Monette Bebow-Reinhard

QUIET ON THE SET! This is a take! Movie directors really DO say things like that. Feed the Fish, with Tony Shahloub, filmed in Door County in Wisconsin in early 2009, is a movie about writer’s block being cured by a chilly New Year’s Day plunge into Lake Michigan—a tradition in this ‘thumb’ part of Wisconsin. I signed up to be an extra, not knowing about this plunge part, and of course the plot turned out to be a little more complex than that. But I knew, as a local community actress, being an extra in a movie filmed locally was too good an opportunity to pass up.

After I signed on and got my dates, neighbors warned me that I’d be asked to plunge. My first thought was no way! Actually, that was my second and third thought, too. But I was too committed to the idea to back out. I spent a long frigid drive with my windows down, trying to adjust to the idea.

When I got there I learned we were doing diner scenes. I walked into the restaurant and looked around, wondering who would notice how well I could enter a restaurant. Wrong restaurant. This was Work Central, where the extras hung out and the techies watched things on laptops. Where the food was set up for the people who got paid to be there. Great. No pay AND no food. But what the heck, this was my big break, right?

Finally, after three hours of trying to make small talk, my turn came to shoot a scene. Instead of magically transforming Work Central into Dining Central, they took us across the street to a picture perfect diner for the ‘reel’ shoot. Nope, no sign of Tony Shahloub yet.

They took about 15 of us and then broke us into parties of diners. Twos and threes only, please. I walked in using my film-perfect stroll, only to discover they weren’t rolling yet. The two guys I was paired with—which one should I pretend I was married to?—took our seats at the table reserved for us, in front of plates of real food. And we were hungry.

“I wouldn’t eat that if I was you,” one set crew lady whispered. “It’s been sitting around all day.”

I wasn’t going to touch it after second glance. Someone had nibbled on mine. They couldn’t trust me to nibble?

Since we weren’t sure when they were going to start rolling film we held some reasonable breakfast chatter—although I feared they were also going to want us to pretend to eat that stuff. Now that would be acting. For which we weren’t being paid.

All of a sudden we heard “strike that table!” and as we looked around, realized they were talking about us. That included me. Our table was in the way.

So off the set we walked. We were told that was it, we were done for the day. The two fellows with me said they couldn’t come back tomorrow, but I had booked a room back in Sturgeon Bay after being told I’d be needed both days. I killed time at a winery.

The next day we started at 8:30 but I got there at 7:00 a.m. because I missed the call saying filming would be delayed. As I sat at Work Central no longer trying to chat, groups were taken out to the diner. Not me. Finally I was left with three other guys. Everyone else was in the diner. The time kept ticking away and I wondered how they’d explain overlooking me for both days. I realized they wouldn’t, because that’s “show biz.”

Finally the casting director walked over to me. “Come with me.”

I stood and looked around. “No one else?”

“Just you, come on.”

As we walked across the street I felt like I was on my way to an execution. I want to be with other people! She took me in a different door this time and sat me down alone at the counter. The director came over and explained the scene.

“You’re just sitting here enjoying your coffee.”

“I can do that, I thought. It’s cold, I just came in…,” but he didn’t care to hear about my acting and directing experience.

“Take off your gloves. And your coat.”

“Okay, I’ve been here awhile, I’m no longer cold.” I sat back and made myself comfortable.

“You’ve got coffee, drink it.”

“I’m still cold?” I started to lose my method.

“Quiet on the set, action!”

I looked at the door as it opened—well, what diner wouldn’t? There stood Tony Shahloub in his sheriff garb. I nodded at him and went back to my coffee, retaining the expression of a non-star-struck resident of this make-believe little village. I overheard the conversation he had with an actress—an explosion? I looked over at them, as any good diner would, thinking, what’s going on? Did someone die?

The director waved frantically at me. Me? Why would he care about me? I’m just an extra.

After the scene was over he came to me. “You don’t look at them. It looks like you’re looking right at the camera.”

After a few minutes (seconds really, I’m sure) explaining that I thought I was a local who would be interested in any unusual conversation, especially one that includes the word ‘boom,’ he yelled, “get her a piece of pie!”

“Oh, that’s not necessary, if you don’t want me to look, I won’t look.”

“We want you eating pie in this scene.”

While Tony paced around behind me, getting into character, my place was set—plate, fork, napkin, gloves, water, coffee. I added the gloves. Then they took a photo of it. “Continuity.”

After every take, someone looked at the photo and put everything back in its place. Except—the pie slice was getting smaller. I adapted and started eating smaller pieces. Not hard. I wasn’t hungry anymore.

Tony went out on the fifth take and BAM! Nailed his character. Compared to the first four takes, the differences was amazing.

Then we had to make diner noise for 30 seconds—I could clink my fork to my plate and actually tell the waitress to bring me more coffee, which she had done in every previous take. In her diner noise, though, she told me to get screwed. They then had us do 30 seconds of complete silence. Amazing how their camera microphones can record silence.

I never did get to do the plunge, but maybe that was a good thing. By that time, I would have sunk like a rock.

When you go see the movie, and I’m sure you’ll want to, I’ll be the crazy lady eating pie while everyone else reacts to Tony’s story.

At least now I know the meaning of the expression “shut your piehole.”

(FIrst posted 10/8/2010)

I lost interest in Christmas. Really, Christmas had been in my life since forever, and even after my father died on Christmas Eve, it was still something we celebrated every year. Even when I lost my faith, I still felt it was something I had to do because everyone else was doing it and I didn’t want to look weird, or have my kids look weird. It was already hard enough on them that they were recognized as not attending any churches in this very Republican and Christianized neck of the north woods.

So Santa Claus, and yes, The Jesus Story, were a part of our tradition, along with my trying to tell them things about the Grandpa they’d never know and who I know would have loved them.

But something happens when all your kids grow up and move away—something that maybe a lot of people can relate to—holidays lose their meaning. And when those kids decide not to exchange presents or even come home for a day or two, then the holiday really basically dissolves into nothing. In fact, no one in our circle wanted to exchange presents anymore, except a couple of sisters who live in Phoenix.

So I thought it was time to celebrate the true meaning of the holiday. It was time to find Saturnalia. But where to look? I admit, I’m not the slightest bit Roman, but I don’t really know any other pagan festivities this time of year, although I’m sure there are others. When I did a little research I discovered some of the fun stuff, and then decided to make up the rest of what turned into a five day ritual.

Amazing things happened in those five days, too. Well, maybe not amazing, but considering that we were creating our own ritual for the first time, the little things became big things that we could enjoy immensely. See if you can make some magic happen for you next year by celebrating Saturnalia. The rituals do not interfere with Christmas, but if you’re like me, can give you an alternative if Christmas magic has disappeared for you.

It all started five days before the Winter Solstice. Now remember, this is an adaptation of rituals I found online, so I did some of the things I found, and added more. Actually, we started even before that, because by the time of the 5th day before Solstice, I made sure that all my loved ones had a candle, which is necessary because the darkest day of the year is coming and I didn’t want them to be in total darkness.

So on the 17th, about an hour before dusk, we got outside and put out all the decorations. We don’t trim a tree in the house, but we trim them outside. It’s a way of getting nature to celebrate with us, without us causing any damage to Her. So we’re out there, hanging up all the weather resistant stuff we had, some garland and beads and silver balls—there’s no snow on the ground—and we were also supposed to dance in the street. I did that a little more enthusiastically than my husband, I must say. Most of this he went along with, like a trooper, not being Pagan like me. But he was happy enough to try to start our own rituals.

Anyway, at one point I got out of the street because of a car, and I waved very enthusiastically at him. And then we went back to decorating. A little bit later, still before dusk, this same fellow comes back and asked if everything was all right. He thought with the way I was waving, we must have needed help. I don’t know him—but thank you! That was really sweet.

We ran back inside in time to light the candles to chase away the dusk. We turned all the lights off in the house to see how long we could last by candlelight alone. Not long—it’s devilishly hard to cook by candlelight.

One ritual I got from searching on Saturnalia was my husband’s least favorite—we had to switch roles. That meant that I had to cook and he had to do dishes. I set up the week of meals with groceries making things I felt I could handle. That first night we had steak and champagne. Then came the next tradition—exchange of gifts of appreciation. Each night we were to exchange one, and believe me, my husband had to get creative because he’s not big on buying gifts.

Then we had to spend some time together. No just going to watch TV, and in fact, I pretty much gave up working on my computer every night during Saturnalia, except while he was doing dishes. That first night we played two-handed Oh Hell. We were also supposed to have orgies every night, but at our age, after the second night we got a little tired.

Anyway, every night at dusk we light candles. The second night we had brats and beer. Yes, me! I had beer for the first time since I turned 19 and hard liquor became legal. I got through a bottle and a half before I gave up. We played Cribbage.

I was using my Iphone Siri to ask the time of sunset but began to get suspicious when she gave the same time every night. I hate to say I was close enough, so next year I’ll find a way to be exact. I thought it would be fun to see the days getting shorter, and then after the 21st getting longer again, and it would have been, had that worked right.

On Wednesday, the third day, we treated ourselves and took a break. We went out for dinner, and ate at a place we’ve never been before—Chef Chu. We had a great time, beating the storm we knew was coming, and chatting with the waiter about why we were there. And when we got home we watched a movie together. I don’t remember what. I don’t remember the gifts, either, because it’s the being together and sharing and breaking routine that mattered—all things that we hoped we make the days start getting longer again and not keep the Earth plummeting toward eternal darkness.

In other words, all in good fun.

On Thursday, I had pizza planned, but I threw a lot of extra toppings on it and I swear it was the best pizza I ever had. Drinks were pink lemonade and vodka, but to be honest, too much pink lemonade is NOT a good idea. I think that night we played Trivial Pursuit.

Also that day the first December blizzard hit, effectively eating our ornaments outside. It was like Mother Nature was showing us who really had control of the celebration. We have since managed to gather everything back inside for next year.

By the time Friday the 21st rolled around, we were getting pretty tired. But I went out to once again dance in the street, and I brought my camera to take a photo of another gift, a beautiful sunset on a snow-covered road. I had planned Indian Tacos and Margaritas, but never thought ahead to what kind of glasses to use and didn’t buy lemons because I don’t want a four-pack. We got unexpected gifts that day—glasses I had ordered came that were perfect for margaritas (rock glasses) and my sister sent lemons and oranges. What a perfect way to celebrate our last day.

But I have to say that I felt this tremendous feeling of uplifting satisfaction when the week was over, like we really accomplished something. It wasn’t just that we were celebrating Saturnalia. It was that we were doing ritual that meant something to us. And I even got a gift from Mother Nature—I came up with an eclipse idea for one of my stories, did the research and found there actually was an eclipse in the time period that I needed.

Best of all was the symbolism of the fortune cookie I got at the end of the week. “You look happy and proud.” How’d it know? Gone was the letdown I always felt after Christmas. I think that if I were to do Christmas again, I would want to do it like this. But I can see the need to really believe in the ritual, too, rather than just going through the motions.

Part of the ritual was in asking Mother Earth to forgive us our trespassing on Her, and I think part of my joy was the feeling of being forgiven, just a little.

I don’t like getting presents from other people because only I know what I really want or need. What does that say about me?

Is that a special kind of selfishness -- that I don’t like getting from others so that they can experience the joy of giving?

Christmas used to be fun, back when I was a kid. Back then, because our family never had much money, we liked everything we got, and our parents never wasted money on unnecessary stuff. After my dad died on Christmas Eve (or it could have been Christmas Day, I’ve never asked the exact time) it began to lose its fun and its meaning.

But then I had kids and of course in this society if one doesn’t buy into the Santa thing -- the Jesus thing is easier to ignore, which says a lot about our society -- our kids, especially in school, are made to feel like outsiders.

So we were able to deck our house with Santa and sing, even the religious Christmas carols, with abandon.

My children are grown and gone now and all have decided it’s not worth coming home for Christmas. And that could be because I always added that touch of melancholy at Christmastime that they couldn’t begin to share. I don’t blame them. I blame me. I blame the unreal expectations that this time of year brings me.

I went to bed Christmas Eve in 1967 begging Jesus to give my dad back -- that was the only present I wanted under my tree. But Mom woke us up, I don’t know what time but I sensed after midnight, to tell us he had died. I loved my dad with the kind of reckless abandon of a girl who would never come to know that kind of love again, and found myself dragging through life, for a while after that.

So Christmas ever after brought that intense excitement followed by extreme letdown – all that preparation for one or two days of exchanging gifts. Because that’s all Christmas became to me. If you don’t find some family traditions to fill those days both before and after Christmas, then what’s it really for? We couldn’t find anything beyond shopping, singing (which I had to force out of my family) and wrapping and unwrapping. Christmas should not be forced. But because my kids weren’t raised with religion as I was, Santa was all it was, not those silly Jesus songs.

Gradually family began to leave, or to reject the exchange gift idea. I never could. I wanted to keep giving long after anyone else, and then they would get mad because they didn’t get me anything. They don’t get that I don’t want anything, because what I really want cannot ever be fulfilled.

I want them to be there for me, year round. I want to be able to talk to them, to lean on them, when I’m feeling low. I want them to understand. And if they can do that, then I want to show my appreciation to them in the only way I know how, by giving them something at a very special, giving, time of year.

That’s what Christmas, to me, is supposed to be. But instead I get yelled at for giving.

This year, the first year without any of my children to celebrate with, I decided instead to be who I’m meant to be, and celebrate Saturnalia—a kind of pagan ritual that is a personal celebration to those who feel their spirituality is personal. It wasn’t easy to find any traditional celebration ritual, but I did read that Romans celebrated started the 17th and partied for a week. The parties included the idea of role reversal, which appealed to me. So I set up a week-long celebration with my husband, who was game, and at the end, I felt that rush of happiness that Christmas never brought, not even when my kids were little.

Gone was the let-down of my father’s death, and maybe, finally, I can bury him.

So this year Christmas to me is to give where I feel giving is appropriate and not where it isn’t, and to enjoy family that I do have around me, in whatever way they choose, and in my quiet times, remember those who are gone. No presents under the tree. There are none. And that’s okay.

“Memories are wonderful things. They’re always there when you need them.”

So I don’t feel selfish in not wanting to receive presents. It’s just because there is nothing I can be given that would help diminish all my feelings of loss. Just be there for me. That’s all I ever want. As I want to be there for you, too.

Happy Holidays and a Blessed 2013 to everyone.

Of course my first instinct was to blame my husband for the loss. After all, he was ambiguous from the start about whether he wanted to run for state assembly. Such a big move from town chairman. He said no when asked two months ahead of the deadline but agreed when I kicked him in the ass two days before deadline. However, I began with enthusiasm, figuring he’d be good at it and needed a new career direction. I figured my enthusiasm would rub off on him and by the end of the summer he would leap in with both feet.

From the very start, we realized we were up against some very big odds when neither of us proved able to make fund raising calls. Everyone implored us to, at every level, from state advisors on down to the assembly woman assigned to answer our questions. We were given small checks from two of our county offices for their show of support, but the third and biggest county Democrat office in which he ran sicked a bloodhound on us. He brought us in for a meeting and proceeded to tell us we would need to raise $30,000 to win. We thought he was offering to help with our door cards, even provide some of them as a donation. When I told him we couldn’t even raise $3,000, he told my husband that he needed a new campaign manager.

Well, this was true. Problem is, Joe didn’t know where to find one, and was stuck with me.

While my husband just sat there and nodded pleasantly (why he’s the politician), I turned away and the next time he addressed me I quipped, “What? You fired me, remember?”

This office never did donate to our campaign. We joined the other two county groups but not this one, although we did spend money at one of their fund raisers and attended their election night event. While we had volunteers from the other two offices helping us by canvassing, and putting up signs, this same office, courtesy of another campaign, provided us with a canvassing list for Howard, although with the explicit instructions that I was to survey for their candidate. Well, that was okay, we really wanted to see him re-elected (he was).

But I discovered doing this canvassing that the list was terribly outdated and more often than not I was knocking on a Republican door—or the message of introducing them to a new candidate was lost in the survey of whether they’d vote to re-elect that other guy.

That’s not to say that canvassing didn’t produce some good results. But I don’t think we got the results we could have gotten just promoting Joe. We were never allowed to do that, however. The next time I canvassed was in Oconto, but we were supposed to promote all the Democrats, and Joe as just as minor player. I said if I was canvassing, I’d promote Joe first, and Obama second. Obama gets more free air-time, after all.

In the first Howard canvassing in early September, my aunt joined me because it was in her neighborhood and she wanted to invite them to her house for a rally. So I provided the door cards to use only at those places where no one was home. Business cards were used everywhere else. Our donor cards had the invitation information on them, to come meet the candidate and that we were serving refreshments. My aunt had a popcorn popper she wanted to try (it worked good). But while canvassing, she became quickly discouraged by the reactions she got. And only one person came to the rally that we didn’t know personally.

My aunt didn’t canvas after that. I continued on in Howard, determined to find some people who knew Joe from school and could help spread the word. Then came the day I was kicked off the property for soliciting (me?) and when I tried to explain and she wouldn’t listen, I lost it. I called her a Republican. I was angry—at all the rejection of Obama but also that someone was denying citizen access to a political process. She called the cops on me. This did not happen when I got paid to stump for Walker’s recall. I did not get paid to canvass for the Democrats. That alone says something about our country. And yes, the cop did call me the next day and warned me (actually just to make sure) not to go back there. When I asked him if it was fair, he had no opinion.

So my love of the game began to die. I canvassed for another few days but because I could not get Joe to make any fundraising phone calls to all those people he helped as town chairman, I quit walking. I decided it wasn’t a good use of my time—not with an outdated canvass list that included my son who moved out in 2007, before Obama’s first victory.

So what was a good use of my time? I wish I knew. The mass mailing postcard I was told to do off the nomination signatures provided some donations, but considering I started in July to go through the over 500 names to enter into a database, try to figure out the handwriting, verify spellings with phone books, then wrote up the message, had the postcards printed, put on labels and stamps and mailed them out finally in August…

Did we receive enough donations or other support for the time and money spent? No. I think these thank yous were an impersonal, indirect approach, and time consuming. But we might not have gotten the money and votes we did without it.

I was also told to surround our campaign with volunteers. I called UWGB and asked for interns. They never provided any. A friend of a friend on Facebook sounded interested and said he was in that program at UWGB. But I couldn’t pin him down. He didn’t have a car, didn’t live in the district, and finally decided he was voting for the Green Party because Obama wasn’t good enough. In honor of Al Gore, I unfriended him. Another volunteer from the Marinette office was offered to us but after a few communications where he wanted to set up a big K run in Marinette, we never heard from him again. We were told he was having girl trouble, but in my mind, I must have sounded discouraging about pulling together something so big.

I think I should make a movie of all this.

One of the things Joe had promised to do in the summer months was go to all the picnics in the area. We got ourselves t-shirts to wear and business cards to hand out and I designed a free website for him. But neither of us were aggressive enough to approach these picknickers and introduce him. And we believe now that few ever paid attention to the t-shirts.

I also felt shopping local was a good idea wearing those t-shirts, so we did a little of that, but not enough. We got our printing done in Marinette until they screwed up our second order of t-shirts. We took our yard sign business to Fond du Lac because it was the closest place that was union, and was recommended to us.

The only reason we were able to buy yard signs at all was the one great donation we got from WEAC and then we could only get 100, for which we later received criticism, even though it took until a week before the election to get them all out.

I produced door cards and posters myself but only on an as-needed basis, because I hate waste. The posters could have been used as door card material, but instead went unused, although I did put some up at grocery stores. I’m sure after a day or two they were taken down again. I did one store twice.

And we marched in parades, for what good that did. I did Coleman and Joe joined us for the lunch there. We marched together at Abrams and Peshtigo, mingling and handing out cards. And candy. Sometimes. I wore my cowboy boots and hat for the Peshtigo parade, and felt a little silly trying to line dance while carrying his sign, but what else do you do in a parade?

The hardest district to get exposed in was Howard/Suamico because there were no parade opportunities there. We went to one picnic but there was no one there. This is the reason I canvassed in that area—I felt we would have a big edge where both he and I went to school. But finding places to put up yard signs was a challenge. Since we do own property Joe made a big sign but he didn’t pound it up on the tree like I suggested, so it was hard to see. Our other signs sometimes went in inappropriate places, which made me glad I didn’t buy more—but if I had, I might have tried harder.

And that’s probably why they stress fund raising. You’re not going to sit on the money, right?

Whether the ads we put in newspapers had any effect we may never know. He was interviewed several times, and I put these links on his website. But regardless of the 1500+ cards we handed out, only 363 visited the website. No one called him to chat, as we encouraged them to do.

So there were a number of things we did, and several more we did not. We don’t have a clue what worked. I told Joe after the loss that he probably should get a new campaign manager if he wants to run again because I made a series of suggestions to him, none of which he took seriously—probably because they were from me and I don’t know what I’m talking about anyway. But even when he got on a conference call or got advice from his assembly adviser, he just shrugged them off as being outside his time constraints. Had I got on these calls, that might have helped, but I was hoping to see him get more enthused.

A final problem he may have had, aside from any enemies he may have made as town chairman, was his wife’s likeabilty (or lack thereof). The first thing I thought of when they got the signatures needed to put his name on the ballot was the scene from Dharma and Greg, where an associate of Greg’s asked him if there were any possible hindrances to his campaign. Greg looked over at his wife who was whooping it up and said, with hesitation, no.

I have a recognizable name in Oconto County and that is not necessarily a good thing. I helped organize the local theater group that is still going without me, was curator of the museum there for three years, after which I abandoned efforts because I felt my volunteer time was not appreciated, after which they got the money for the windows that I had been trying desperately to get—and from Joe’s opponent, too. (I was enthused when I saw he lost Oconto by only 100 votes.) And then there’s my attitude toward both Abrams and the golf course, which have probably not gone unnoticed. It’s no secret I hate living so far from the city and am disappointed the clubhouse isn’t fully operational. And all the jobs I’ve had in my life, where no one has bothered to keep in touch or called to offer support. Let’s face it—someone like me has difficulty making friends, or find people who could help form a campaign team.

And then there’s my writing career, which I felt disinclined to ignore during this crucial time. But I felt if he really wanted the job he would have tried harder. The day before the elections he was cajoled into going door to door in Abrams to put up vote reminders and he found he enjoyed that a lot, because he got to talk to people who were home. Darn it. If only we’d known that sooner.

So yes, the truth is, he probably needed a new campaign manager but none was ever offered and we couldn’t even keep an intern around.

I highly recommend anyone who wants to enter the political arena read this and think hard about how they would handle things. And get a head start with some training, not wait as long as we did, and be sure you want to do this. I wish someone had given us lessons on getting the most out of little money. What works and what doesn’t? I still can’t say. I believe that canvassing is most effective. But we need updated walk lists or the route can become too discouraging.

As interesting as the experience was, I doubt we will try this again, and really, that’s too bad, because you’ll never find anyone less corruptible anywhere.

I realize I haven't blogged here lately. It's not for lack of desire. I love to write little ditties that might or might not catch someone's fancy.

But now is not the time.

Time is relative. Time is a butterfly.

And I just can't catch my breath. I don't even know why. What have I been doing? Well, I got a new contract on a novel, and I hope it's a contract I can keep. But it's a complex process because it's on the novel I'd written with someone else, my one and only collaboration. And my collaborator lives in South Africa, and tells me he doesn't have good access either to an internet or computer. So that means everything to do with a contract takes longer. I feel I am the go-between him and the publisher.

And it being summer, I have to spend more time outdoors getting in shape. Not that I want to. I want shape just to happen.

I have a kitten who cost a few dollars, so when she wants to go outside, I have to go out with her. She's getting used to that now. If I'm not there she gets terrified. She likes to watch the birds. A mouse ran past her and she didn't even notice. It's better than before, though - to keep her happy before we let her go out, my husband brought moths into the house. She'd tear the house up trying to catch it - and always did. I think she doesn't chase the bird outside because there are no cupboards to climb.

And with my husband running for office, and not getting any donations except from the county organizations, there's the need to pay off bills. These are the spring bills that incur because we think we'll have money in the summer. Fortunately, he won't be on the ballot until November. We won't be able to buy any August votes.

But I had a rummage sale to get rid of the junk to make room for more junk, and ran it for four days rather than the normal two. That helped, actually. Why go through all that set-up and go for two days with lots of good stuff left? I would have gone all summer if I had good stuff left. Fortunately I could close after 4 days.

And there's summer company. You know the kind. Breeze in for 3 to 5 days and expect your undivided attention. It's attention you'd love to give if you had it.

And the heat! Who can work in that?

So yes, I would love to blog more. If I had something to blog about.

HERE'S THE MAP I SCANNED - BUT BEST TO GET YOUR OWN COPY! THIS INDICATES HOW CITY MAPS FOR BIKING ARE DESIGNED AND IF YOU CAN'T GET ONE, YOU MIGHT NOTICE WHERE THEY RECOMMEND BIKING IN A CITY. 

It might be hard to see, but the purple routes are bike routes and the gray routes mean bikes stay off.  Mostly these are the interchanges, highway routes.  You're okay at all the controlled (lights) intersections.

How long do you have to be married to realize there is always going to be one thing between you that will always irk you? For us it’s the kitchen sink. My husband was raised on a farm and they never had a garbage disposal. Then why oh why does he think he can just dump anything he wants down the drain?

He actually tried to install a garbage disposal but I don’t think his heart was in it. He said our plumbing was too old to accommodate it. Too old? We built the house ourselves in 1978 – how is that too old?

The worst part is not the fact that our sink’s plumbing is constantly getting clogged. It’s that he thinks to make the water run down the drain faster he has to tilt the sink drainer. By doing that, he only exacerbates the problem and further exasperates me! I am constantly replacing the sink drainer, waiting impatiently for the water to drain, or hitting the clog with my combination of baking soda and vinegar. Actually, that part is kind of fun.

What to do? I screech at him like the bitch he thinks I am and he stops listening. Even if he does listen, he does what he wants anyway. He can’t first scrap the pans or bowls that he puts in the sink to soak even though I try reminding him that grease and potato particles and gooey gravy that then inevitably go down the drain are not helping matters any.

I think he misses having a dog. He puts all the plates and bowls of leftovers down for our cats, who give the stuff a delicate whiff and sit back to look at him with the “are you crazy” expression before walking away. From there, into the sink! I’m in charge of doing dishes but somehow he always manages to clog up the sink. The tilting drainer solution is no solution.

I suppose it could be worse. There was a day I used to go crazy when I’d see him walking around the house in his muddy or snow-covered work boots. Because he works practically out our back door on the family golf course, he’d often take off without saying a word, leaving me to wonder if he was murdered or kidnapped. I’ve gotten used to having a husband who works a lot in the summer and hardly at all in the winter, making me feel like I have two husbands.

But that sink drain – uh-uh, that’s where I draw the line. We’re on our third sink now. I finally gave up on having a clean looking sink and got a black one. But of course now I can see the white residue.

I’m pretty sure people have gotten divorced for less. But we’re still hanging in there, perhaps only because I like to scream and he likes to ignore me. Hard to tell. His newest solution was a strainer insert—have you ever tried to clean the goop out of one of those?

So it’s an issue that isn’t going anywhere. My only solution? Never do dishes again. I’m thinking of hiring a maid.