Infestation: Part I

On a normal workday, the first voices that I hear in the morning (other than the ones in my head) are the morning radio hosts on my favorite station, The Current. One of the things I enjoy about my favorite station is that there are no advertisements and the announcers do not talk for long periods of time about nonsense.

Although they tend to feature more music than other stations, they do have brief news-oriented segments that are usually quite interesting. Today, they discussed the increase in the infestation of bedbugs in the United States. I had heard this all before; in fact, it has been several years since I heard that they were having a local resurgence, especially in hotels.

While I’m fairly certain that my own bed is pest-free, it did cause me to ponder the other types of infestation I have encountered in my six years as a homeowner. I could try and cram all the details into one long entry, but since I do now have some school related reading to complete in my evenings, I figured I would make it a little bit easier on myself and break it out into a trilogy.

To ease you into this theme (which some people might find a little frightening), I will start with what I consider to be the most innocuous pest infestation: ants.

As a general fact, ants in a house do not really scare me. In fact, I believe that most people at some point or another will have to deal with their presence. As a child, I remember my mother putting out little pieces of cardboard with Terro on it around our house during the summer. When I asked why they didn’t die immediately upon eating the poison, she told me that they have to live long enough to bring it back to their colony so that they can kill off the rest of the ants at their base.

When you really think about it, the idea is a little bit sad. I mean, the ant thinks that it has hit the jackpot in the super awesome tasting Terro and simply wants to take it home to share and eat with its family. Too bad it doesn’t work out better for them.

This childhood ant-pity stayed with me for quite a while. At least until I found my first ant in my own home. After completely pulling apart all my living room furniture and vacuuming over every square inch of my first floor, I laid out the new version of the Terro trap. Instead of the old-fashioned cardboard with poison deal, they now make enclosed plastic containers that are theoretically less messy.

Even though I have no doubt of the poison’s effectiveness, I like to take a little extra precaution. If anyone knows me well, they know that I am not a fan of spiders. It’s not that I hate them, because I really don’t think it’s sane to get emotional towards something that is definitely not emotional towards me. Instead, I live by my own “personal space” philosophy.

For me, “personal space” with respect to spiders comes down to indoors versus outdoors. If the spider is indoors and is in my personal living space, I will not feel guilty about squishing it. If it is outdoors, unless it is attempting to actually crawl ON me, I will live and let live.

However, when it comes to addressing the ant or other small bug infestation issue, especially in my entryway, I am a bit more lenient. In fact, if you were to look around the vicinity of my front door at this moment, I wouldn’t be surprised if you were to find two or three well-hidden spiders. I am more than content to let them live. I consider them my henchmen, or the “muscle” of my war on pests.

If at any point the spiders themselves become an infestation, I may have to use my vacuum cleaner to thin the herd. As I have learned from working in an office that has spider overpopulation, it can quickly escalate into a scary and dangerous situation.

Hopefully I have not scared anyone too much with this entry. I know that creepy crawly things can be major hot-button issues for many people. To give you some incentive to return for my next two infestation installments, I should tell you that both entries contain far more specific and humorous components. As a teaser, let me just say that the next one involves the use of big-gun pesticides, not just wimpy Terro.

On a side note, I apologize for slacking. I may not be able to sustain my original tempo once school starts next week and I have to start reading and writing for grades. I promise that I will not ignore this entirely and hope to find ways to keep my friend Rox laughing out loud at work for a long time. J

Zzzzzz....

OK, so I know that I have several entries ready and near completion that I have “banked” and could use one of them today, but I really just have no brain power to edit and make sure they are totally ready.

I could also drone on about my current problem of not sleeping soundly through the night and my theories as to why this is happening, but who really cares about that? It certainly isn’t entertaining to me, although it is the largest contributor to my current stupor.

So instead, please enjoy this drawing of me as I sit contemplating the dregs of coffee in my “Dayman” mug. Remember, tomorrow is another day and that day is FRIDAY.

Smoking in the Guest Room

Now that I am 30 years old, there is no avoiding the fact that I must call myself an adult. While this label may be permanent, my behavior does not always match up with the requirements of the title.

Part of being an adult for many people is having your own home. As regards this benchmark, I can safely say that I have accomplished it. For six years, I have owned my townhouse. I still think it is a wonderful place, although I’ve grown weary of living in an outer suburb when it comes to driving.

I have many stories of the challenges and rewards of home ownership, and I shall perhaps share more in the future, but I was reminded this weekend of an episode from approximately one year ago that definitely merits a blog entry.

In my opinion, one of the requirements of being a responsible homeowner is a basic understanding of fire safety. In elementary school I was taught the time honored tradition of “Stop, Drop and Roll” as well as the usefulness of touching door handles before opening them and knowing your escape routes. One of the other facets of my training was in the language of smoke alarms and smoke detectors. In my opinion, these two names are interchangeable, so please do not get all picky on me if I mix them up throughout this entry.

One of the key pieces of information relayed to me in fire safety was to always check the batteries on your smoke detectors. When my house was built, the smoke detectors were hard-wired into the electrical of the house with battery back-up. Over the course of six years, I have had to replace a couple of the batteries. The common procedure for these devices is to produce a short but loud “CHIRP” whenever the battery is getting low. Unfortunately, something in the programming makes sure that this starts around 3 or 4 a.m. each and every time.

If you would have asked me a year ago how many smoke alarm/detectors I had in my home, I would have confidently answered “THREE.” One in my kitchen, one in my bedroom and one in the upstairs hallway.

In mid-August of 2009, I was awoken at 4 a.m. (on a work night) to the loud and unavoidable sound of the low-battery chirp. From past experience, I knew that it could be temporarily disabled by removing the battery and pushing the big button.

The only barrier to this solution is typically figuring out which of the devices is actually in need of attention. You would think this is an easy task, but it is not. Typically, the only device that can immediately be eliminated from the choices is the one in my bedroom as it is the closest in proximity. As for the other two, the openness of my hallway/loft/stairway creates an odd echo that makes the decision a bit more challenging.

At 4 a.m., my mind is not operating on all cylinders. On this morning, I decided that the chirping was coming from the upstairs hallway unit. I performed my usual treatment for the symptom and returned to bed, vowing to remember to pick up new batteries at the store later in the day.



Strangely, the chirping did not cease after I addressed the problem, but I dealt with it my turning up the velocity on my fan to drown out the noise and went back to sleep.

When I returned home from work that evening with a new battery in hand, I figured that my problems were over. There was no chirping as I entered the house, so I went up to the device in question, replaced the battery, and figured I was done.



Imagine my surprise when once again around 4 a.m. the chirping commenced. I groggily muttered some obscenities to myself and concluded that I must have misheard the noise before and that it was the kitchen device instead that needed replacement. Luckily, I had the foresight to purchase a two-pack of batteries, so I simply replaced that one immediately.

My frustration was not to be relieved by this act. Even after replacing the battery in the kitchen, the chirping continued. Again I cursed that I must have purchased faulty batteries and decided to purchase new ones later that day.

The next 24 hours should be somewhat predictable by now. I came home with new batteries and again replaced them in both detectors to no avail. I then turned to the Internet for assistance. Some in-depth Google searching and manufacturer inquiries later, I concluded that perhaps the units themselves were worn out and needed to be replaced. I consulted my Facebook friend resource as well, only to hear confirmations of this notion.

Perhaps a normal person would have immediately gone out and purchased new smoke detectors. For some reason, I did not do this, at least not right away. Instead, I went to Target and purchased a larger and noisier fan.

Now I shall try and explain my logic for this choice. I considered the fact that it could indeed be the actual smoke detectors that were wearing out, but I was afraid that the real solution would be far worse. It is possible that the constant ringing in my ears was affecting my sanity, but I feared that something had gone haywire in the actual wiring of my house. If this was true, it would require the expertise of an electrician. I had no idea what that would cost, but I was definitely not up to spending serious cash on the problem… yet.

So instead, I opted to simply drown out the noise, much in the same way that my father avoids strange sounds coming from his car by turning up the volume on his radio.



While this proved a decent solution for sleeping, it did not help much for general living time. I had just started grad school last fall, and concentrating on homework assignments was proving difficult.



Again, instead of addressing the problem, I elected to spend more time during the week at my parents’ house.

After about a month or so of avoiding the issue, I decided to be an adult and take action. I ventured forth to my local home improvement store and purchased two detectors from the same manufacturer as my originals. Before I did this, I also verified with my association manager to make sure that I definitely had to have my devices hard-wired into the house. She said yes, so I purchased the proper type and came home to contemplate my next move.

I knew that installation would probably be a bit tricky and I didn’t want to take any chances. All of the instructions stressed the importance of making sure that the power to the wires was completely shut off. To do this, I had to perform a process of elimination procedure using my circuit break box and a flashlight. Once I knew how to cut off the power, I cautiously set to work on the installation. It was a bit of a messy and nerve-wracking job, but after making a total mess of myself, I turned everything back on, and the indicator lights lit up.

At this point, I sincerely believed that my problems were over. I had acted like an adult and tackled my own problems all by myself. Honestly, I thought I deserved an award.

Unfortunately, the universe did not agree with my sentiments because almost immediately after this whole bag of shenanigans was complete, the chirping resumed. I swear, my head nearly started spinning. I sat down on the floor, nearly in tears. I was defeated.



In my despair, I decided again to wait a while before calling in the professionals. I retreated back into my fan-noise blasting room and vowed to never leave except for bathroom emergencies. Actually, I just spent a lot more time out of my house for the next month.

About two or three months after this whole hullabaloo started, I was looking for some Christmas decorations that I knew were in my guest room closet. Once I located the item I needed, I packed up my boxes again and made for the door of the bedroom when I happened to glance up. If you haven’t already guessed where this is going, here is the big climax: there was another smoke detector on the ceiling. Chirping.

In case you cannot follow this turn of events, here it is in a nutshell: I am an idiot. Contrary to my original belief, I have FOUR smoke detectors instead of three. From the beginning, it was always my guest room device going off. I needlessly replaced two other smoke detectors and purchased way too many batteries. And a large room fan.

I suppose that I could look on the bright side and say that I learned some new things and now know that I can do basic wiring, but it still feels like small consolation. Essentially, I created this problem through my own faulty assumption. And we all know what happens when you assume things, right? (I’ll let you answer that question on your own.)

Footwear Musings

So here is an interesting story. This past weekend, I braved the Mall of America, a.k.a. the Hellmouth, to meet up with some of my lovely friends for lunch and light shopping. This location was chosen mainly based on the fact that it is air conditioned and the outdoor temperature and humidity were beyond our tolerability index.

After a very good lunch at our “usual” restaurant (we’ve been going to it since high school), we decided to brave the crowds and tour some shops. One of our first stops was a shoe store. I know, it is cliché, girls like shoes, whatever. While I do enjoy shoe shopping, I generally only engage in the activity when I have a specific purpose in mind. For example, when I was asked to be in my best friend’s wedding last year I initiated a search for a pair of dressy yet comfortable heels. Mission accomplished.

At present, my shoe needs are pretty minimal. I have sturdy and reliable enough summer shoes to get me through the last couple of warm months left, and I still have my basic black and brown mules and clogs to get me through the winter. I may perhaps need to invest in a new pair of winter boots, but I prefer not to think about that right now.

With this in mind, I entered the shoe store. I was not looking for anything, and more importantly I did not NEED anything. This might seem like the ideal situation for not spending money, but sadly, it is often the opposite. I mindlessly wandered through the aisles, glancing here and there at everything from the conservative to the risqué fashions of feminine footwear.

I was just about ready to seek out my friends and move on, when I spotted an interesting specimen. For the record, I am not typically a stiletto/ultra high-heel kind of gal. Sure, I like to wear shoes with some height, but I also need to hold my balance. In my overall experience, high heels can only be worn on special occasions that do not require me to be on my feet for more than five minutes at a time. I realize that high heels are fun, sexy and can be a real attention-getter, but it’s really not worth having my feet go completely numb.

However, every once in a while my logic brain misfires. My eye is captivated by some novelty piece of apparel, and I simply must have it. It does not help when my friends catch me trying on said piece of apparel and offer highly positive feedback. Happily, I do not share the footwear propensity of Carrie Bradshaw, so my options are far lower in price than her $400-500 range.

My temporary insanity combined with my friends’ encouragement along with the excellent price point pushed me past the point of no return. I bought the shoes. Oddly, I experienced no buyer’s remorse over my purchase. I have never owned a pair of zebra-print shoes before, and I likely never will again. When I arrived at my parents’ house with my purchase, my mother was anxious to see what I found. Like my friends, my mother was suitably impressed with not only the print but the height of the heels.

I have now owned the shoes for two days, and I decided this morning that today I would try them out in the workplace. As I dashed out of the house, I paused to grab a pair of flip flop sandals just in case driving proved perilous in my new heels. It turns out that this was a wise decision, not only for driving, but for some of the running around I have to do in the morning at work as we prepare for the day.

Only time will tell if this was indeed a wise or frivolous purchase. Actually, I can already predict that it will be a little bit of both. It is wise because I really need to improve my wardrobe and make my look a bit more noticeable. It is frivolous because the shoes are purely for aesthetic enjoyment and offer no arch support whatsoever. I guess it is just a sacrifice for the sake of fashion.

Head, Heart, Hands and Health

If you from the great state of Minnesota, as I am, you are most likely aware that the most wonderful time of the year is soon upon us. I am referring, of course, to the Minnesota State Fair. Essentially, the Fair represents the culmination of all that is good and awesome about summer in the state of MN. We have food, rides, barns, food, exhibits, booths, food, political candidates, concerts and did I mention food?

Personally, my #1 favorite State Fair food treat is the Pronto Pup. It resembles a corn dog but is exponentially better. Some other top contenders: cheese curds, French fries, chocolate shakes, cookies, roasted corn and mini donuts. There is definitely a “fried” theme taking place, which is why I have to pace myself and choose carefully.

After the food, my favorite thing to see is the 4-H Building. I never ceased to be amazed at the talent of teenagers. My amazement is often expressed vocally, much to the annoyance of my fellow fair attendees I am sure, but seriously, they do things with sewing machines that I never dreamt were possible.

Perhaps you are assuming that my love of 4-H projects comes from being a former 4-H kid myself. I am not quite sure how to address this assumption. Let me explain.

Sometime in the past (probably around 1990), my dad asked me if I would have interest in joining something called 4-H. Never having been known as much of a “joiner,” I was skeptical at first. Apparently, it was a club that was outside of school where you could do “projects” that could be judged for prizes. There was a whole book full of ideas and categories for the “projects.”

Given my limited knowledge and interest in the notion, I believe I gave the book a cursory glance before alighting on something that looked exotic. There were a lot of animal-based projects that were obviously out of the question for me as we were not (at that time) a family with many pets, nor did we live on or near a farm where I could store any pigs/cows/horses/chickens/etc.

There were also a number of options in the food preparation category. I sensed that this would also not be much to my liking as my culinary expertise at the time was limited to the operation of a microwave and toaster. This led me to the great wide world of needlecrafts. Actually, I had a little bit of a leg up in this category as I had been shown how to cross-stitch already and had a rudimentary idea of how a sewing machine worked, thanks to my mother and grandmother.

Logic would have dictated that I choose the needlecraft of cross-stitch as it would have required the least amount of additional instruction. Unfortunately, I was enticed away by the sexy lure of crochet. Specifically, I had always noticed the doilies strewn about my grandparents’ houses and thought that they were wonderfully dainty and beautiful. I guess that was the girly-girl in me shining through in my love of delicate and lacy objects.

When I relayed my choice to my parents, I expected them to be happy and impressed. Strangely, they did not seem enthusiastic and even tried to dissuade me from this option. They tried to tell me that it would be really hard work, and that it would take me a long time to actually learn the technique before I could actually produce anything worth entering into competition.

It should hardly be surprising that none of their arguments had any effect on me. I am a very stubborn person when it comes to holding onto my ridiculous and insanely stupid ideas. So it came to be that my 4-H project was crochet. In my own head, the outcome played out like this:



Apparently, my father was not the only person to make an attempt to interest their child in 4-H that year. My good friend Craig and his father were going to join in on the fun. Craig was lucky in that he lived out in a farm-like setting and actually owned horses and dogs. I’m not completely sure, but I believe his stated intention was to create a project that utilized one of these two types of creatures.

One fine evening, we all hopped in the car and drove to rural Kandiyohi, MN to a meeting of the “Kandi Countrysiders” 4-H club. I don’t know what I imagined this sort of gathering to resemble, but it turned out to be beyond what I could have even imagined. We all sat in rows of chairs and listened to our first official-type meeting, complete with calls to order, motions, seconds, carries, minutes, gavels, and heaven knows what else. I was completely lost in the business-like manner of the meeting and was starting to have severe doubts over my participation.

When it was all over, we all stood up feeling slightly dazed. My dad led me over to some veteran member and I attempted to articulate my choice and idea for a project. It likely made no sense whatsoever, but the person was nice and attempted to be encouraging.

We left the meeting feeling slightly deflated. It was becoming clear to me that this whole 4-H thing was going to be a lot of extra work in addition to school and my buzzing social life. Also, I didn’t actually know anyone who could teach me to crochet, so it was going to be a bit difficult to even start. The whole thing was starting to look less appealing by the minute.

If I remember correctly, we perhaps attended one more meeting before both Craig and I came to the common conclusion that we were simply not cut out for this type of lifestyle. The kids who did it had to be some type of superhuman or even possibly cyborgs. We quit before we even started.

I’m not sure if my dad was disappointed in my choice, or secretly relieved that he wouldn’t have to drive me to all the meetings way out in Kandiyohi. I do know for a fact that neither of my brothers ever attended a meeting nor were they ever encouraged to join. Perhaps my dad felt that he owed it to his own 4-H roots to make one initial attempt to bring one of his children into the fold. Maybe he had visions of 4-H glory for me as well, full of blue ribbons and trips to the State Fair. In the end, I think we all have agreed that it is far easier to attend the Fair as a spectator and admirer of 4-H work than to actually work all year to produce championship doilies.

So if you’re from MN and are attending the State Fair in the next couple weeks, make sure to stop in and admire the hard work of the 4-H kids (including the barn animals). It is no small feat to have an entry in the State Fair. Take it from me, the big quitter, not just anyone can do this stuff.

Underage Consumption: Epic Fail

If you’ve been reading my entries thus far, you may recall my story of teenage hottie overload in my early high school years. You should also know of my brush with the law from my bike cop arrest story. It’s very strange, but as I think back on my life to the craziest and strangest stories, this era remains the richest resource of all. So I have decided to mine the crap out of this resource and put the resulting pieces of nostalgic comic gold here in this blog. For free. You’re welcome.

In case you didn’t know, I was a pretty well-behaved kid. For clarification, by “well-behaved” I mean that I was law abiding (except for bike laws) insofar as the big things were concerned. As I am the oldest child in my family and the only girl, my parents were perhaps a bit more cautious and strict than was necessary, but I rarely rebelled. Had I known what my brothers were to get away with in the coming years, I might have pushed a little harder on the rules. But knowing my personality, I can’t say for sure that I would have.

By no means do I wish to claim that I was a perfect angel to deal with in my teenage years (or any years for that matter). My parents and brothers could certainly tell stories of my bratty angst-riddled outbursts and occasional lack of logic or compassion. However, aside from my hormone-driven home dramas, I appeared to society to be a “good girl.”

Lucky for me, most of my close friends were just like me. We were all good students, participated in extra-curricular activities, followed curfew and returned library books on time. We were, of course, completely oblivious to any illegal activities going on around us, such as drinking, smoking, kissing and drugs. It actually was not until years out of high school when I learned just HOW oblivious we were. But that’s not the point here.

Let’s just say that had we showed up at any of the underground underage drinking parties, our classmates would have gone into shock. Even though we were not a part of the party scene for most of high school, we all knew that it was there. I think we even were mildly fascinated by it and a little curious about it.

The city of Willmar is not large, and in many ways was a very traditional American place. Parents in the community were aware of the teenage party “issue” and came up with what they considered to be “creative” ways to combat this problem. One way was to provide school sponsored parties as an alternative.

In Minnesota, particularly in more rural areas such as Willmar, peak party season is at the end of the school year and branches into summer. It’s likely due to the coinciding factors of impending freedom from summer break and the warmer weather that opens up a greater number of hidden party venues unavailable when the land is covered by several feet of snow and ice. Plus, the last week of school is always a slack time.

Obviously, the last day of school combined with graduation is cause for celebration. I believe it was common for high school students, especially graduating seniors to have big blow-out parties around this time, usually with alcohol. I can’t say for sure, because I never attended one of these gatherings, but I’ve heard plenty of stories over the years. Actually, I’m pretty sure I didn’t miss much since they seem to devolve into fights, name-calling and bad memories, but whatever.

At the end of my freshman year of high school, the school announced that they would be hosting a party at the football field to celebrate the end of the year. There would be refreshments and it would be a chance to mingle with people before you said your summer good-byes. For us, it would be our last chance to see our favorite hot seniors in one place forever.

As I recall, we were all super psyched about this party. It was being held in town at the football field, and my friend Jill’s house was the closest location to hang out before the action started. For some reason, Jill’s parents were not home during our pre-party gathering. Obviously, given the fact that we were 15 years old and were well-established rule abiders, I’m sure they weren’t too worried.

We sat around in Jill’s kitchen just chatting. I’m not sure what we were discussing, but I’m sure it had something to do with boys. Now, I’m not entirely positive about how our conversation turned to the subject of alcohol, nor do I know how it was brought up that Jill’s parents had wine coolers in the basement, but somehow this all happened. It’s possible that there was a dare somewhere in here, but I’m not sure if I could say this for a fact.

All I do know is that Jill went and brought up one of the wine coolers from the basement. My friend Liza and I were apparently the bravest and most rebellious members of our group (later to be proven true by our bike offense incarceration), because we each took one sip from the bottle.

I wish I could describe the sense of excitement, fear and adrenaline that was in the air as this happened, but I cannot. It was crazy. After our two sips, we started to freak out a little bit. After all, we had just participated in underage drinking! As we had no intention of consuming the entire bottle and none of our friends wanted to try it, we were faced with the dilemma of hiding the evidence. We could have just dumped out the rest of the wine cooler and threw away/hid the bottle. But then her parents might notice that they only had five left instead of six.

Our brilliant solution was to add a little water to the bottle and attempt to re-attach the lid. We put the bottle back and took off for the party. I remember sitting in the grass with my friends, feeling that I was pretty freaking awesome and that Liza and I had just been established as the most bad-ass members of our group. (Of course, I wouldn’t have used the phrase “bad-ass” back then because it is a swear word.)

I think I even went so far as to say that I thought I felt “a little woozy.” Of course, I also said this phrase to my mother after having my thimble of first communion wine in 5th grade, so I obviously knew what I was talking about.

For about a week, I kept expecting my parents to get a call from Jill’s mom or dad telling them that I was a delinquent, but nothing happened. In fact, nothing EVER happened. It has simply become a story that occasionally comes up between me and my friends as an example of how completely and ridiculously naïve we were about everything.

The whole story is even more stupid because it involved a wine cooler. I realize that to someone who is unaccustomed to the taste of alcoholic beverages that a wine cooler holds great appeal, as does Boone’s Farm “wine.” However, now that I am completely of legal drinking age and can afford to be more discerning about my beverage choices, I NEVER have picked up a pack of strawberry flavored wine coolers. Despite the fact that my friends are still fans of fruity “foo-foo” drinks themselves, they shockingly do not purchase them either.

After this brief venture into underage consumption, I can safely say that I never drank again in high school. Am I proud of this fact? Sure. Did I have to fight off a lot of temptation? Not really. So I guess I didn’t overcome any great odds or withstand a ton of peer pressure to abstain, and I therefore do not know if I deserve any congratulations for this accomplishment. Perhaps it will lose me my nomination for “Biggest Square” of the Class of ’98, but it certainly will not qualify me for the title of “Most Bad-Ass” either. I guess you can’t have everything.

I Love a Parade

Good day, everyone! I hope you are all having a splendid week thus far. How am I doing, you say? Well, I have some big news for you! It appears that I have now become a popular artist (on Facebook)! Does this mean I am famous? Maybe. Does this mean I am going to be rich? Only if I sell out.

The only downside to my new found fame is that I am now feeling a little pressure to keep up with demand. My past reactions to this sort of thing have not been favorable. My main example would be my somewhat defunct cookie baking blog. Last winter, while on break from school, I decided that I would take the old school Betty Crocker Cooky Book and bake my way through.

This idea was good in theory, although not original. I was able to keep up through about five or six entries before classes resumed. Unfortunately, I soon found that I was not able to find time for baking in the middle of all my homework assignments and working full time. My original plan was to take a hiatus from baking until summer break, but then I decided to take a summer course.

I am presently on a one month break before fall semester, but I find that extremely hot and humid weather makes me hesitant to use my oven for more than half an hour per day. Therefore, I have started this blog as it is a bit easier to maintain entries and it doesn’t require me to do dishes afterward.

As part of my new blog format, I sometimes find that illustration is required to emphasize certain features of my stories. In some circumstances, photographic evidence is available to attach to my narrative, but in most cases, no such documentation exists. I am therefore called upon to put my artistic abilities to the test and produce renderings from my own memory.

For these drawings, I have had to renew my familiarity with MS Paint and Apple’s Paintbrush. Way back in my earlier years, I learned to draw on the computer using Apple’s MacPaint application, which is sadly no longer in production. The newer versions function largely in the same manner, but they do require some patience.

So far, I have utilized these drawing programs in two arenas: my blog and Facebook. My blog drawings are done for the purpose of illustrating a specific story. My Facebook drawings are usually in response to everyday (often workplace related) happenings and are done for the benefit and amusement of my friends and coworkers.

Originally, I had no intention of sharing these drawings on Facebook as I believed them to have limited appeal. However, once one of my coworkers decided to share some of the pictures on her page, I found the effect to be quite amusing (and positive).

Now that I have a mini-following for my artwork, I feel like I need to come up with new and creative subjects to illustrate. As I sat pondering this dilemma last night, I found myself thinking about my clarinet. At present, my clarinet sits in a case within my guest bedroom closet and has not been put together and played since my high school commencement. I have high hopes of one day getting it cleaned, re-corked and serviced so that it may yet again find use. That day has not yet arrived.

In my band-geek musings, I was ultimately drawn to the spectacle that comprises the least pleasant requirement of my clarinet days: marching band. To give you a brief background, during my tenure at WHS, marching band was not a top priority of the director. In earlier decades, previous directors had taken much greater interest in marching band, and I even remember watching field marching during football games in the fall.

By the time I reached high school, a new director had arrived, and his primary interests were concert band and his own rock band that was best known for playing the high school prom each spring. As a side note, you should know that my band teacher greatly resembled the actor Gary Sinise. I’m not sure if this could be considered a compliment or not, but it was a fact. My friend Kellee noticed it first, and it gave way to the clarinet section referring to our director as “Gary” behind his back.

Even though Gary did not enjoy marching band as part of his directing duties, he was under some pressure to make the minimum effort to show that the WHS Marching Cardinals maintained a presence. This equated to approximately one month of extra band time into June every summer. Early morning marching practices and a few scattered indoor music practices were all that was required in addition to the three or four actual parades we marched in.

This requirement was not totally horrible, except that they occasionally required us to be awake before noon, and no teenager would willingly choose to do this on their summer break. Unfortunately, it somehow played into our grade for band, so we were without recourse. Additionally, we were forced to memorize our marching song. This usually proved to be the most difficult and frustrating piece of the puzzle for our director. Faced with unmotivated teens along with rising temperatures, he often experienced several emotional breakdowns in the month of practicing.

All of this hoopla ultimately led up to the big performances at the end of June. The performances themselves were not so bad, and we often got some interesting bus rides out of them when traveling out of town. Honestly, we couldn’t have cared less about the fact that our performances were being judged for prizes in most parades.

In the end, the most memorable part of our marching was not the music, Gary’s emotional break-downs or our bus ride games. It was the marching band uniform. These relics of earlier decades were truly a sight to behold. When most people picture marching bands, they envision clean, sharp uniforms with shiny buttons and flashy embellishments. In order to get an idea of what we were given, you will need to erase this picture from your mind.

Our uniforms were made of polyester. Hardly surprising given its durability, but it has never been known to be a very “breathable” fabric. Our shirts (or jackets) were dark red with high collars and full length sleeves. Our pants were black with red stripes down the side. Over all of this we wore white cummerbunds and white sashes. No shiny buttons, no sequins or capes. Our only other pieces of school issued clothing were our hats.

To describe these hats accurately it somewhat difficult. They were black and had a brim similar to a cowboy hat, along with a string to tighten under our chins. On one side of the hat, the brim was pushed up and attached to the top of the hat in what I can only liken to something the Three Musketeers once wore. Within the fold created by the brim, we were given a red “plume” to jam into place before each performance. The trick with the plume was to make sure that it curved the right way to avoid putting out the eye of the person marching next to you.

Here is my artistic vision of the uniform as apparently I would not allow my parents to photograph the real thing:



All in all, I’m sure we were a sight to behold. Essentially, the end result was that we found ourselves dressed in outfits that allowed for no ventilation whatsoever for any part of our bodies. The tight fitting hats had leather-like bands around the inside to keep them in place. These bands also served as sweet sweat generators that left us with wet hair within seconds of putting them on.

Why am I sharing this story with you? Probably selfish reasons, I suppose. On the radio this morning I heard that this weekend we are supposed to have weather akin to the squishy hot ridiculousness of last week. From my previous entries, I think I’ve been clear about my feelings about hot weather, but it’s sometimes nice to have a little perspective on the subject. I will therefore endeavor to use my Jedi mind control to think of my sufferings from the band uniform when I feel that the heat is unbearable. It could always be worse. I could be wearing polyester.