Red Nose

No Respect For The Dead

We buried my mother on January 28th.

This evening I went to the cemetery and saw my mother's grave. On Monday, I heard from my brother that the gravesite was a wreck, but I had to see for myself. This is what I saw.

See those wire things on the left? Flower stands, still there even though the wreaths have long since gone, stuck into my mother's and father's grave. See that slab of plywood under the mound of dirt? It's covering up my brother's grave. See that pile of dirt? Still there, after ten weeks. solidified mud with sticks and crap all over it. See that headstone just in front of the tree? 

My brother's headstone, still dislodged from his grave. See that other headstone, off to the right of the dirt pile?

My father's headstone. It belongs at the head of my mother's and father's shared grave, not way off to the side of a pile of dirt covering my brother's grave. It's been there for so long that it's sunk into the ground, thanks to two blizzards and several heavy rainstorms.

This is the way that Gate of Heaven cemetery treats the dead? This is what we get for our $1,904 fee, paid before the first clod of dirt was dug?

Shameful. Just shameful.

Believe me, the management of the cemetery has already heard from us. Believe me, they have not finished hearing from us. I don't care that there was a blizzard a week after the funeral; the gravesite should have been fixed no later than January 29.

They owe my mother and father and brother the respect due the dead; they owe us the respect due the living who have lost their mother and father and brother.

I am livid. I am beyond livid. Isn't it enough that we have to lose our mother, deal with her estate, sell her house -- now we have to chase down the fucking gravediggers and make sure they do the job we paid for?

I'm sorry, Momma. I'm so sorry.

You Haven't Come A Long Way, Baby

As reported in this article in the New York Daily News (and immediately picked up in many blogs), 70% of Americans surveyed for a study think that a woman should take her husband's surname when they marry.

Okay. I don't agree, but okay.

But -- 50% think that women should be required by law to take her husband's surname.

Excuse me -- BY LAW?

If these people had their way, I'd be a scofflaw and a criminal, all because I did not change my surname when I got married.

I'm thankful that the sample was small; only 815 people -- but it's still kinda scary that so many think that a woman should be forced to change her name upon marrying.

When Joe and I got engaged, I told him that I wanted to keep my name. I must admit I was a little nervous about telling him this; after all, I'd only known four months and didn't know everything about him. I knew enough to know I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him and I knew he agreed with me on Big Important Issues, so I was pretty sure he'd be okay with it. I just wasn't positive.

So I said, "How would you feel if I kept my name?"

And he said, "You know what? I'm in love with Mary Wise. I don't know anyone named Mary Flynn."

Yeah, awwwwww. Right?

But what of The Children? What will you name them? Won't they be confused? How will it play out in therapy later on in life?

Non-issue.

SonnyeBoy has done perfectly well with his name. He was never confused about who he was and who I was and who Joe was.

However, a whole bunch of telemarketers have been confused.

"Hello, is this Mrs. Flynn?" (Or, "Mr. Wise?")

Our stock answer?

"Sorry, there's no one here by that name."

My Pop did not approve, but he didn't try to change my mind. My Mom did -- she was extremely upset with me. Several of my friends kept their names when they married; Mom used to sigh, "She doesn't even love him enough to take his name!" When I told her I wasn't changing mine, I cut her off at the pass and said, "Don't even think about saying it!" It was the only fight we had during the whole wedding planning phase. She eventually got over it.

Look, if a woman wants to take her husband's name, fine. If she wants to keep her name, great. If she wants to hyphenate her name, terrific. If she and her husband want to come up with an entirely new surname, live and be well. It's all about the choice.

It Was The Best Of Games; It Was The Worst Of Games

So.

Friday night, the Capitals played the Colorado Avalanche, a team with a very bad record. Joe and I were looking forward to having a really fun evening, especially since the great game on Wednesday.

Alas, it was not to be, and not just because the Caps laid down on the ice and let the Avs skate all over them and lost 4-1. It was also because I kind of got into a battle of words with some drunken asshole who was there with a whole gaggle of kids.

Let me explain something for the non-hockey aficionados. There's a fan rule in hockey: "When the puck is in play, stay out of the way!" In other words, when the game is on, you don't get up and leave your seat or come back to your seat. You wait until play stops, so that you don't inconvenience other fans by making them get up and/or by blocking the view of the game. This rule is even announced before every period before and during the game.

Okay? Okay. Now, I like kids. I really do. I've even raised one, pretty damn successfully if I do say so myself. We have had kids sit next to us many times over the course of the season. There is a sweet little girl who sits in front of us with her folks; I adore her. Throughout the year, the parents who have shepherded the various clots of children have been very good at riding herd on them and ensuring that they followed the rule and didn't annoy the rest of the crowd.

Not this time. We sit two seats in from the aisle, which is on my right. Four boys -- probably around 9 -- sat next to me, on my left. They were part of a big group that took up several seats in several rows. They arrived in the middle of the first period and climbed over us into their seats. Then they all left to get snacks. Then they all came back, but not at the same time. Then they all left during intermission to get souvenirs, and got back after the period started. At the end of the second period, with 30 seconds left and DURING PLAY, they all tried to leave again. I woofed a little at them, telling them to please wait until the end of the period. They did, but they weren't very happy.

And then! They all did it AGAIN during the third period, AGAIN while play was on. And I woofed again, saying "Wait 'til play stops!" Well, evidently I pissed off one of the Dads, who was waiting on the steps for them.

"Hey! They paid for their tickets, just like you!"

(Um, really? Actually, I kind of think that someone else paid for their tickets, you know? Unless 9-year old boys have lots of money lately.)

And I stupidly -- yes, I admit it; stupidly -- hollered back.

"They need to wait until play stops!"

"It is stopped!" (Well yeah, at that point, play had stopped. Details, details.)

"Not when they got up!"

"When you gotta go, you gotta go!"

"They've gone a zillion times!!"

"Yeah well they paid for their tickets!" (Again, no. They did not. Their parents did.)

At this point I pulled out a real zinger. Let me tell you, this crack was one of my best.

"Oh, shut up!"

Okay, so I am not that great at zingers. But he then really bested me:

"No, you shut up!"

At which point the fella sitting next to Joe, who had been cool and friendly, yells at the asshole Dad:

"Great response, dude!"

Anyway, the kids got out and Dad took them down -- I have a feeling it was really Dad who had to "go" -- and when they came back (again with snacks!) none of us said anything.

The whole thing left a bad taste in my mouth. I don't like being an asshole and I try hard not to be. But sometimes I just am, I guess.

Anyway. Cut to today's game, against the Pittsburgh Penguins, a most hated rival of the Capitals. We took our seats, and I noticed that the fans in back of us and the fans beside us were all grown ups! YAY! And they were all Caps fans! YAY YAY!

Our pal who sits in front of us (the Dad of Little Miss Adorable) came up to take seat, grinned at me, and said, "Who are you gonna fight today?"

I had to laugh. It put the whole thing into perspective. Another guy sat right next to Joe with a kid, who was just great. This kid had a blast and was also very well behaved.

Of course, the fact that we beat the Penguins 5-2 was nice, too.

Very, very nice.

Three Days In Florida

I spent Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday of this week in Florida.

Oh, how fun! I hear you cry. Three days in sunny Florida!

I flew down on Monday, arriving in Orlando in time to check in to my hotel, order room service, and watch the Olympics through my eyelids.

On Tuesday, I attended a three-hour training session. I was there to observe and judge how well the materials worked. The session was actually quite good -- well attended, engaged participants, and lively discussion. The materials worked just fine, too -- whew!

Right after that, I jumped into a Mercury Mariner with three colleagues and our assorted luggage for the 225-mile drive down to Miami.

Through several torrential rainstorms. Lunch? Burger King at the rest area. The company was fine; we got to know one another and talked a lot about the session and how to improve it. Overall, though, the drive was long and tiring, and I was just a passenger. I felt sorry for the two folks who drove, especially when it rained so hard you couldn't see.

I got to Miami in time to check into the hotel, order room service, and watch the Olympics through my eyelids.

On Wednesday, I attended the second three-hour training session. Same deal. Then we all jumped in the car and drove to the airport.

My God. I hate Miami International Airport. I have decided that I have traveled entirely too much when I can discuss the relative merits of the country's large airports. I mostly hate them all, but Miami has a special place in my personal hate-osphere, eclipsed only by O'FuckingHare.

Anyway.

Miami International is a huuuuge airport. People come in from everywhere around the world and connect to everywhere else around the world, and these people are mostly on their way to or coming home from exotic vacation destinations. Accordingly, there are a billion packs of people, and each pack of people has a billion suitcases.

And all of the suitcases have to be weighed, paid for, and checked. And they were all in the US Scareways line.

The line was very very very very long, partly because the convenient and easy-to-use Self-Service Check-In Kiosks -- all four of them -- were all. turned. off. Naturally, there were only four gate agents to check in all of the billion packs of people and their billion suitcases, so I waited in line for over 45 minutes. Because I was carrying my one suitcase and briefcase onto the plane, it only took about, oh, 1 minute to check me in. Well, and another minute to convince the gate agent that yes, I really did only have two carry-on items, because I could stuff my purse into my briefcase.

I had to actually do the stuffage before the security guards would even let me enter the security maze! At least the maze was mercifully empty. I zigged and zagged through the maze, profferred my boarding pass and ID, and then:

• Off with the shoes, into a bin
• Out with the quart bag of mini toiletries, into a bin
• Out with the purse, because I had to get to the laptop
• Out with laptop, into a bin
• Purse back into the briefcase
• Two bins, one briefcase, and one suitcase on the conveyor belt
• Walk through the metal detector
• Waggle the boarding pass at the highly skilled TSA screener
• Find my stuff on the belt
• On with the shoes
• Out with the purse, which I then slung over my shoulder in a stunning display of defiance of the two-item rule
• In with the laptop
• In with the toiletries
• Run to the gate.

Luckily, the flight had not quite begun boarding, so I opened my suitcase and put my briefcase (with laptop) in there, leaving me with only the suitcase and purse, and my book clamped under my armpit.

Naturally, the flight was packed.

Unfortunately, I had a middle seat.

Fortunately, it was close to the front.

Unfortunately, the only open overhead compartment space was 10 room behind my seat. Still, I managed to stow my suitcase, buckle myself in, and breathe. I spent my last dollar on a  cup of coffee, because a Coke or bottle of juice was two bucks.

Yes, now you have to buy coffee, tea, soda, and juice. Peanuts? Pretzels? Forget about it.

One day I will tell my grandchildren about the joyous adventure that was once airline travel.

At least I had a splendid view of Biscayne Bay from my hotel room in Miami.

 

So Much For The Chocolate Chip Cookies

I am pissed off at Midwest Airlines just now.

Quite a while ago -- like maybe January? -- I made plane reservations for the Clown College Reunion. (Yes, the Clown College Reunion. Yes, I know you hate clowns.) Since this prestigious affair is being held in Baraboo, Wisconsin, home of the Circus World Museum, I looked for flights on Midwest Airlines.

See, I really like Midwest Airlines. The seats are great, nice and wide, two across (no middles!), and upholstered in comfy leather. The food for sale is actually good and you get free warm chocolate chip cookies. To top it all off, the prices are generally very reasonable.

I got a great deal. A seriously great deal: roundtrip for two to Madison from Baltimore for a grand total of $466.00. All things considered, it was The Best Deal I could find, and I looked at all kinds of combinations, including flying out of DC rather than Baltimore, flying into Chicago and taking the train from there, flying into Milwaukee and driving, taking the train all the way from DC, hitchhiking, and this. was. it.

I happily forked over the plastic and relaxed, secure in the knowledge that I would be winging my way to Baraboo and the Conference of Crazy Clowns in September.

Until today, when I got an email and a phone call from Midwest, saying that due to the high cost of fuel, blah blah blah they had to cut back on their service. After a lot of bizspeak justification, the net net (heh) of it is that after September 8, Midwest Airlines no longer flies out of Baltimore.

Sucks to be us.

Granted, they are offering a full refund of the ticket price. They'll also be quite happy to apply the price to  new tickets.

Yeah. The new tickets that will be a minimum of $200 more than my current tickets. The goddamn cookies ain't that good.

So I'm back to running numbers and figuring out what the hell to do. First, I'm going to call and see if I can finagle a deal to rebook us out of DC for the same price. Seems only fair (or maybe fare? Sorry.) since it's their change and my inconvenience.

Want to bet how that'll go?

I didn't think so.

Stay tuned.

What Is Wrong With People?

I have been rolling the following items around in my head for the past few days and every time I do, I end up shaking my head and thinking, "What is WRONG with people?"

First, I was listening to my favorite shock jock the other morning when the subject got around to the presidential candidates. One woman called in and began with the "I'm voting for McCain because my husband is a Marine", which, okay, I can sort of get that (sort of), but then she said, "Besides, how can anyone vote for someone named Barack HUSSEIN Obama!"

And my head exploded, because that is just about the stupidest argument I have ever heard in my whole entire life. I am very glad that the radio folks agreed with me.

Second, SonnyeBoy told us about another drunk driver he had the pleasure of pursuing. He pulled over a very new, very shiny, very tricked-out Mustang that was weaving all over the road. Just as he got out of his cruiser, the driver floored it and took off.

And the chase was on, until the drunk took a turn too quickly, demolished a parked car, and stopped. The driver was all of 19 years old and shitfaced. SonnyeBoy allowed as how he (the driver) had pretty much totalled his fancy new ride and the kid said, "Yeah, and it was my graduation present too."

Who in the hell gets a brand new Mustang for graduating from high school?

Then again, I suppose if your parents are rich and you are spoiled it's no big deal. I mean, they could have bought the kid a Ferarri.

But then, THEN, the kid says, "So how will this affect my probation for my other DUI?"

And SonnyeBoy's head exploded, and he said, "It means you're going to jail."

I could go on and on and on, but I have to go get about 50% of my hair removed from my head.

Apparently Only Robots Work In That Department

If I was happy to be refinancing before -- even with the "one more piece of paper" syndrome -- I am now really really really really happy.

The reason? My current mortgage servicing company has some of the worst customer service that I have ever encountered.

The latest piece of paper my loan officer needed was the letter that confirmed that the original loan had been paid off. This is not the first time we've refinanced, so our current mortgage actually paid off the one before that. Normally, you wouldn't have to provide this proof.

Unless the mortgage company neglected to remove the paid-off lien from the property title, which is what this goddamn company did.

Now, I must admit that the current company is not the same company that did that refinance, because the original company went out of business and sold their servicing portfolio to the new company. So the mistake is not their fault.

Except that when my loan officer faxed a request to them for a copy of the satisfaction letter, he got a response saying it would take TEN BUSINESS DAYS to do it. He thought that was ri-fucking-diculous, and so did I.

We tried calling "Customer Service" to explain that our request was urgent and to please rush the delivery. Seemed pretty simple.

Alas, no. The woman told us that she couldn't help us because a different department handled those requests and they work only by fax. There is no phone number to call to request an expedited delivery. So we asked to speak to a supervisor, who told us the same thing. In fact, Ms. Supervisor said that there was no person in that department who could speak to us, there was no way for us to lodge a complaint, there was nothing she could do, and so sorry, it sucks to be you.

Okay, she didn't actually say "Sucks to be you," but I got the distinct feeling that she was thinking it.

Of course, the coup de grace was when she said, "Thank you for calling."

I resisted an urge right about then, because it was not a very nice urge, and I have enough demerits on my permanent record already.

So I sent a follow up fax to the mythical Correspondence Department. It was, shall we say, strongly worded and yet, still polite. I even said "Thank You."  Then I logged into their web site and sent the same note in an email through their "Communicate with us 24/7!" customer service email box. So far, the 24/7 communication has been decidedly one way.

I gave them one business day, so we'll see what happens.

Meanwhile, I did a little digging in my mortgage files, and guess what I found?

HAH!

Renegade Apostrophe II

I saw this sign on a bulletin board at a middle school. If a teacher created it, I weep for the profession. If a student created it, where the hell was the teacher?

I won't get into the lack of a comma after the introductory phrase or the misuse of the ellipsis. I hope the cartoons are better than the grammar.

It makes me cranky to see the noble apostrophe so mistreated, creating possessives when plurals are meant. Perhaps the Cartooning Club meets at Wednesday's house. No, the Cartooning Club meets in Room 315; it says so.

Some may say I'm too nit-picky. I disagree. It's a slippery slope, my friends. First, a renegade apostrophe; next, a rebellious semicolon -- pretty soon the subjects and verbs are disagreeing and the clauses are declaring independence. Exclamation points will run amok!!!!! Interjections will jump in where they're not wanted, and God knows what will happen with the ejaculations. Question marks will get turned on their heads -- no, wait; that's Spanish. Never mind.

Why Yes, I Am Ready For Some Football, Thanks

I have been very very very tired all day long, all because I stayed up very very very late.

And by very very very late, I mean midnight.

Then again, it might have been all the hollering and screaming I did during Monday Night Football, when my 'Skins beat the Iggles, something very few people thought would happen. Joe and I, however, had a heapin' helpin' of 'tism.

Ha! HaHAHAHAHAHAHAHAAAAAAAAAAAAA! We are TWO and OH! As in TWO games WON and NO-OH games LOST.

Thank you, Jason, for being able to shake off that pick and return to bidniss. Oh, and being able to spot the holes and run through them when your receivers are covered. MWAH!

Thank you, Clint'n, for that lovely front sommy into the end zone. Celebrate it, boyo.

Thank you, Chris, for shaking off those two dropped passes and catching the one that counted -- in the end zone, between two Iggles, at the very end of the half. Loved the way you held up the ball in your own two hands while you lay flat on your back. Oh, and thank you for getting a haircut, although the 'fro did kind of deflect attention away from your snoot.

Thank you, Shaun, for nailing the field goals.

An extra special thank you and a big wet sloppy kiss to LaRon.

LaRon, my sweet defensive studmuffin, how do I love thee for knocking that fourth down pass out of that Philly receiver's hands? (Yes, I could look up his name, but I do. not. care!)

Let me count the ways: 20 to 12.

And Joe Gibbs. Dear, dear Joe Gibbs. Thank you for changing your mind and going for it on fourth and 16, even after the penalties, even after the Iggles timeout, even when the field goal was the safe score. I admit it; I thought you were nuts -- it was just a brief, fleeting moment of doubt, honest -- but you believed in Jason and Chris and pulled out a touchdown.

Now -- please will someone smack the shit out of the Monday Night Football commentators?? Just smack 'em, right across their ugly mugs. I mean, I can take the total lack of respect for my team -- even from Tony Kornheiser, who should know better -- and the total homer-ness of Ron Jaworski for the Iggles. After all, the 'Skins were 5-11 last season. Who in their right minds would think that they could not only beat the Iggles, but BEEE-AAAAATTTTT the Iggles? But when Charles Barkley showed up in the booth and the broadcast team proceeded to ignore the football game and ramble on and on and ON about Bill Belichick and the stupid signal stealing scam, I mean PLEASE! CALL THE FREAKIN' GAME!!

Anyway, I'm tired.

How Stupid Do You Have To Be?

Today is primary election day in Montgomery County, Maryland. Now, there are people who skip the primaries, but I am not one of them.

The polls opened at 7:00 AM. I arrived at 7:10 AM.

As I walked into the voting room, a very disgruntled couple walked out and muttered to me, "Don't bother."

Now that's a bit weird, I thought.

Yes, there were a few people, but it wasn't particularly crowded. I figured I would check in, go into one of the electronic high-tech touchscreen voting booths, and be done in a few minutes. Voila! Civic duty accomplished.

In fact, I noticed that this year the Board of Elections introduced a new, electronic check-in system, eliminating the old, manual card system.

Cool, I thought.

Well. That part was cool.

What wasn't cool was the fact that SOMEONE at the Board of Elections NEGLECTED to pack the plastic Voter Access Cards.

Big deal? Oh hell yes.

Because, you see, the Voter Access Card is the magical key that fires up the electronic ballot on the electronic high-tech touchscreen voting machine.

Now the poll workers at my particular precinct are not the sharpest knives in the drawer, but they have good hearts. When they realized that the electronic high-tech touchscreen voting machines were now essentially useless, they called the Board of Elections, who told them that they would rush the Voter Access Cards right over, and meanwhile, voters could still vote, but they would have to use the provisional ballot.

The paper provisional ballot.

Which you can't get until you get a "Provisional Ballot" slip at check-in, then get and fill out the "Why I Need to Vote on a Provisional Ballot" form (that also serves as the envelope to hold your folded paper provisional ballot) from the poll worker, then turn that in to get the actual provisional paper ballot.

Which must be filled out in provisional ballot voting booth, so as to preserve the secrecy of the secret ballot.

Oh yeah -- there is one provisional ballot voting booth, which is a chair at a table topped with a cardboard screen labeled "Provisional Ballot Voting Booth".

As the line got longer, tempers got shorter. The poll workers finally wised up and advised the incoming voters that they might want to leave and come back later in the day, when they had the magical Voter Access Cards.

There were other charming glitches, like the fact that the workers couldn't seem to decide whether the form-to-get-the-ballot had to be filled out in pen, pencil, or both. That one was interesting. Then there was the guy who got slightly testy over whether the ballot would count, seeing as how the form did not list "Board of Elections Stupidity" as a reason for using the provisional ballot. Of course, the poll worker (probably the dullest of the dull knives) who said that the provisional ballots wouldn't be counted until "the election was over" didn't help. Cranky McTesty's head proceeded to explode -- which was messy -- and things got tense until Dullard McKnife reassured him that yes yes yes, the ballot would be counted. I realized he meant that the ballots would be counted after the polls closed, not after the election was over. A fine line, but hey. Meanwhile, one of the other (not as dull) poll workers joked that maybe he should go out and get doughnuts, which I thought was a brilliant idea. But did he go? No. Damn. If he had, I might have kissed him. Maybe.

Then! Once they got it together to actually go with the provisional ballot process, they started out by going through it one voter at a time.

Yes, that's right. Each voter was to go through the whole farcockteh process before the next voter could start.

Rumble rumble rumble, mutiny mutiny mutiny...

The steam started streaming out of the ears of the assembled voters. The poll workers quickly saw the error of their ways. They handed out the forms, let folks fill them out, handed out the paper ballots, and let folks sit anywhere in the room to complete the damn ballot.

So much for the double secret provisional ballot voting booth!

In any case, I got my form, filled in my form (in ink!), got my ballot, filled in my ballot (in pencil!), sealed the ballot into the envelope, handed it to the poll worker to put into the extra-special bright orange provisional ballot bag, and booked on out of the polling place.

You know, as much fun as I make of this, I really am pissed off. Not at the poor poll workers -- they had their hands full dealing with cranky voters and poorly designed processes -- but at the idiot or idiots who packed the equipment. How in name of all that's holy do you forget to pack the one critical item that makes it all go? I mean, come on! That's not just incompetent, it's crazy! They should all be spanked in public!

And guess what? It wasn't just my little precinct that had this problem. It was every precinct in Montgomery County, Maryland. Heavily Democratic Montgomery County, Maryland.

Every. Precinct.

Holy dear sweet Jesus Christ in a bucket.

I know -- it's all a conspiracy. A Republican conspiracy! Heh.

Anyway. I voted. Now I'm looking forward to the challenges from the losers.