The locusts should be arriving any minute

So what’s happening with us? Hmm. Let’s see. What’s been happening in Iowa? Oh yeah, that’s right. THE WORLD IS ENDING!

Two weeks ago it was an F5 tornado that flattened a town just east of us. This week we’re being washed downstream by unprecedented flooding. The newspaper editor in me is happy we have real, live news for the paper, but the human being in me is wishing we could catch a break.

On Saturday night sewage water (mixed with about 8 million gallons of rainwater) started surging up through the drain in our basement floor. Tony caught it when it was happening, but it turns out that didn’t make much of a difference. Even with a sump pump running through the night, the level rose to almost two feet by mid-morning, when Tony decided to stuff two T-shirts down the floor drain and pile a couple of cinder blocks on top of them. That slowed the flow and we fired up a second sump pump to get rid of the water that was left standing, giving it more time to seep further into the furnace, hot water heater, washer, dryer and water softener. I guess the bright spot in all of this is that all of our family heirlooms, irreplaceable mementos and personal belongings that were being stored in our basement were ruined in April when it flooded the first time.

But this is different. This is awful. Cities are being evacuated, bridges are washing away, houses are collapsing and 500-year flood levels are being surpassed. If this isn’t the end of the world I’m not sure I want to stick around to see what that will look like.

And through all of this, do you want to know the part that’s the most messed up. I STILL love rain storms, especially when they’re accompanied by thunder and lightning. How awful is that? Seriously, on a scale of 1 to 10, 1 being not messed up at all and 10 being the most messed up thing you have ever heard of, what is it? I’m thinking 8, but I’ve been wrong before.

So that’s that. The river here is rising. People are FREAKING OUT and I don’t know what to think, except maybe this is the planet’s way of cleaning house. Maybe we’ll be ushered into boats “by twosies,” as a friend of mine said this morning while he was filling sandbags along the river. (He has prime riverfront property, but it’s rented, so he’s almost worry-free.) Maybe all of the assholes in this town will be swept away, bound for the Mississippi River. Or maybe we’ll just be left with a mess that will take a lot of time and a lot of patience to spray down, bleach and mop up.

Room to stretch

I love my husband a lot. I mean, he’s great. My best friend, my confidante, the person I am closest to in life, but he’s out of town until sometime tomorrow and I have to say . . . it’s kind of great. I know maybe that sounds awful and some couples are all, “Oh, we could never spend a night apart. We love each other so much it would physically pain us to be separated.” And I’m much more of the belief that sometimes we just need time to ourselves. Even though we’re close and in love, we’re still two different people and sometimes that means we get on each other’s nerves or we argue. Sometimes I like to go an entire day without talking to another person. There’s a certain serenity that comes with that. Especially after the week I’ve had.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to fluff the duvet, read my book (I’m on chapter 12!!) and sleep through the night without having to wake up to anyone else’s snoring.

The best American tradition

Every year, about this time, I start to get antsy. The feeling of freedom is in the air as the end of the school year nears. It’s the collective anticipation of the beginning of summer vacation.

When I was little, I loved summer vacation as much as every kid. There would be time for swimming lessons, bike riding, tennis, late nights with friends in the park, College for Kids (you wouldn’t believe how excited 12-year-olds can be about the prospect of COLLEGE! CLASSES! in July!) and  the greatest of American traditions . . . the family vacation.

I don’t know what kind of process my parents went through every year as they decided where we would go that summer. A lot of times it was dictated by an invitation from a relative - Atlanta, Georgia twice, Portland, Oregon once. But occasionally, it was just for fun.

Our family vacation to Washington, D.C. was like that. My mom is pretty interested in American history, especially the time period around the Civil War. So what better place to visit than Washington, D.C.? Not only would we be able to visit the Smithsonian museums, national monuments and our nation’s capitol, but it was also close to Gettysburg and a handful of other notable historical locations.

We drove to Washington, D.C., just as we had for all but one other summer vacation. The trip was brutal for us kids and for my parents. My brother and I began fighting about 30 miles east of home and continued through the next four states. “She’s looking out my window!” “He’s poking me!” Several times my dad threatened to pull the car over and “give us something to cry about.”

Finally, though, we made it. We stayed in a hotel that gave us a view of the Pentagon (if we stretched dangerously out over the balcony railing). My parents dutifully organized the trip so we could see as much as possible. They took us to museums that they knew we would be interested in, they took the time to go through them with us to help us understand history and they did what I think a lot of parents do - they had a crappy time trying to make us have a good time.

And despite all of that, there are about three things I remember best about the trip.

1. Washington, D.C. was experiencing a heat wave during the week we were there. Temperatures hovered around 100 degrees. As a result, we were all crabby and sweaty and tired by 11 a.m.
2. One night in our hotel room, we spent about 30 minutes watching O.J. Simpson’s white bronco roll down a California freeway.
3. At one exasperated point during the trip, my dad said to my brother, “You know, Pete, we could leave you here and get better gas mileage on the way home, but your mom and I would get less back in our tax refund.”

Now that I’m an adult, even though I don’t have children, I think I have a better appreciation for everything my parents did for us. Especially since most of it has already been forgotten because I was too busy being angsty and shitty to my parents. Why they didn’t leave us in Washington, D.C. I’ll never know, but Jesus am I happy they didn’t.

The great fluff debate

Tony and I have a duvet on our bed and it has caused more strife than any of our other inanimate objects. The duvet is contained within a duvet cover and occasionally, in the night, the fight over blankets leads to a disheveled mess of blankets and the blankets, including the duvet, get all off-kilter. This leads to a duvet that is twisted and uneven in its covering of the bed. This annoys me. A lot. My solution is to “fluff” the duvet. This entails me standing at the end of the bed, one hand grasping each of the bottom two corners. I then use an upward sweeping motion to fluff it, thereby straighten the duvet, repositioning its cover and fluffing everything to make it lovely and inviting.

Now, at a height of five feet, four inches, my fluffing of a heavy, queen-sized duvet cannot be described as graceful. It is ackward, but necessary. For no reason in particular, my fluffing annoys Tony to no end. In fact, tonight, as we were getting ready for bed about 20 minutes ago, he sensed a fluff was about to happen and he jumped on the bed, trying to cover as much area as possible so as to impede my fluffing. Hillarity ensued.

So here is my question. Is it so strange to fluff? Is it just another one of my odd behaviors that border on OCD (i.e. removing all books from shelves when dusting because - duh - dust can get BEHIND books, too)? Do other people fluff? Is Tony just being over protective of the duvet? Please. The future of our bedding hangs in the balance.

If he hates me when I’m doing a good job, how do I make him like me?

I think my boss hates me.

It’s not the boss I hate. It’s another one. The big one. The owner and publisher. The one who was nice to me until I became editor. The one who is still nice to everyone else except me. It’s like he has this silent contempt for me and the way the paper looks and reads each time, but he doesn’t say anything about it. He did once. He pulled me aside to ask me if I’d read one of the reporter’s stories before it ran. I said yes, but only at the last minute. He told me it was awful. I told him I knew.

Ordinarily, I wouldn’t mind, but he seems like a nice guy to everyone but me. What the hell is going on? When I was pulled into the conference room to talk with the three big bosses before I accepted this job last summer, he didn’t say much. In fact, he may not have said anything. No, he did say something, but it was just, “We would strongly encourage you and Tony to buy a house in town. It says something to the community about your intent to stay here.” That was it. Nothing about him having confidence in me. Nothing about how happy he was for me or how proud. Just that we should buy a house.

He and his wife went to the opening of the Newseum in Washington, D.C., last month. (If you live anywhere near D.C. please go there. It’s a six-story museum about the history of media and news and it looks so awesome.) I’ve been wanting to visit there and I’ve been following the progress of it and I was wanting to talk with him about it, but he was all nonchalant and kind of standoffish about it. And then (and this isn’t meant as an insult to Tony) he gave Tony a mug from the museum. It’s nothing big, it just says, “Trust me. I’m a reporter.” But what the fuck? I’m the editor of his paper! I’m the one who’s responsible for us making our deadlines! I know it’s just a mug, but it’s not about the mug. It’s the idea behind the mug. For Christ’s sake, I won a freaking statewide award for being awesome! Why does he hate me?

More importantly than that, why does it bother me that I think he hates me? Maybe it’s because he seems to love everyone else. And he used to love me, joke around with me, be nice to me. But now . . . NOTHING! And yet here I sit in the office he owns, working on his paper at 10:30 at night. Son of a bitch.

Jealous?

What happened with us this weekend? Tony and his dad dug a couple of burial plots in our backyard.

No, truth be told, we’re going to grow some vegetables this summer. (This post is dedicated to those of you who live in a city and the available space for your garden is a clay pot on a fire escape.) Those coffin-like creations are raised beds for the likes of tomatoes, zucchini, green beans, green peppers (not my choice) and anything else we want to plant. (Maybe hops. Would that confirm that Tony is beer-obsessed?)

This is one of those things that goes under the “Pros” column of being homeowners.

P.S. The lack of a post yesterday had everything to do with WordPress being a bitch that was “down for service” last night and the fact that our Apple iBook took a giant crap this morning and refused to start up beyond a flashing question mark that can’t be a good sign. (I’m writing this at work, where I’ve put in about five hours of preparation for tomorrow, which promises to suck a lot.) Add “new computer” to the growing list of upcoming expenses. That list also includes “heart monitor” and “new roof.”

Martha Stewart I am not. Unless Martha Stewart sucks at housekeeping.

I think I’m supposed to be a tidy person. In theory, I’m so neat, people are concerned about my sanity. In reality, though, I’m a slob. And I hate it.

I know I just said I didn’t make any New Year’s resolutions, but I kind of did in my head, without giving them the title of NEW YEAR’S RESOLUTION because that is a ton of pressure. So I didn’t pull out my handy “List of things to do” and write down “Be more tidy,” but I thought it and in my mind, it should count.

Over the last two weekends we’ve had people over to our house and we’ve had to tidy up. When it gets to be Friday night and we haven’t been home much during the week and I finally take a moment to look around and realize that all 10 bowls we own are dirty, and not just a little dirty, more like oatmeal-crusted-in-the-bottom-for-three-days dirty. The kind of dirty that requires a 20-minute pre-soak. And that’s when I start to freak out. Generally, it’s about 20 minutes before guests are due to arrive. So then I run around the house, finding places for stacks of bills, old Playboys, the mound of dishes (sometimes they go in the oven - out of sight, I’m a tidy person).

But I’m tired of that. I want to live in a house that’s “put together.” Of course, I, myself, also want to be “put together,” but that’s never gonna happen, folks. So the best I can hope for is the house. And yet, there’s shit everywhere. In destroying many of our possessions, the flood last month also helped up clean out our basement. We just bought this house in September last year, but when we moved in, all of the crap we didn’t have a place for was sent to the basement. Now that it’s been damaged by diluted sewage, it’s on its way to the landfill. Whee! Clean basement!

So here, just as I did with the book reading (I’m on Chapter 5!!), I’m going to pledge to do a better job of keeping a tidy home that’s relaxing to return to at the end of the day. It’s mind-frazzling to walk in the door Friday night (or Monday night or Tuesday night or . . . you get the point) to see a mess. I will do a better job. And, also similar to the reading, I’ll document the progress here. You’re keeping me honest, reminding me to get off my ass to put away those five pairs of shoes and read a book. By the end of this month, I’ll be unrecognizable - both tidy and well-read. What will I write about then?

The green pig

You know how there are things in your life - phrases, experiences, memories - you go decades thinking are a normal, routine part of society, and then one day you’re with a group of people and you start talking about it and they have no idea what you’re referring to? I get that sometimes.

For as long as I can remember, in my family the last person to get out of bed in the morning was called the green pig. It was usually a weekend kind of thing - and even when we were at my grandparents’ house visiting. I’d roll out of bed at 10, walk out in the living room were everyone was dressed, reading the paper and I’d get a barrage of, “You’re the green pig!” It’s just what we said.

When Tony and I started dating and I spent the night at his parents’ house I used the green pig, but there was no reaction other than confusion. They’d never heard of it. NONE of them had! I couldn’t believe it. I thought “green pig” was just part of the culture. Apparently, it was born (and will probably die) with my family, which really is a shame. There’s nothing quite like greeting a still-half-asleep family member with taunts that compare them to atypical farm animals. Nothing in this world.

When twice is not necessarily nice

A couple of weeks ago, while out at the Chinese restaurant in town, three of us were wrapping up our meal and the waitress brought us our check, which was accompanied by three fortune cookies. I opened mine to find the following fortune.

The star of riches shines upon you.

Kind of a boring fortune. Whatever. We all ate our fortune cookies, then a different waitress came back, took the check (which we hadn’t paid yet) and brought it back, unchanged. Again, the tray contained three fortune cookies. I took mine and opened it.

The star of riches shines upon you.

Two days later our basement flooded. What does that mean?

My kingdom for a California roll

Living in a small town has some advantages. For one, we bought a house. Another, no matter where I am, if I pass out or get hit by a car, chances are someone who happens upon the scene will know me and can identify my body.

I don’t want to sound like a downer, but there are quite a few drawbacks to this small-town life that the Coug sang so passionately about. One example, when you go out to the Mexican restaurant on a Friday night with a group of friends and get stupid drunk on $5 27-ounce jumbo margaritas, chances are you’re going to make a fool of yourself in front of someone you know, which could or could not include (a) your boss and (b) the town’s police chief.

Lately, there’s been another drawback to being here. That is the lack of variety when it comes to food. We have about five core restaurants to choose from any day. Throw in McDonald’s, Dairy Queen and Subway and that makes eight, but classifying them as restaurants is using the term a little too loosely. There used to be another restaurant - a good one - but when part of the brick facade on the 118-year-old building that houses it fell down on a Sunday afternoon last month, they had to close down for business. It really is a shame. They had awesome meatballs and the owners are die-hard Cubs fans. You know what that means. D. Lee and succulent balls. Awesome.

I’ve gotten so tired of looking at friends on a Friday night and saying, “What’s it going to be, Chinese, Mexican, pizza or meat covered in meat sauce?” The last reference there is the so-called “nice” restaurant in town that boasts vinyl tablecloths and a special that is (and I’m not kidding) a chicken breast covered in hollandaise sauce that contains fake crab meat. Let that sink in for a moment. On the other hand, don’t.

I guess my main complaint is the lack of variety. Everyone has burgers and rubbery chicken sandwiched between two butter-coated, toasted buns. There are always over-salted fries and salads that consist of iceberg lettuce, a single cucumber slice and a packet of crackers wrapped in plastic.

Is it so much to as that some of these restaurant owners and chefs (it pains me to use that word to describe them) get a little creative? Think about what you would want. Is it bland? Is it all one color? Does it include American cheese? If it is, quit your job and take up another profession. Food service is not for you.

Until there are some changes, all I really want to do is camp out at home and make yummy, fresh food that includes vegetables that haven’t been languishing in a tub of butter in the restaurant kitchen for the past week. (If you hear the sound of laughter right now, it’s Tony. He has made probably every meal we’ve eaten over the last month and insists that I NEVER cook. He may be right.) And even that’s difficult. Basil is a special order item and heaven forbid you want something “weird,” as the grocery store zombies call it when you ask for things like shallots. (Another aside, I was at the grocery store this winter when the check-out girl took the package of feta cheese out of my basket, turned it around in her hand and asked what it was. I’m not kidding.)

So those of you who live among people with civilized pallets, please, the next time you’re out enjoying the wonders of the culinary world, eat an extra bite of babaganoush or another piece of sashimi for me. My sanity is depending on it.