Land Shark

Friday, I did 2 maintenance appointments. Mamogram and gynecologist. There's something funny about the word mamogram. I always hear it in my head like the skit from Saturday Night Live with the land-shark, waiting outside the door saying "candygram" in that odd voice. There are 3 facilities open to me, Lake Forest, Gurnee and Grayslake. This year, I gave Grayslake a try, having heard from my friends that this was the superior facility in that they did not rip the breast from your chest in the process of flattening it into a temporary pancake. It is a newer facility and because of this, quite nice. I was greeted by a lady who is some kind of receptionist type. She took me to the little changing room and gave me instructions. I was given a very lovely rose pink shirt-gown that crossed over and tied on the side. She explained that the bathrooms were lovely and cleaned hourly. Then she said something I thought was quite odd. She said that no men used the washrooms. And if one dared to he was chased right out the back doors and on to the prairie. Clearly, she is from Grayslake. There's a field behind the building. Just a field, it's not a prairie. (visualize rolling eyes here) And aside from the fact that it was as pleasant a mamogram as I have ever had, the technician was professional and as gentle as possible under the circumstances, I continue to be bothered by that remark. As a person who is well known for the question "what is it with men anyway ?", it may seem a bit strange to hear me standing up for the gender, but really, several of my favorite people are men. In fact, on the whole, I am fortunate to know a large number of really decent men. I would not mind any of them using that bathroom. I would even extend bathroom privileges to some of the less well-liked men of my acquaintance, should they have need of them. More to the point, I am quite certain, I am not the first person that woman has said this to. If she is like most people who have to say the same thing over and over, she has a patter that she says to everyone. Here's the room, here's the locker, here's the gown, here's the bathroom, blah blah man-joke, hah, hah, sit here, wait. Tell everyone the same thing and you don't forget anything important. Nasty men can't use our pretty pink bathroom. And we wonder why we have trouble getting men to take us seriously.

Garbage in Gabage out

As you know, I live in that little slice of that heaven we'll call Babbling Brook Lane; West Babbling Brook Lane to be exact. Last Monday we did not get a garbage pick up. We thought it was due to the fact that the roads in and about Babbling Brook Lane are being resurfaced. All of the residents left their trash out, expecting that someone would come to pick up the trash the next day. But they didn't. The recycling truck got through to pick up the recycling, but the trash: No. The sun beat down. The rain fell. Wednesday, on my way to work, I noticed that the trash was picked up on North Babbling Brook Lane. It was picked up on East Babbling Brook Lane. It was picked up on on Ipswitch and Dogwood and the other cross street but not on West Babbling Brook Lane. So, when I got to work, I called Viola Waste, the garbage service. The very nice young woman customer service person there told me that the truck couldn't get through because of the road re-surfacing, but they would pick up the trash today. When I got home, there it was, just like everyone else's garbage, sitting by the side of the road. So, Thursday morning, I called again. This time I was told again that the trucks couldn't get through. I again pointed out that the recycle truck made it. The customer service girl said they hadn't been able to get through because of the paving trucks. I pointed out that there had not been any trucks for 2 days and that the people on North Babbling Brook, East Babbling Brook, Ipswitch etc had gotten their garbage picked up in spite of the trucks. Then the girl told me that they couldn't come and get the garbage because they couldn't bring the truck on the new road without permission from the road people because the truck is heavy and might crack the new pavement. I confirmed with her that she could not tell me when they would be picking up our garbage from our newly blacktopped street and hung up. I have to admit that I kind of admired her imagination, but there more I thought about it, the more pissed I got. I mean really-crack the blacktop??? I also had visions of the local wildlife strewing the garbage up and down the lane. So, thanks to the miracle of modern technology, with a few clicks of my mouse I was sending a message to the 2, count'em 2 aldermen who represent the Babbling Brook subdivision-the ward boundary runs straight down North Babbling Brook.

Now I don't know if I had anything to do with it, but when I got home, the garbage had been picked up.

Order is once more restored.

Country Road

I went on a trip today, to take my mom to visit my aunt. My aunt has been very ill for a long time and is now living with my cousin and his wife. He is a cop and she is a nurse. They have 2 small children and my cousin's 19 year old daughter from his first marriage also lives with them. Three long hours into Wisconsin to get to their home. Whenever I take one of those drives I am mentally lured back to my childhood, to a different way of life. To those quiet notes and long summer days that we access only on the printed page and through our own memories. I wonder if that way of life isn't still alive in these little towns. It's silly I know, but going past the old churches and by the miles of railroad sidings, by the barns and pastures it seems just possible. Like nothing has changed. Like you could go home again.

It's a mirage, of course. We arrive at my cousin's and he is exactly as I remember him; a sweet faced boy, now in a middle aged body posturing about the mean streets of middle-of-nowhere Wisconsin. I'm sure his criminals are like criminals everywhere. No better, no worse. His kids are normal, sweet kids, playing video games and watching Sponge Bob. Another cousin has come to visit as well, now balding and a bit paunchy, looking like his father, focused on downloading pictures onto a laptop to show them to my aunt. He recalled mushroom hunting when we were kids. I have no recollection of this. He swears it is true. And so we visited my poor aunt as she drifted in and out. My cousin's wife came home from work. Invited us to return. As we left, all I could think of was getting home. I drove for 3 hours and did not stop.