the grass. Uh-oh, I thought, another dead bird.

Except it wasn't. I couldn't quite figure out what it was at first. My eyes saw, my brain refused to cooperate. In a close little triangle, first we had grey and brown and white fur with a big red blotch on one end and two feet sticking up on the other. Next to that, a neat little pile of snakey-looking somethings that were light grey and wet, and a mere two inches away, was a tiny red thing I hadn't been able to see from the window. It consisted of 3 itty bitty triangles, each one a tiny bit larger than the last, laid in all-in-a row, as if a paper-thin string was holding them all together. Honestly, it looked like a Valentine ornament about to be hung in a window.

I must've stared for a good minute before the ol' brain finally kicked into gear. It was a bunny. Well, half of a bunny. The head, torso and front paws were missing. The poor little thing had been sheared or torn in half. I looked around wildly; what had done this? I saw no sign of a fight (fur, splattered blood, broken foliage), but if something could do that to a bunny, it could certainly do the same to my dog. I shooed the pooch inside, grabbed a handful of plastic bags and very shakily went out to collect the murder victim.

With the bag over my hand, I took hold of one of the paws. The bunny was still so pliable that I had a struggle trying to get the corpse into the bag. Rigor mortis hadn't set in yet, so the crime must've just happened. (Don't ask me if the bunny was still warm. UCK. I have no idea. I was operating on autopilot by then.) With a second bag, I attempted to pick up the grey, wet stuff. (intestines?) With the third bag, I tried scooping up the little red triangles. (heart?) I keep saying 'tried' because both of these things were wet and soft and .... well .... squishy.

:shudder: It's taken me days to work up the courage to write this.

I then put all the bags into a small box. What to do with the box? It's going to be hot all weekend -- and of course this has to be a THREE day weekend -- plus I'm getting visions of curious neighborhood cats or raccoons stopping by for a look. Between the expected heat and possibility of animals, I can't leave the box outside. So, into the garage fridge it goes.

It was a long weekend. Every time I had to go into the garage, I thought of the bunny. I was afraid to let the dog out. I still couldn't figure who the attacker might have been. My youngest son thought it was probably a raccoon. My husband thought the carcass was probably dropped by a hawk or maybe even a crow, perhaps while being chased by another bird of prey. Neither thought was comforting.

Before I go outside now, I warily scan the entire yard, afraid I'll see some other dead thing lying there. I worriedly watch the dog as he sniffs and runs. I also look skywards and think, "What if it was a bird ... and what if I'd been standing underneath when it fell?"

OMG.

A couple of days later, I got up to do something, happened to glance out the front window, and saw the neighbor's cat lying stretched out at the top of our driveway. It was belly up, like it'd been thrown there or had stopped to have itself a good, long, lazy stretch. It took half a second to realize the cat was under a truck. A quarter of a heartbeat later, the back tire ran over the cat (thump) and drove off. Didn't stop, didn't slow down, didn't even blink. It just drove away. Assholes.

I squawked or screamed or something and was out the door in a flash, hubby right behind me. The cat (an orange tabby) struggled to stand upright, got on its feet and took off for the woods across the street in an uneven, sideways lurch. You could tell it was hurt. It took the neighbors, their kids, and us over an hour to coax the terrified cat -- his name was Billy -- out of the thick underbrush. They rushed him to the vet, but there was no hope. Billy the cat died later that night.

A day later, our little dog came in from outside, acting funny. He kept walking from room to room, head down, tail down, looking forlorn. He wouldn't sit down, wouldn't eat, wouldn't come to me, he just kept walking. "What's wrong, baby?" I picked him up to examine him, and it only took a moment to see the side of one paw was bloody; he'd torn one of his dew claws almost completely out. (Ugh. And OUCH.) Off to the vet we go. It is, of course, already infected and we have to, of course, perform surgery. The vet tells me his dew claws stick out too much, and we should remove both at the same time. I nod and agree, knowing what I'm saying, but still in a state of semi-shock. What is it with this county?

The dog came thru surgery fine. He's been on a "no jumping, running or stairs" regimine per doctor's orders for the past 10 days. He's also had to wear the Cone of Shame so he won't pull out the sutures. Yesterday was the first day he got to run free again and chase the chipmunks in the back yard. He's been in a sort of whirling-dervish mode, making up for lost playtime. It's hard to keep a 2 year old down.

This morning, we found 2 dead birds in the back yard. Baby birds. Yesterday they were fine, chirping away in their little birdhouses. This morning they're goners. We haven't a clue why.

Dear Bugs Bunny: You are one of my favorite cartoon characters (it's a tie between you 'n Snoopy, actually). Although I know you are not real, I still fear for your safety. Yes yes, I realize I'm being irrational, but, please humor me. I don't know if you've ever visited the northwest Chicago suburbs, but nevertheless, I don't want you to even think about coming anywhere near here. Do not, I repeat, do NOT take that left at Albuquerque.

Bugs? Bugs ... ? Are you listening .... ?

Garages and Bathrooms: Somebody Doesn't Get It

We've been house hunting and hunting and hunting in northern Illinois / southern Wisconsin since May. We're finally going to close on one this coming Monday (OMG. FINALLY. We've been trying to buy this silly house since JULY ... but I'll leave that frickin'-frackin' story for another time.) We've seen lots of houses. And I do mean lots. Now, I've lived in Colorado for the past 30-some years, and many of these midwestern houses confuse me.

First, understand that we're looking in the "starter home" price range. Meaning cheap. Having just gotten out of 26+ year marriages, being newly married, and having 3 kids in college tends to put a bit of a damper on finances. So we look at simple "3 beds, 2 baths, with a garage" houses. Easy, right?

Apparently not. What's with the dearth of garages and bathrooms, you guys? For instance, here's one. The ad reads:

Home is excellent condition. Corner fireplace in Living Room. Spacious deck nicely shaded by all the trees. 4 bedrooms. 2 bathrooms. Extra deep 1 car garage.




A 1 Car Garage? For a 4 bedroom home? Only 1 person in this family has a car? And what's with this 'extra-deep' thing? Is is a tandem garage? "Honey, you pull in first, I'll pull in second, and if you have to leave earlier than I do, we'll just go out and play leapfrog with the vehicles."

Many of the houses in the midwest are 40-60 years old. I know the lots aren't always big enough to accommodate a garage. But, even when they have enough land, they still don't install a garage.

Cottage retreat, first time offered! 4 bedroom, 1 bath, on 3 wooded lots. 940 sq. ft of cozy living space. Lake rights included.




4 bedrooms, but only 1 bathroom? Honey, at my age, if there's more than one person in the house, you need 2 bathrooms. The sprawling 940 sq. ft of living space isn't doing much for me either.

3 bedrooms, 2.5 baths! --- but is this not the ugliest house in existence? It looks like some sheet-metal-sided industrial building. Woof. Strangely enough, the inside is beautiful. Here, quick, go look for yourself before the link expires. Now, the house is built on a hill and has no garage ... and no parking spaces except on the curved street out front (we drove over and looked). The backyard is way too steep for a helicopter landing pad, so I'm not sure what you're supposed to do with your car? Park it in the street for Drivers' Ed target practice? Sell it and parachute in?

Great 3 bedroom, 2.5 bath home with lake rights. Vaulted tongue and groove wood ceilings in Kitchen, Dining, and Family Room. Granite Countertops, SS appliances, double sided fireplace. Finished Walkout Basement with bar and another fireplace. 2 Large decks on both levels. MUST SEE.

One more garage oddity. My hubby isn't puzzling over this, but I sure am.

On houses ranging from the 1950s -- 1980s, we keep seeing a small garage door built right next to the big garage door. There's already a small door inside the garage leading to the back yard.

What's the purpose of this additional front door, a mere 15 feet from the front entrance?

Great Realtors (Are Tough to Find)

Got a great realtor? It's a challenge, I tell you. Like finding a good doctor, a compassionate dentist, or even a trustworthy lawyer. (Wait. Is there such a thing?)

I'm in the middle of buying a house now in northern Illinois, and the realtor I have currently ... well ... let's just say we refer to him as "The Slug". He's non-communicative, uninformed, uncaring, and does nothing useful that I can see. He didn't even find us the house we're trying to buy: WE found it. He was just the warm body the local real estate office sent out. I can't imagine how the man's stayed in business this long. No, I won't name him. Maybe later -- if and when this house purchase ever goes thru.

However, if you're looking to buy in either Colorado or Wisconsin, I envy you. The Slug makes me really miss these competent gals I had before.

First up is Marianne Smith of Homesmith Real Estate/Metro Brokers. Looking for a place to buy in the Denver metro area? Or all over Colorado, for that matter. She's been my realtor since 1998, helping me buy 2 houses, one of which was a hair-tearing this-is-taking-forever short sale. Just last month she helped me sell that same house to my kids. She got me through all of it and I'm still sane. I love Marianne.

The second is Jane Dulisse of Shorewest Realtors. if you're looking to buy in southern Wisconsin (Rock, Walworth, Kenosha or Racine counties) this is definitely who I would choose. Jane's been helping me and hubby house hunt since last May, from 1,000 miles away no less. Unfortunately, after viewing 89,000 houses, we still didn't find one we liked. :-/

The reasons I love these women: First and foremost, they listen. Isn't that amazing? They will point out the good, the bad and the ugly about the properties you look at, but they won't try to weasel you into something you don't want. Both women are also patient, driving you all over kingdom come to look at homes. They're smart, they're savvy, and they have a lively sense of humor. And we all know a little humor is a essential when you're house-hunting.

Happy Home Search! Tell 'em I said hi!

Hickory Ridge Apartments: Schmucks To The End

Or, as they're now called, The Landings at Buckley. La-di-dah, but a name change isn't going to improve the place. The complex has changed management companies at least 3 times in the past 5 years. None of those helped, either.

I used to live in these Aurora, Colorado apartments, during and just after my divorce. They weren't great, they weren't awful. They've always been pretty slow replacing or fixing stuff. My sons have had a rusted dishwasher and broken closet doors since 2007. (Yes, the maintenance guys have been there. They keep saying "the dishwasher runs" or "the closet's been fixed" and run out the door.) Anyway, I would rate this complex as .... so-so. I've since had cause to retract even that faint praise.

As I said, I've long since moved out, but my sons still live there. It's been nearly 5 years now. They're quiet, pay their rent on time, they're hardly ever home (always at school or work), and they don't own pets; in short, the perfect tenants. In fact, when we went into the leasing office, no one knew who they were. The manager had to look them up on the computer to make sure they really lived there. It was sort of amusing.

We went to the see said manager to ask if there might be any leeway on breaking their lease 1-2 months early? Sons wanted to buy my house (I had to move to the midwest). We wanted to know if maybe we could do something simple, like pay an extra month's rent, because they'd been there so long and been so well-behaved and all that jazz.

The manager, Holly, said: Sure they can break their lease -- for a $1500 early termination fee. Plus since the complex give Sons a discount every year for resigning a lease, they'd also owe us $125 for every month, from the beginning of their last signed lease, until the day they move out. (Feb 1st -- Nov 30th: 10 months x $125 = $1250) I said, now wait a minute. $2750 for breaking the lease TWO MONTHS early? Yes ma'am. She was very firm about it. No budging, no deals, no leeway.

Even if the guys stayed until the 11th month, the same outrageous fees would apply.

I called the district manager. Same answer. Only ruder.

The other issue was the the $800 deposit Sons have on file. The management wouldn't let any of that apply to these utterly ridiculous charges. (Hickory Ridge currently charges a $99 deposit.)

I pleaded with both women. Have a heart. I know these fees are in the lease my sons signed, but your complex has enough crummy tenants, with drunken fights in the parking lot, shootings (in the apt below my sons, summer 2010), noisy evictions, drug dealings, etc., etc. ... yes? They readily agreed. I went on: So if you're trying to change your image, wouldn't you be willing to work something out? Some little bit of consideration for 5 years and no headaches? Get a good word of mouth review, two happy tenants, one happy mother?

But, nope. Nada. No way, Jose. So, I'm writing this to say, Stay Away. Rent someplace else. You'll thank me later.

Unschooling A Wedding: Loveland (or not)

Honey and I decided to compliment our wedding ring stamps, by giving our invitations an even more romantic touch (yah, we're hopeless) by mailing them from Loveland. We wanted that silly, lovely cancellation mark on the envelopes. You know, like the ones the Post Office does for Valentine's Day?

So, we took a 3 hour trip, drove approximately 100 miles, and stopped a Loveland mailman to ask which post office to go to. He was very nice and helpful and directed us to the 29th Street Station. We parked, walked in, mailed our invitations, all the while grinning at each other like a coupla goofy teenagers. We were both thinking the same thing: nevermind the Valentine hearts, flowers or romantic verses stuff. The simple word "Loveland" says it all.

We mailed ourselves a wedding invitation as a keepsake. When it arrived, we were completely surprised. The postmark read "Denver". Denver? We looked at each other. Denver??? What's up with that? Don't the residents of Loveland get their own town's postmark on their their mail? Why would a town (and not such a small town at that) get a cancellation stamp from another town 50 flippin' miles away?

Crud. Crap! We drove all that way for nothin'. :-(

For those of you who got a mailed invitation, take a thin Sharpie and write the word "Loveland" over the postmark, would ya? That's what we meant for you to see ....

Unschooling A Wedding: The Invitations

Having unschooled our sons, and being natural-born unschoolers anyway, we have this we-can-do-it-ourselves spirit about everything. Especially our wedding. Besides, who in their right mind wants to pay those ridiculous, hair-raising exorbitant prices everyone always charges?

The invitations, believe it or not, were easy. I used to work in a print shop back in my youngster days, so I know paper: weight, texture, finish, et al. At first I thought, let's just go get some paper (vellum or parchment probably) and we'll design the invitations and print 'em at home. But, in my search for paper, I found it was even easier than that! There are lots of places now that not only have pretty paper, but also online templates that walk you through designing the layout, wording, etc. They also print them for you -- in color! We looked at several places, and finally decided on Wedding Paper Divas. Prices are quite reasonable, matching Ecru envelopes are included, and if you sign up for their newsletter before placing your order, you get $15 off. Their designing tools were so easy, it took us exactly two short nights to create the invitations. In case you're curious, here's what we chose: Artistic Maple, a simple, colorful autumn design. Beautiful, huh?

But, we also needed enclosure cards for directions and a few other things we wanted to say (like, skip the tuxes and high heels, this is not that fancy). We could print those ourselves. I found a perfect! (if I may say so myself) matching postcard at Paper Direct.

The invitations arrived the other day, and WOW, are they gorgeous. We've got one tacked to the living room wall just so we can admire it as we walk past. Silly huh? LOL. I'm here to tell ya, The Second Time Around is sure a lot funner than the first!

I Said Yes

Well, the date is set: October 10th, 2010. I'm getting married. For the second time. It's a funny thought sometimes. I mean, hell, I never thought I'd get married in the first place, let alone twice. Of course, I never thought I'd be divorced either. Especially after 27 years. But, crap happens. He had a death wish, I had a life wish. Simple as that. I got out to save myself, my sanity, my kids.

Anyway, there's something to be said for maturity. This time 'round, I'm old enough to understand what "marriage' really means. And with that in mind, I've said yes to The Most Wonderful Man I've Ever Known. We've been best friends for 12 years. We think alike. We spoil each other silly. We're both hopeless romantics. We have a great time doing absolutely nothing together. What more could a gal want?

Okay. There is one other thing. We want a simple wedding. A low cost, no-muss no-fuss, DIY wedding. 'Simple' being a relative term, you understand, considering we're flying both ourselves, and the minister, from 2 states away into southern Minnesota. We're getting married on Honey's parents' farm, preferably outdoors, with his ten (yes 10!) brothers and sisters, their spouses, kids, assorted aunts, uncles, and a few friends in attendance. About 50-60 people all told. Geez Louise, I don't think I've even seen that many people in one house in my life.

Now, what is it about the word 'wedding' that doubles, triples, sometimes quadruples the price of everything you look at? I found that if I don't put the word wedding in my searches (wedding dress, wedding flowers), the results are more reasonably priced. I've also come across several sites that say couples are spending about $21,000 on average for a wedding these days. That doesn't even include the honeymoon or the rings! My God. 21k is a downpayment on a house! One site I found, CostofWedding.com has an estimator that will give you the supposed average nuptial costs by zip code. I say 'supposed' because as overpriced as weddings are, this still seems to be on the ridiculously high side.

We're looking at spending about $2,000 total, and that includes the plane tickets, ceremony, dress, suit, decorations, reception and honeymoon. So, I'm on the hunt for great budget wedding ideas. I'll post what I find here. If you have any, please share them. Maybe we can both get thru this without a coronary and a 2nd mortgage!

The Perfect Blather

I'm on the job hunt (Yet. Again. What IS it with the employment scene in southern Wisconsin, anyway? I'm nearly ready to give up and move back to Colorado). Now, perhaps I'm missing something, but tell me something, Mr. and Mrs. Employer. Why do you advise us to keep our resumes short and sweet, so your Hiring Managers don't get overwhelmed having to read pages of yammering . . . . . gosh, poor things . . . . but yet, in search for This Perfect and Succinct Employee, you compose a 5-screen mind-numbing, eyeball-watering, word-minefield as bait? Christ, my brain is totally glazed by the time I'm trying to slog thru screen #2. What are you trying to say, man? Just spit it out already. If you tell me - in plain English - what it is you're looking for, I'll be able to discern if I have it. It's amazing how that works.

And -- why all the selling? I know you're proud of your company and want me to share your enthusiasm, but too often your sales pitch blathers on, missing the entire driving range. Like this one from today's CareerBuilder:

"Description

Kerry is a leading global provider of customized ingredients, flavors, and integrated solutions for the food & beverage industry. We are dedicated to being the number one supplier in our various markets measured through technical and marketing creativity, product quality, superior customer service, value creation and the wholehearted commitment of each employee.

Our ambitious development strategy requires that we recruit and retain the best people both to manage our business and to create the new and wide-ranging capabilities that will help us continue to grow. Smart, creative and determined people have made us the company we are today. Our work environment provides challenging and stimulating opportunities for talented, individuals with ambition, vision and a commitment to excellence.

We currently have an opening for a My Kerry Life Service Center Representative who will be a part of our move to the new Kerry Center facility. The new 250,000 square foot facility will serve as a state-of-the-art center of excellence comprised of customer-focused application suites, R&D labs, culinary theater, pilot plant, and collaboration areas. In addition, the new facility will serve as the Americas regional headquarters.

My Kerry Life Service Center Representative accountabilities will include:

Accountability:

Assures high level of customer service to resolve employee program (as defined in the

Requirements

4.2 Applying Expertise and Technology,6.2 Deliver Results & Meet Customer Expectations,HR Skill ~ Benefits Administration,HR Skill ~ Employee Relations,HR Skill ~ Payroll"

Yep, that's it; the whole enchilada. It just comes to that abrupt halt. Some Joe was so thrilled with the idea that his job let him baffle with bullshit for his supper, he forgot to explain exactly what his neato, spiffy company was hiring for.

While we're on the subject, what's with the Mouthful Of Titles? For instance, a "My Kerry Life Service Center Representative"? What the hell is that? It sounds like a hospice helper. I mean, read it; this person is "servicing my life". Or maybe it has something to do with prison? As in "service for life"? Geez. Why do water pitcher people always think that adding psycho-blather improves things?

And, with all this yakkity-yak burbling in your classified ads, exactly who are you trying to attract, Mr. and Mrs. Employer? What type of applicant? Lawyers? A political speechwriter? A used car salesman, perhaps? I think maybe . . . . . schizophrenics. I mean, think about it. You've just used two hundred bazillion words to find someone whom you fully expect to sit in front of you with a big, cheesy, I'm-so-great-at-selling-myself smile and describe themselves (at your request) "in one word". A person would have to be sort of nuts to keep switching those mental gears, don't you think?

So, a little advice, if you will: Show, by example, what it is you're looking for. If you want brevity, be brief. If you're looking for accuracy, be accurate yourself. If a little humor is welcome, don't be afraid to use some first. (It'd certainly be a refreshing change at this end! Speaking of which, check this out: http://www.craigslist.org/about/best/orc/408390645.html. I'd be willing to hire this dude just because of 1) his creativity and 2) sense of humor. Some good references thrown in for good measure, of course. But, no fancypants resumes needed.) Lastly, if wordbloat is your thing, then, by all means, yammer away and pull in those ambulance chasers and used car salesmen. More power to ya.

And if you want someone who's reliable, one of the fastest learners you'll even run across (and a naturally fantabulous writer, of course ;-) ), but reeeeally tired of resume headgames, hire me.

Organic Laughter

Okay, so this is just a test to see if Blogger (aka Google in disguise with glasses) will even let me post here anymore. I mean shit-skees, I haven't blogged in ages.

Stopped over to Chilly's blog to see what was up. The girl's off on yet another adventure. This time, hovering somewhere between here and Lost Wages, with all her belongings inside a wayward trailer, being tossed around in a Texas windstorm. I love the girl but honestly, she is a little nuts. Hell. Maybe that's why I love her. I've never been normal anyway. Why start now?


Oh, and I do have to thank her for posting Sunday Randomosities about that (new?) blog she found entitled Stuff White People Like. The tongue-in-cheek ranting about organics just about had me splitting at the sides with hysterical laughter. Yeppers, it's become a screwy world. I saw a bottle labeled "Organic Shampoo" the other day. That was the topper for me, right there.

Anyway, thanks for the chortles ol' pal. I need 'em.

Now, should this posting actually go thru, I'll be back, as promised, to entrall you with more of my meaningless ramblings. Adios for now, baby.

The Music of Divorce

Do you like to talk about your divorce? Those of you going through it, I mean. Does it help?

It's funny. I'm the one who coerced Chillymama into starting these blogs in the first place. And man oh man, just look how much the girl has written! On the flip side, look how much I haven't written. Me, the perpetual writer, the eternal editor, the diarrhea of the computer keyboard gal. This last year has been a hell just full of writing fodder - coming to the final realization that things were never going to change, that this was my life forever and ever amen, taking a deep breath, moving out (without a job, mind you), filing for divorce after 26 years of marriage, living with Chilly for a month, renting my first apartment alone. Weirdly, I have no desire to write about any of it. I don't know why. :shrug: Maybe someday.

Oh, don't get me wrong. I do have a few close friends I share parts of the story with. Sharing it with the world, however, feels about as enticing as munching on head cheese.

I did finally cry, though. 4 months after leaving, with nary a tear to be seen, I picked up a copy of the book The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks and sobbed my heart out. I guess I've cried so much during the last 6, dying years, I'd done my grieving already. And I don't even know what I was really crying about. The storyline? Me? Him? Lost dreams perhaps? The memory of what once was?

The music of divorce does play through my head. The aptly named D-I-V-O-R-C-E by Tammy Wynette, for instance. The Dance by Garth Brooks is quite apropos. Don't Answer Me by Alan Parsons Project is nearly perfect. And I've thought about sending this one to almost-ex about a hundred times now. As a final-attempt-at-explanation goodbye note.

Thing is, I doubt he'd get it.

Adsense: What Sense?

Recently, on John Chow's blog, there was an article, a list of boasts if you will, entitled The Internet's Biggest Google Whores. Therein was a an impressive(?) list for all to see: the biggest money making sites on the internet - all because of Adsense.

I have several thoughts on this, but first, I will admit upfront that I'm feeling rather pissy about Adsense these days. I have a moderate website that generates a small amount of income using it. The other day, I got this letter. It says they've closed my account. They've disabled all my ads and given that small income I've earned back to the advertisers. Why? Who knows. They don't really say. Their enigmatic explanation consists of a generic, "It has come to our attention that invalid clicks and/or impressions have been generated on the Google ads on your site(s)."

Thanks, guys. That helps a lot. Invalid clicks? Invalid impressions? From where? From whom? When? Could you elaborate a little further? Maybe it's something I can clear up or figure out. But nope. With no warning, no by your leave or howdy-do, we've just booted you out and made your website look totally screwy. End of story. Goodbye.

What's with this attitude? I'm guilty until proven innocent? Their letter went on to say that I could appeal, but added, "if Google DECIDES to evaluate your appeal ..." Wait a minute. What? These guys may not even deign to LOOK at what I've written in my defense? Does it require too much effort? Will they break a sweat? Miss their morning coffee break?

To add to this spectacular example of customer non-service, google closed their Dear John note with a blurb informing me that this one appeal was all I got. Once their decision was made (IF they looked at what I wrote, that is), that would be It - The Official Decision, The Final Word, Finis, The End, It's Over. Isn't that special.

Now, I've been in customer service for over 20 years, and I've had a website since 1997. I've never seen such rude, arrogant 900 lb. gorilla behavior in my life. I know I didn't do anything wrong on my own site, but does that matter? It very well could be some kid was playing around, revisiting my site and repeatedly clicking on ads for whatever reason. (It's made me wonder if competitors do this to each other. Gee, what a handy way to shut out revenue and cause headaches for a rival site.) In any case, Google doesn't want to know. They're gonna figure it out in their own way and my input is irrelevant.

Which brings me back to talking about adsense whores. Using adsense to make money is, when you think about it, a lot like walking the streets. Your site becomes less about the content you wanted to put up in the first place, and more about key phrases, prime location and displaying your wares in a subtle peek-a-boo tease. I've gotten more headaches trying to configure that combination (so you'll get a more relevant listing of links, and I'll maybe make a few dollars in the process) than I have putting up the information itself. I'm not interested in being a marketing genius, and I can tell you that I definitely do not look good in blue eyeshadow. I'm just a homeschool veteran, a soon-to-be-single-mom, hoping to make a livable income from all this hard-won knowledge. Getting rich would be nice, but it's not the goal. The Goal is providing real homeschooling information from real homeschoolers. Vs just leaving you with that No. 1 site out there run by those who are marketing geniuses, and to whom homeschooling is nothing more than the current hot trend.

So, at the end of 3 months of too many late nights and way too much caffeine configuring my little street corner, I now find myself at the mercy of the 21st Century Internet Pimp, not knowing what the hell I'm defending myself against and not at all sure if The Big Man will have enough interest to stop scratching his cojones and listen to what I have to say. My website may be gone next month, unable to sustain its small self. It probably doesn't help that I'm ranting on blogger, which is yet another of the 900 lb. gorilla's holdings. O well. Too late now.

Maybe it's a good thing Google made off with all my adsense money. Those white go-go boots were looking a mite too appealing. I'm now off to go check out Federated Media and other alternatives to adsense. I only hope that at least one of them remembers what it's like to be a small business and a decent human being.

Looking Scientific

I just found this nifty science gadget today from the National Science Digital Laboratory. Type in any science term you're looking for, like let's say, volcanoes, or earthquakes or chemistry and watch all the results you get! What a great resources for homeschooling parents looking for affordable (cheap! FREE!) curriculum helps.

Go ahead, try it!

Mountains and Valleys

. . . and volcanos. I've been thinking about all three a lot lately. And why it is we can't see them very well, no matter how close they are.

I mean, does anyone ever get married with the thought "someday we'll be divorced"? I doubt it. All you can see is the peaceful, green valley ahead from that vantage point. There are mountains, there are always mountains, but they come later. You scale them one by one, helping each other over the top, as it should be. If you're very, very lucky, you'll never even see a volcano.

This is an analogy, of course. I'm talking about life, not nature's geological formations. Okay, so it's not even a very good analogy. In my state of mind, it's the best I can do.

I'm about to walk (well, run) out on 26 years. There are live volcanos everywhere. Only I couldn't see them. Well okay ... I could, but I thought I could deal with them. Or fix them. (sigh) How foolish can you get? Anyway, I'm leaving. Going to Chilly's house. Gonna invade her life, her space, her precious minutes with LD sweetie. May the diety bless her heart, she's givin' me and mine refuge. Thank you, Chilly.

Is anyone hiring, btw? Former conference coordinator, a usually very organized person, prolific writer (you wouldn't know it from this blog, would you), homeschooling mom, website owner/designer, with a smidge of html and css knowledge. Preferably 60k per year, plus perks.

Hey, it could happen.



In the meantime, does anybody know where I can find this guy? Mr. Pale, Short and Dreamy has been my LD sweetie for [mumble, mumble, mutter] years. Yeah, that long. If you see him around, tell him I'm almost available again, would ya? Who knows. Maybe there really is a happily ever after out there, after all.

ChillyMama: For you, my friend

ChillyMama: For you, my friend

Homeschooling in Colorado - I'm Back!

I haven't posted in awhile. Been totally remiss, I guess. But I have a doggone good reason: I've been busy learning how to put my website back online. My, things have changed in the 6 years I've been gone! CSS, style sheets, html editors (I'm using RapidWeaver - please let's hope it's more stable than nVu), php, javascript, and other impressive terms as well.

Rocky Mountain Education Connection, it's called. And I've missed it. It was my life from 1996 - 2000. I found that my kids are grown, but I can't stop being a homeschooler no matter how I try. Or shall I say - Unschooler. It's a part of me. And I love talking about it. So why not do the thing you love best? (well, there are a few other things in life ... but this is a family blog so let's be nice)

I'm tired right now, really too tired to write much. (as ChillyMama will happily attest to) All my writing energy's gone into writing for my website. C'mon over and check it out if you have a minute. It's not your typical homeschool site, that much is for sure. My fun-loving personality's stamped all over it.

I'll try and get back here and blog some more about what's going on there, and in the homeschooling world in general. There have been some things I've found that startle me. If you want a glimpse of what they are, check out the article Cyberspace Changes Everything. In the meantime, is there anything you'd like to know? Have questions? Comments? Post 'em. Let me know. I've been homeschooling for 14 years; I can answer just about anything.

I'll see you soon! (I promise. YES Chilly, I promise!)

Grandmapoo Are You Listening?

Okay, so somebody named Grandmapoo (yes, I'm serious - and more importantly, curious where this handle came from) contacted me and asked for some more writings. Specifically, humorous ones. It made me wonder. Was I humorous in my other blatherings? Since nobody ever leaves comments, I have only myself to ask. And my answer invariably is, "I have no idea."

So, this one's for you, G-Poo. Not my best effort, I must admit, but then again, I didn't write it. It's a viral joke my other mother in law sent me.

THE FORGOTTEN WEDDING ANNIVERSARY

Ed was in big trouble. He forgot his wedding anniversary. His wife was very angry.
She told him "Tomorrow morning, I expect to find a gift in the driveway
that goes from 0 to 200 in less than 4 seconds, AND IT BETTER BE THERE".

The next morning Ed got up early and left for work. When his wife
woke up, she looked out the window and sure enough, there was
a small box gift wrapped in the middle of the driveway.
Confused, the wife put on her robe and ran out to the driveway,
and brought the box back in the house.
She opened it and found a brand new bathroom scale.
Funeral services for Ed have been scheduled for Friday

Anybody Out There?

This is a test. This is only a test. If this were a real blog, you would be advised to take shelter in the nearest Big Brother Online Facility . . .

Seriously. Okay, not so seriously. I'm just doing this to see if I can get the stupid main page to shorten and ARCHIVE. It's as long as Methusela was old for gawd's sake.

Chilly says if I wrote more, this wouldn't happen. I'm trying, Chilly ol' buddy, ol' chum. But, right now Big Brother Ebay is taking up all my time. People actually make a living at this?

411 on the 411

My First Day


It’s early Saturday morning in mid February, cold enough for a sweater, but not a winter coat. Typical Colorado weather. For the front range anyway, which refers to the string of populous cities from Pueblo north to the Wyoming border. It’s also my first day as a directory assistance operator for cell phone users. Five days ago, I was absolutely sure I could do this job. No sweat. Having emerged from what the company euphemistically calls ‘a week of training’, the only thing I’m sure about is that I should go home now.

I'm lurking on the outer perimeter of the call center, which is a sea of light-grey-on-medium-grey, very utilitarian, broken here and there by what looks like bobbing, disembodied heads. A low mumble of twenty voices punctuate the clickety-clack of two hundred fingers typing on old, sticky keyboards. I'm sure you’ve seen those headset wearing operators on tv, the ones who are ‘always standing by?’ That’s a very pretty picture alright, but call centers don’t look anywhere that nice. Or clean. They’re generally on the low-rent side of town.

On the far wall I notice two large digital boards. One has three columns of green numbers. I have no idea what the numbers mean. The other shows six different time zones. Why do I need to know what time it is in Hawaii? We’re only answering calls from six states; Colorado, Utah, Wyoming, Montana, New Mexico and Arizona. Aren’t we?

Glancing around, I don’t see anyone who’d recognize me. Whew, good. I can just walk out and nobody’ll be the wiser. I begin to back up.

Suddenly, an older female with short blonde-grey hair pops up from a cubicle. She’s clutching a sheaf of papers in her hand, looking at me and smiling. I’m not sure which I notice first, her decaying teeth, or her acrylic nails, which are 3" long and a eye-popping shade of neon pink.

“Hi,” she grins as she approaches me. “I’m Claude, one of the supervisors. Is this your first day?”

I smile nervously. Should I say yes? Can I weasel and tell her I’m just here delivering donuts? I hesitate, but I’m not a good liar. Finally, I just nod.

“Great! What’s your name?” I tell her. She looks down the sheet and jots a note. Now that she’s next to me, I expect her breath to smell like her teeth look. They don't, thank goodness.

“Well, looks like you’re it, buckeroo. Nobody else has shown up. Let’s get you a headset.” She strides over to a metal cabinet, opens a drawer, pulls out a black bag and unzips it. “Here you go.” I stand there frozen. I begin my but-but-but protest. Claude just clucks like a mother hen.

“Nonsense. You’ve done customer service before?” I nod and she snorts. “Training-shmaining. You don’t need a week of training to do this crap. It’s easy.”

She shows me how to turn the computer on. I adjust the headset.

“This,” she intones, wrapping those clawlike nails around a little black box, “is how you control the volume and the mute button. See how they work?” She dials the volume switch up and down, and then presses a small button and grins. “You'll find that this Mute button is Your Friend.”

“Now, remember you recorded greetings in training? One for each of the major carriers?” I nod dumbly. It’s all I can manage. “Well,” she continues, “as each call comes in, the right one will play and say hello to the customer for you. We call ‘em ‘VRUs’. Stands for Voice Recording Unit - don’t ask me why." She shrugs. "So. You ready?”

Gawd, no. But, I take a deep breath, dial my operator number into the phone’s keypad. And here it comes. My first call.

“Welcome to Verizon Wireless 411. May I help you?” It’s the greeting I recorded three days ago. It sounds so chipper.

“Yeah!” a deep voice booms. I jump in surprise. Claude barks out a not-so-quiet laugh as she turns the volume down. “I need Majj-O’s!”

“Majj-O’s?” I repeat bewilderedly.

“Yeah!” The man bellows back goodnaturedly. “Majj-O’s!”

Claude hits the mute button. “One word replies won’t work, Remember, talk in complete sentences.” She adds, “Ask him if he means MajhiANo’s.” I nod, still bewildered. What’s a MajhiANos?

“Do you mean MajhiANo’s, sir?”

“Yeah!” he concurs. This man, apparently, likes talking in exclamation points.

I look at the computer screen. It has five boxes to type in:

Name
Address
City
State
Zip Code
Category

Hmmm. I know I need more information. “What city please?”

“Denver!” Which is something I will find that they always say. To callers, no major city has suburbs.

I look at Claude. She nods at the phone. “Thank you, one moment please.”

“Thank you, one moment please,” I say to the man.

“Yeah!”

I shrug at Claude, and she begins whisper-spelling. “M-a-g-g-i-a-n-o-s. It’s a restaurant. Italian. Just opened up.” I’ve never heard of it. Shows you how often I eat out in my own town. I type Maggianos into the Name box, and the local area code (303) into the city field, since I'm not sure which location he'll want. I hit enter, and whaddya know. There's only one.

The script on the screen dictates what I have to say next. “The number you requested is 303-123-4567. Thank you and have a nice day.”

“Yeah! Thanks!” Mr. Exclamation Point pauses. “Are you connecting me?”

“Yes, sir, I am.” And I am, but the script doesn’t tell me to tell him that. Just another one of those call center don’t-ask-me-why things. I connect him.

“Oops.” says Claude, just as I release the call. “You were supposed to say ‘thank you and have a nice day.”

“I did.”

“I know but you have to say it again, at the end of every call.”

“Even if I said it already?” She nods. “Claude, that’ll make me sound like an idiot.”

She shrugs. “Yep. I know. But them’s the rules, buckeroo.”


Call #2


“This is Sprint directory assistance, how may I help you today?” Another one of my chipper greetings.

This one’s easy. They want Home Depot in Lakewood. Hell, I could drive you right over there.


Call #3

"This is AT&T Information. May I help you?" I'll soon discover the good thing about these prerecorded sound bites is that it gives you a chance to take a drink in between calls.

The line is full of pops, clicks and static. “Hi.” says a breathless woman, “Yeah, I need that art place on Broadway.”

“What’s the name of it?”

Claude’s stage-whispering again. “What’s the name of the business? Never say it.” I nod.

“Oh God, I don’t know.” The caller huffs. “It’s that place! You know. The big, brick building?”

Yes, that clears it up. Thanks.

“Is it art supply place?” I prompt. “An art gallery?”

“I don’t know,” the woman caller says again. “They have frames!”

Claude’s whispering again. “It’s probably Meininger’s.”

Another place I’ve never heard of. “Could it be Meininger’s?” I ask as I type, mangling the spelling royally.

“Maybe …” the woman says hesitantly. She seems to know as much about this place as I do.

Claude clues me in on something – if you don’t know how to spell it, add a question mark. Great tip. Except it brings me back four screens full of white pages listings, all businesses, all beginning with the letter M, and all on Broadway. Broadway’s the north/south dividing line in Denver. It’s a lonnng street.

Claude keeps having to remind me to say “thank you, one moment please” every 10 seconds while I'm searching. Dead air is a big no-no. I nod. This is really my day for nodding.

“Is it next to the furniture store?” the woman asks. “If it’s next to the furniture store -- you know the one I mean -- then that’s the place.”

I know just as much about furniture stores on Broadway as I do 'art places'. But I can’t say that.

Instead, I politely read from the text on the screen, “Meininger’s is located at 499 Broadway. Is that the location you're thinking?”

“Oh, I suppose." She's exasperated now. " Just give it to me.”

"The number you requested -"

"Just CONNECT me!" she interrupts.

"Yes ma'am. Thank you and have a nice day."

I connect her and the day moves on.

But, I think this is a long enough posting for now. If anybody has any interest in hearing more tales from an outsourced call center, leave a comment and let me know. Okay?