Jami Wishes You a Happy Halloween . . .

and reminds you to please, please play the weekly Word Game - please?

Jami and the Bloodsucking Undead

Though Halloween is upon us now, vampires have been very "in" for a few months now, and I'm not entirely sure why. I don't know if it started with Buffy the Vampire Slayer (BtVS, to those in the know) or with the Goth movement or just because the idea of not aging is oh-so-appealing to our society, even at the cost of one's soul. I've never been a big horror fan; I don't like being scared. I liked BtVS, preferred Angel and haven't even watched Moonlight, the new Angel plot-alike, which I can't comment on, having not watched it. I have however recently read a few very good books which have vampires and are, I promise, not even a little scary. I reviewed Stephenie Meyer's Twilight on Circle of Friends review, so I won't be repeating myself here. Meyer has completed the trilogy, so now's a good time to start them. I also want to recommend You Suck, a Love Story by Christopher Moore, which I read and will be reviewing also on Circle of Friends. I'm not going to say much more on that one here, except it has possibly the best ending to any vampire book I've ever had. Both of these books are set in the present day with email and cell phones, unlike some of the more traditional vamp stuff. The vampires have real problems and concerns, more human than super-natural in some cases. So, if you want a good book, not scary, about soulless blood-drinking protagonists, check these books out and have a very Happy Halloween!!

Jami the Traffic Cop

There's a stoplight at an intersection not far from my house which is controlled by a sensor under the pavement. Basically, the light will stay red in one direction until a car pulls up, and then the opposing light will shortly go to yellow then red. For many years, the sign at the intersection read simply "Stop Here on Red", and people unfamiliar with the area would fail to pull up to the sign, sitting at the red light until annoyed locals would get out of their car and tap on the window. A few years ago, the borough added a second sign, which clarifies "to change signal". I'd have to say that I'm not certain that it helped as much as you might hope. Eddie and I frequently walk by this intersection and see some poor clueless motorist sitting at front of a long line of seriously aggravated drivers who honk and point out their windows at the sign. At least once a month, I walk up to the passenger window (closest to the sidewalk) and say, "if you don't pull up to where the sign is, the light won't change." Usually people are grateful, occasionally, they are just annoyed and once someone said "Why?" so then, over the increasing honks, I explained. Today it was an older gentleman. Since no one waited behind him, I explained that this light operates on a sensor, and he'd need to pull up to the area that's a little raised so that the light would change. He actually looked at me suspiciously and said "How far??" I point just ahead of the car "Just like 5 feet maybe? See where the sign is?" He actually "harrummphed" at me, and rolled forward, super slowly, watching me closely as I walked back to the stroller and started off. I generally feel that informing people is a nicety. I had no idea I could come off so threatening. The whole way home I tried to figure out what he thought I might be trying to pull. I still don't know. He was still watching me in his rearview mirror (I kept looking back to see) when the light changed and the car that was now behind him honked. I bet next time, he pulls all the way up to the sign.

Jami's Friday Feast

Feast 166 Appetizer Name a great website you would recommend to others. Probably Woot, they have one good deal every day. I ususally forget to check it, though. Soup On a scale of 1-10 (with 10 as highest), how often do you dream at night? 10 Salad Did you have a pet as a child? If so, what kind and what was its name? I had several. I had gerbils, I don't remember their names. I had multiple fish. I had a puppy named Taffy who passed away very young. I had a dog named Pepper. I had several hermit crabs, also can't remember their names. Main Course If you had the chance to star in a commercial, what would you choose to advertise? Hmm, could I do a commercial for being responsible and moral? Otherwise, I'd probably do one for mei tai carriers, especially from All Natural Mommies, where I got mine and they were super nice and helpful. I can't believe these aren't more popular, I had a Snugli, thought I loved it until I got my mei tai. Dessert What is your favorite kind of hard candy? Butter rum Livesavers.

Jami's Odds and Ends

Does anyone else think the name "Umberto" is just too close to "umbilical"? Every time I hear someone say "Umberto" my head adds "cord" to the end. I don't follow baseball much, but isn't the World Series, at least in theory, supposed to be a contest between the two best teams in North America? Then how could I have turned the game on last night to see Boston ahead by twelve runs in the bottom of the eighth? They are still just one point a piece, right? It's not like they've added touchdowns. This is true: the commentators were so bored they were discussing Van Halen. Again, I'm not that up on the current baseball situation, but as far as I know, Van Halen is not really involved in the game, even the finals. I have never locked the keys in the car, but I did leave them in the car today, in the ignition (!!) and with the passenger side door unlocked (so technically, I still haven't locked the keys in the car). I'd have to say that the Galleria parking lot must be a very safe place, because the keys, the car and all its contents were still there an hour later when I got back. And finally, back to the Word Game, which I forgot last week: Rules are here. I expect EDW, Patrick and previous winner PW to humor me this time, please? This week's word: abstruse /āb-strōōs'/ 1.hard to understand; recondite; esoteric: abstruse theories. Obsolete. secret; hidden. 2. Concerned with obscure subject matter. Have a great Thursday. Hope I haven't been too abstruse.

Jami's Security Issues

The past few days I've been making the switch from summer clothes to winter, which felt strange in the upper-70's weather we've been having, but I know that if I don't do it now, I'll wake up to 3 feet of snow and sub-zero temperatures and not be able to find a single sweatshirt. Part of my routine is to run all the clothes through a short cold water rinse cycle in the washer and then the dryer to get them all nice and smelling fresh. One of the loads yesterday contained the baby's winter blankets. I scooped them up and tossed them in without looking. And what did I find as I transferred them to the dryer? My WOOBIE!! If you're a regular reader, you'll know I struggled with whether or not to keep it, being that I'm a bit old for a security blanket, but the truth is, I kept it until it got too hot to have a fleece blanket wrapped around my head at night. The plan became: I'd throw it in with Eddie's blankets and when I got it out this fall, I'd be over the whole woobie thing. Wrong again, Jami! I couldn't wait for the dryer to buzz and when it finally did I triumphantly freed my woobie from the pile, wrapped it around my head and shoulders burka-style and happily wore it the rest of the evening. It went back to my bed last night and is waiting for me still. I'll admit it's odd. I've been attached to objects before, but generally only when I've been sick or had a serious stressor in my life. When I miscarried, I got super-attached to my body pillow, Madrid, and I carried him from room to room and sat or laid on him everywhere. When I had the flu, I couldn't let go of my blue beanie baby bear, and dragged him along until I didn't feel like I might die at any moment. But right now, there's nothing critical or serious going on. Sure, I have stress, but not more than any other given week. Still, I love my woobie. Yes, the normal time for having a woobie, lovie or security blanket/object is ages 2-4, and I am just a few years past that, but hey, I've never done anything the "normal" way; why start now? Speaking of Lovies, I can't for the life of me understand why Lovie Smith's parents would name a boy that. I can see calling your baby Lovie and all sorts of other endearing cutesy nicknames, but come on! You knew that little baby was going to grow up and have to be Lovie in junior high and high school. To make matters worse, Gilligan's Island started airing when Mr. Smith was about 6 years old, with a rich white lady named Lovey. This has nothing to do with my woobie, I'm just saying.

Jami Is McAnnoyed

I will admit it: even though I'm a pop culture geek, I don't know what a McDreamy is. I gather it has something to do with Grey's Anatomy which I don't watch and certainly won't start now, what with all the McDreamy this and that I hear everywhere, all the time. Or so it seems. McDreamy, what-or-whoever that might be, is one of those things that makes me disproportionately angry. I don't worry to much about that because I think we all have the one thing that just irks us to no end for no real reason. For the Husband, it's Daniel Cook. This rather innocuous little kid is the host of a 6-minute, Canadian import "show" during which he interviews seemingly random experts. Yes, the kid has less of an attention span than me on a caffeine high, but hey, it's not like he's covering emergency breaking news that we need to know. Doesn't matter. The Husband hates this kid. He cringes at the theme songs. He roots for catastrophic events during the brief interviews. The Husband, for reasons he can't even really articulate, just despises this little Canuck. That's how I feel about the mere word McDreamy. It just rankles. It irritates me every time I read or hear it. I don't know why, and I don't care. I just can't stand it. I don't care if every actor and/or director and/or writer I love works on one super-episode of Grey's Anatomy, I am so mad at them for the whole you-know-what craze that I still couldn't bring myself to watch that episode because I just know they'd say that over and over until I'd have no choice but to walk out of my house and just start punching people. It's more annoying than the whole "let's join celebrity couples' names" fad which is so stupid that even tabloids should be ashamed, assuming they have the capability. Please, America, stop saying, writing and even thinking "McDreamy", for all our sakes.

Jami's Key Problem

As an absent-minded kinda girl, I tend to put stuff down somewhere and then forget where it is. This happens on a regular enough basis that instead of freaking out and searching, I just generally try to recreate my path backwards until the last time I remember having whatever is missing. But, because of the frequency, I am also paranoid about losing my keys and my driver's license, both of which I have not ever permanently misplaced. The longest time my keys were missing was the time my adorable but mischievous son hid them behind a bookcase, and then later triumphantly recovered them and tossed them at me. I worry so much about losing them that at least once a week, I'll be driving somewhere and have a moment where I think "Oh no, I think I left my keys . . ." (fill in the blank - "in the trunk lock", "on the counter of that store", "in the shopping cart", etc.) Have you realized yet what always takes me a minute? If I am DRIVING THE CAR, then I have my keys. Car won't start without them, it's pretty picky about that. But I still have that moment. Today, walking to the car in the parking lot of Wal-Mart, I dig through my purse to get out the keys, and they're not there! I force myself to take a breath, set the packages down at the car and methodically go through my bag. Sure enough, they aren't inside. I race back toward the store, mentally reviewing where I might have set them down - the basket? I used the ladies room - did I hang them on the hook or set them on the sink? I bought that big thing of laundry soap, did I set them down to pick it up? As I'm running and panicking, I am gradually aware of discomfort. I think whatever's in my pocket is really stabbing me. Oh. I stop, in the entrance and slip my hand in my pocket. Whew. It's weird, isn't it, that mix of relief and "boy am I an idiot?" I'm so used to that feeling, it's like slipping into my favorite sneakers. I head back to the car, wondering what the people who saw my exit, mad dash return and subsequent re-exit must think.

Jami's Experiment

In the interest of messing with technology, I went to this site where you upload pics of you, your spouse and your kid and it tells you which parent the child resembles more. I found it thanks to the other Jami, so check out her blog, too. It's not explicitly stated, but one infers the creators of this site assume that you are biologically related to your child. This is not the case for us, of course. So, I upload a few pictures, and find out: Eddie is an almost equal mix. Or almost equally doesn't resemble either of us. In all fairness to the meter, I did have to upload two sets of photos, the first set basically blew it up and it refused to answer. Poor meter, it probably needs a nap now.

Jami Worries About Mystery Writers

I'm not a huge fan of mystery novels. While I absolutely adore the Fletch and Flynn series by Gregory MacDonald and I read the Sue Grafton alphabet series, I much prefer true crime as long as it is well written (read Ann Rule if you want really excellent, expert writing about crime). True crime is useful: we can learn how some crimes could have been prevented, how justice was served or averted, and why people commit crimes to begin with. Fiction crimes are not as useful, IMO, because reading about how an imaginary person solves an imaginary crime most likely isn't going to help me. The other main problem I have is with the murders, because let's face it, most of these are murders, is how they are written. A good writer, I believe, can write a fascinating story around what we would call and "ordinary" murder. You know, a shooting, a stabbing, your basic baseball bat to the head. However, one of the trends seems to be coming up with more gruesome, creative and horrific ways to off your victim, and to me that's both piss-poor imagination and lazy story-telling. I just put down a book that I won't be picking back up because the detailed description of the attack on the second victim, more disgustingly brutalized than the first, actually made me sad and sick and I couldn't bear to read about what would happen to the third. Not because I am so queasy about violence, but because someone spent time thinking this up - for entertainment. Like the torture-porn movies currently so popular, I find this more than distasteful. I see this not as a different type of creativity, but a lack of it. And I worry about the psyche of someone who spends time thinking about newer, more awful ways to kill someone. In one of the Fletch novels, victims are thrown off a balcony and strangled. Yes, it's a crime, but it's also not exactly new or interesting. I'm sure that most experienced homicide detectives have seen at least one of those. What makes it a good story is how the crime is solved, the uncovering and piecing together of evidence. How does motive fit in, how are the players all connected? Less than 100 pages into the book I just stopped reading, I could tell there would be none of this. The killer, in fact, had already been discovered, so while they still had to prove it and all, blah blah blah, there was already rehashing of crimes and a surviving victim having nightmares where she relived her crimes or discussed her various scars or injuries. Ick. It can't be good for your brain to read that, or worse, to ponder it the way you must to write it. To research how to slay people and think up new ways to hurt them longer, or more disturbingly. Not plotting out an original story with a murder in it, with new twists on old motives or interesting clues and a good way to put the puzzle together, but just unique ways to cause pain and ultimately end someone's life - this is what bothers me. I guess there's not much point, except that I can't see a point in reading, writing or watching that sort of thing, and I don't think it's good for your soul. That's all.

Jami Wonders About Others' Friends

I had a conversation with the Husband the other day about friends of friends and how it is that some very nice, normal (in the sense that I am normal) people have what I call "Blah Friends" that's the person when you hear their name, you think "Blah!" Maybe I'm wrong, but I honestly believe that if you get to know me and you like me, you're going to like my friends. Not that we're all going to be BFF's and have a weekly bowling night, but you'll have a good time hanging with any of my pals. This is true for a few of my friends, as well - I meet their friends, I like them. We don't become blood brothers or anything, but I don't mind having a beer with them, you know? However, there are several of my friends who, when I met one of their friends, usually someone they've known "like forever", that person is completely not someone I would ever choose to hangout with, and I can't figure out why you would either. Here's the basic way this goes. I make a new friend and things are great. We like each others' SO, we have fun, plenty in common, etc. Then there is some sort of group event and the new friend, who is now a regular friend, no longer being new, says "Hey, remember Stella who I told you about that I met when we were 7 months old and we've been close ever since?" And I'm all psyched to make yet another new friend, until I talk to Stella and after about 6 minutes I've determined that the only thing I have in common with her is that we are both (apparently) carbon-based life-forms. So then I have to wonder, do I have a friend whose mere arrival causes the internal groans? Or worse, am I that friend? I have to hope not, and if I am, let's not tell me. How do these blah friends glom onto the fun, cool, interesting people I like? How is it possible that my friends fail to see the hideousness of this one person? Or do they see, but choose to ignore? Or I am just overreacting (nah, couldn't be)? My best guess is that these friendships have built up to the point that the participants have more history than current common ground, but it's enough to keep them going, and I respect that. A friendship is valuable, in almost every situation. I know I've had some friends drift off when we no longer had as many links holding us together; some I regret, some I have accepted. Maybe one of those would have been my blah friend. I wonder if that was a wiser choice or the more foolish one.

Jami Warns You, Yet Again

I know the big question on everyone's mind is, what did Jami and the Husband do to celebrate 11 years of bliss? The answer is: hot wings and a movie. The wings are a tradition. Our first anniversary, we were not exactly rolling in the cash (you know, like we are now . . . ) and the Husband told me that he wanted to take me to this restaurant that he really liked that he was sure I would love. Idealistic and young, I expected fancy-schmancy. Silly Jami. Imagine my surprised when we pulled up at a dive that only serves bar food and has long tables where everyone basically sits together. I have to admit though, he was right, they had great wings. I didn't love the place because I hate strangers, especially sitting next to me while I eat, and the place was cramped and smelled like smoke, I was sure it was a fire-trap death waiting to happen, so overall, I wouldn't recommend it. I can't even remember the name, but I thought it was hilarious that for our romantic first anniversary, the Husband ensured we both had garlicky breath. So every year, wings. But that's not what this post is about, more of an aside. This year, we also saw Transformers, which I know came out months ago, but the stuff that is currently out pretty much looks like crap and the second-run theater not far from here was running Transformers. It's great, and I highly recommend it. I'm not going to review it, either, EDW did that on Circle of Friends reviews (see link at right) and I basically agree with her. Good fun. However the movie served to remind me that when the aliens come, they will not be coming to be our friends. And even if half of them do want to save humanity for whatever corny reason, there will be plenty of carnage. You can see my original warnings about that here. When they come, we will not be prepared; in fact, we will be woefully unprepared. If we learn nothing from these movies, it's that we cannot know what to expect from the aliens as far as technology, adaptability, strengths and weaknesses, etc. We can make up stories, we can guess, we can imagine, but we plain old can't know. And the cold, hard fact is: you can't get ready for something if you have no idea what it is. Oh, and just because it happens in all the movies, don't expect a sudden lucky accident that uncovers the aliens' fatal flaw. That's a movie ending. Anyway, go see or rent Transformers and enjoy it. You know, before it's too late. And don't say I didn't warn you. Sometime I'll have to discuss the robots. . . .

Jami Celebrates 11

Whew, here we are at Thursday, again already. Last week I totally missed announcing a winner for the word contest, but only had the one entry, anyway. So congrats again to Lori, this week's winner and if I'm not too tired when I'm done writing this post, I'll put up another word. Otherwise, maybe we'll wait a week. Right now, it's October 11, and 11 years ago, right at this very time, I was getting ready for bed. I wouldn't sleep much that night. Even though I had my own apartment, I was back in my parents' house, actually in their guest room, sharing the foldout bed with M, as we'd done at many a sleepover. We had just steamed out the train of my gorgeous wedding gown and we were both giddy and excited, because the next morning, at 11 am, I would be getting married. Eleven years. Sounds like a looong time doesn't it? Eleven years ago, October 12, 1996 - the best day of my life until January 9, 2006 tied it (the first time we had Eddie). I made a real effort to remember that day and I do, I really remember so much. Picture me at 22, in my huge white princess dress, with my veil on and blusher down, standing on the stairs to our church's sanctuary. The organ played Canon in D while my best friends at the time (notable exception excluded, but that's a different story) strode down the aisle. I could see just two people in the very last pew. M, of course, the last to go before me, was about to step up and for a hideous moment, I thought I might puke from nerves. (Interesting side note - when I get really nervous, I am always certain that I am going throw up and faint, not necessarily in that order, but I never have. I mean, I've yakked, but not due to nerves and I've never fainted, ever. Each time though, I am sure this time I will do both.) It occurred to me that going up that last step, around the corner as the music changed to the Bridal March (I'm a traditionalist, sue me) that I would be crossing a Point of No Return. It is the same feeling you get when you aren't sure you really want to be on a scary-looking ride, after you're strapped in, but before they actually throw the switch. It's that "I probably can't even stop it now if I wanted to. But I don't, really. Probably" And then, the music changed, the congregation shifted in their seats, I could hear it and . . .I stepped out. The Husband stood, all the way down the aisle at the front, seemingly miles and miles away. And all my nerves were gone. Because I knew how right it was. Once I saw him, once I saw him see me, I knew. So I savored that walk up the aisle with my Daddy, because I love being the center of attention, of course, and because I wanted to enjoy that perfect rightness, the anticipation of our lives beginning. On the way back down the aisle at the end, I can tell you who I saw and who smiled or waved, but on the way up, I only saw the Husband. A beautiful ceremony followed. An incredibly fun reception. A lovely "after party" at my parents. A first night at a nice hotel. A fun and exciting honeymoon. And the rest of our lives so far. Eleven years - laughter, tears, great joy, painful loss, grand adventures, unbearable tedium, but mostly eleven years of love. Happy Anniversary, Love of My Life. I hope we have one-hundred-eleven more.

Jami Goes to the DMV

I'd have to say, in all honesty, that the DMV seems to have gotten a rather bad rap. In most of my experiences with them, it's been rather simple and the waits reasonable. I've even had 3 of 4 fairly decent photos. Can't really complain. The time had come to get a new license, so I gathered my "photo card", old license, instructions on going for the photo and a book and headed to my local DMV office. There were a couple people having issues, but they seemed to fall into two categories: 1. People who refuse to read any instructions and then get mad when they don't know what's going on and 2. The basically stupid. Entering I read the sign on a machine that says (honestly) "READ THIS FIRST". It had two flashing green buttons, one for people getting pictures taken, one for everything else. I pressed button number one and received a little ticket that said "051 - estimated wait time: 0 minutes". The LED signs above the open lines indicated that they were currently serving 46, so I believe their estimates may be a little off. Anyway. . .there were two waiting areas, one with a very large sign reading "PHOTO CARD WAITING AREA" the other "EXAMS AND RENEWALS WAITING AREA" Since I had a photo card and the Read This First Machine (hereafter "RTF Machine") suggested that I choose the Photo Card area, I choose a seat in the middle, at least two seats on each side between me and strangers and cracked the book. One man ahead of me was having this conversation with his much-to-be-pitied public servant: DMV worker: Read the questions on this screen and answer the question using this keypad. Confused Man: What? DMV: See the question on the screen? CM: Yes. DMV: Choose the number on this keypad to answer. CM: WHAT????? DMV: Do you want to be an organ donor? CM: I'm not. DMV: Do you want to be? CM: Yes. DMV: Then press one. CM: WHAT? DMV: See, you press this button (she presses one). Now do the rest of the questions. CM: I, uh, I don't know what you mean. DMV: It wants to know if you're a registered voter. CM: Yes. DMV: (she gives up explaining and presses the button for him).Do you wish to change your party affiliation, phone number or registered voting area? CM: I'm Democrat. DMV: I don't need to know that sir, do you want to change? CM: NO. Democrat. This went on, much to my amusement, for the next several questions. Another woman walks in, walks right by the RTF machine and looks around. She asks someone for help, is directed to the RTF machine and reads it - out loud. She chooses the second button, which we know because she announced it, then sits directly underneath the Photo Card Waiting Area sign, which is wrong, but we all ignore her. As the numbers are being called, she checks her tag frequently (she must have been a little worried, since we were in the upper forties and the numbers for her section were in the 600's and when they call her number she stands up, honest to goodness and yells "WHERE ARE THESE NUMBERS COMING FROM??" A nice man directs her to the correct section. I only hope she did not get a license. Outside, a woman in a large SUV took her test. Parked in a space with the tester behind the car, she looked nervous and chewed her lip. He says "Put on your right turn signal" Immediately the left one came one. "RIGHT turn signal" Left again. The tester holds his right arm out, waving it slightly "Your right signal, right turn signal." Left again. He sighed. I kept walking. Going to the DMV must be a dream compared to working there.

Jami Begs You, Don't Have Sex with This Man

You may have heard that Denver Broncos running back Travis Henry is in court with the NFL over some drug testing issues. Basically, the dude uses pot and keeps getting caught. This is not my main problem with him, though. Mr. Henry has managed to create 9 (nine) illegitimate babies by nine totally different baby-mamas spread out over 4 states. This is enough bastards that even an NFL player can't afford to support them and has written bad checks for support. And we're not even going to get into how visitation would work for a quagmire that like. This is why I am begging you, every woman in the world, to not have sex with this man. Sure, he's got some responsibility here, too, but this is a guy who can't even figure out how to test negative for drug tests that he knows are coming and will prevent him from making big money. On the other hand, if you want to ensure that your child has a more absent father, lower common sense and higher likelihood of accidentally committing incest than the other kids in his class, by all means, ignore me and seek out this fine specimen. If you have a brain, for the love of Pete, don't sleep with this man! I don't even think standing too close to him is a good idea.

Jami Fights the (Phone) Man

Included in last month's phone bill (which was: $22.05 total, including taxes, fees, service charges and all the other random BS they stick on there) was a smallish index card type notice that said something about how all customers were going to be upgraded to digital service by the end of the year and that our "billing may be effected". Hmmmm, that sounds a little suspect, doncha think? And how many people do you think didn't even really pay attention to that card? Oh, by the way, I am not sure about the legal ramifications of me telling you which company, so let's just say it rhymes with komkast. I needed to call them anyway, about a separate matter, after entering my phone number and playing voicemail roulette for awhile, I talk to a nice customer service rep (CSR1) who asks me my phone number. Then my name and address to verify that it's me (yeah, gee, cause it'd be impossible for anyone else to know my name, address and phone . . . .) after a few minutes of me explaining in small words why I'm calling, CSR1 informs me that yes, my service would be switched to digital and no, he can't tell me how much that will cost and that he'll transfer me to sales. CSR2, a very chipper sounding lady, asks me for my phone number, and then my name and address to verify that it's me. Then, "How can I help you?" I explain to her that I'm trying to find out what it's going to cost me when they upgrade me against my will. I tell her I don't need call-waiting or call anything. No long-distance, no "regional calling", nothing fancy. Working Local Telephone line. CSR2 happily explains to me that the most commonly requested features are "all included in the price" and you can't opt out of them to save money, but she'd be glad to tell me how to turn them off. I explain that I don't care about how to turn them off, I want to know what it will cost me. She tells me that she doesn't know that and that she'll transfer me right over to sales. I must sound confused because she asks "Is there a problem?" I reply "I just explained all this to the last person and he said he was transferring me to sales." CSR2: "And then what happened?" Me, a little incredulous: "Then I talked to you." Her: "Oh my, well that wasn't right! Don't worry, I'm going to stay on the line with you to be sure you get transferred, okay?Please hold." She totally misses the irony of saying that she's going to stay on the line with me and then immediately putting me on hold. CSR2 returns, "Jami? I'm on here with Chelsea" Chelsea: "Hi!" "And I'm going to turn you over to her because she can answer all your questions" All one of them? Great. CSR2 rings off with a cheerful "okay, bye-bye, now!" Chelsea greets me warmly; any friend of CSR2 is clearly her friend, too. She asks me for my phone number, and then my name and address to verify that it's me, even though we're great pals. I explain to her that I need a working local phone line. No long distance, no regional calling, no bells or whistles or service plans. Chelsea, who has just asked me my address to ensure my identity asks me for my ZIP code. I hear the clicky-clicky-clicky as she researches this difficult question. "Okay, Jami, now, you know, the most commonly requested features, such as Call Waiting and Forwarding are going to be included in the package." I think this is gonna be bad. "So your bill will be $54.95 a month, plus taxes and fees." I assume I must have heard wrong. I ask her with over enunciation "FIFTY-FOUR DOLLARS AND NINETY FIVE CENTS?? EACH MONTH??" She assures me that is correct and that as a bonus, there is no charge to upgrade me. Against my will. How nice. Summoning all the courtesy my mother worked so hard to instill me, I manage to stay calm and reply "My bill this month was $22 - are you telling me that my bill is going to almost triple and I'm not even getting anything for that?" "It's digital service." That was about the end for me. Quite frankly, I don't care if it's digital or string-and -can or magic as long as it works. I couldn't contain my astonishment, but I kept in mind, it's not Chelsea's fault. "Do you have any idea how ridiculous that sounds?" I had to know. Chelsea, who probably knows she's about to have a bad few months at work, answered "Well, yes, but we're upgrading everyone. And it's digital and you will get the Call Waiting. Do you have internet and cable services?" I am incredulous. Now, I've never really been in sales, but I have to think that when someone is complaining to you about your amazingly bad prices, it's not time to go for the up-sell. "No, and I certainly don't plan to sign up for them now." Chelsea tells me that if I do sign up, she'd be able to knock the phone part of it down to down $39.95 a month. I neglect to mention that their crappy cable service is the reason we got DirecTV and that I wouldn't consider going back unless they're planning to start paying me. I do tell her that we will be cancelling our service in the next day or so, and she can enter in her log book or data entry or whatever that it's due to the stupid high price. She actually says "I understand, thank you for choosing (the company that rhymes with komkast)." Apparently not fully appreciating that I am anti-choosing them. Annoyed, I do a quick interent research and, since Verizon provides us with our lovely FiOS service and seems reasonably priced, I give them a call. Verizon's CSR asks me for the number I am calling from and the super-secret password we've agreed on for my FiOS account. He gives me two options for local no-frills service, both well under $30. We discuss the merits of both plans without having to transfer me. We come to an agreement and set a date to hook me up. The last question he asks me is "What is the reason for leaving your last provider?" Hmm, what to say? Should I tell him that the company that rhymes with komkast is trying to steal $40 a month from unsuspecting patrons? Or the more simple "My current providers are big doody-heads?" I simply go with "it's a pricing issue." Verizon is going to contact the company that rhymes with komkast for me, so I don't have to explain their doody-headedness to another set of perky CSRs. So, if your current phone service provider rhymes with komkast, you might want to give Chelsea a call. Be sure you tell her I sent you.

Jami and Her Toddler

One of the things I enjoy about motherhood is the sheer absurdity it brings along. I mean, you sort of know, going in, that you're going to be doing new and not exactly thrilling activities, but the sheer magnitude of the nuttiness doesn't really hit you until you start doing some of them. Today, for example. It started out with me making a deal with Eddie that if he would just take a bite of apple, I'd dance. I've never, in the history of my being, offered to dance for someone in return for THEM eating something. Then there was the nose issue. Normally, I wouldn't put my fingers in anyone else's nose. I tend to avoid putting my fingers in my nose and I know exactly where it has been. But, this morning, Eddie inadvertently got a sprinkle (or, as we say here in Pittsburgh, a "jimmie") stuck up there and without even thinking, I had my (pinky) finger inserted in someone's nostril, digging around like I expected to come out with gold. I didn't even think about it, just dove right in. In my life, I am fairly certain I've never put my finger in anyone's nose, and certainly not on purpose. We have a new thing going on today. It's an alarm clock that looks like a jukebox. I've been setting it for every 25-35 minutes, and when it goes off (and plays "Wake Up, Little Susie") we yell "YAY! TIME TO PEE ON THE POTTY!" and we run over to the training potty where Eddie pees, we yell "yay!" a few more times and then we get candy. It's really a bizarre thing, if you stop to ponder it, but I don't. I am a little afraid that Eddie will end up having to pee anytime he hears "Wake Up, Little Susie" but at this point, it's a risk I'm willing to take.

Jami Tells You About Another Dream

My friends either get sick of hearing about my dreams or else can't wait to hear more. I have bizarre, intricately detailed dreams all the time, and remember at least one dream at least 4 or 5 days a week. Mostly they are uninteresting, sort of the equivalent of a normal day. Sometimes they aren't. Last night I had a dream that Brent Spiner was determined to woo me away from the Husband. He and I apparently worked at the same elementary school: me as a teacher, him as some sort of administrator. He even used his authority in that role to set up situations which placed us together and the like. It culminated in the school's Renaissance Day (what, grade schools don't have Renaissance days?) in which not only did Brent use his power to name me the Renaissance Day Princess, he also bought me a gorgeous gown and one of those pointy princess hats, and he even arranged for the prince (him, of course) to pick me up at my house and take me to the school in a horse-drawn carriage. Because my brain is seriously warped, as we climbed out of the carriage, one of the horses peed, somehow hitting his shirt, which he had to change. I expected him to be in shape, but his Bowflex Infomercial body surprised and impressed me; the jailhouse-looking tattoo, however, was a little off putting. We danced at the Prince and Princess Feast, and when he tried to kiss me, I immediately put an end to that and reminded him that I am happily married. Brent informed me that he didn't care about that "minor detail" and that he'd pursue me for the rest of our lives, but "not in a scary way". I was very flattered, though I knew his efforts would be fruitless. Here are some points I find most interesting about the Brent dream:

• I've never been attracted to Brent. Not that I'm repulsed or anything, but he's not really my type, plus older than my dad, if IMDB is to be believed. He's a fine actor, but not one that I ever considered as a possible future beau.
• I'm not a teacher and if I were, it wouldn't be in an elementary school. That is my least favorite age of kids - that's right, I'd take Junior High over third grade any day.
• In many of my dreams, men other than the Husband are interested in me (and why not? I'm great!) and there are basically three scenarios: 1. I basically spend most of the dream flattered, but resisting the advances. 2. The Husband doesn't seem to mind me dating other men or 3. the Husband is gone, either having left me or just mysteriously vanished and no one thinks anything of it. This clearly was a 1.
• Notice that I made myself princess and not queen. Also, as much as I dearly love tiaras, I didn't have one. Just the pointy hat with the scarf-thing. Is there a name for those?
• For the life of me, I can't explain why he had nicely ripped muscles (you know, shaped, but not gross) and a seriously disturbing tatt. I don't know that much about the actor, but it's my guess that neither is really Mr. Spiner's style.
• Apparently, in my subconscious, stalking is fine as long as it's performed "not in a scary way".

Jami in the Great Outdoors

Back to the real world today, after a weekend of camping - without Eddie. Talk about relaxing (okay, a little rough at first, but once I got past missing my boy, we were cool), by Saturday morning I'd mellowed pretty much all the way through. We took a canoe ride down the river (the Yough, for those who care), spent some time reading and napping, the Husband fished, and we cooked food over the fire. M went, as did M's sister and nephew - it's always nice to reconnect with friends and something about a campfire and a few beers helps the conversation along. One thing I appreciate about camping is the feeling of self-sufficiency it instills, even for minor challenges. I set up the tent myself, not for the first time, and each time I do it I feel proud of myself. I built a fire. I negotiated the (extremely minor) rapids in our canoe. This weekend I'd even taken along some bread I made and, boy, did I feel brilliant when I was toasting bread made by my own hands over a real fire in the woods. Not that camping is all great. I'm not a fan of public showers, even though these ones were awesomely designed so that I didn't have to touch ANYTHING except the knobs, not even a curtain!). It was pretty cold the first night, but I put a hoodie on, with the hood up, stole the Husband's blankets and survived. We probably won't camp anymore this year, it's too cold and the Husband can't usually take a whole weekend off, anyway. But another part of camping is that there's always next year! Wanna come with us?