I finished typing a 72-page statement for Al, my private investigator boss. Although just saying “private investigator” sounds all glamorous and exciting–involving, perhaps, stake-outs and hidden microphones and gunfights–Al investigates worker’s compensation claims. In this case, he took a statement from a 72-year old former truck-driver regarding his hearing loss. (“What?” Oh, excuse me, that’s my dad’s old joke.)
The funniest thing I ever heard while typing for Al was the time he was interviewing a burly, Harley-Davidson-riding, construction worker. All of the sudden, Al says, “What type of work did you do, sweetheart?” to the guy. Silence. Then a little nervous laughter. I guffawed and rewound the tape so I could laugh more. Then I played it for my husband. Then I mocked Al and laughed harder.
Anyway, this most recent guy said he was in the Army Reserves in the 1950s. In the summers, he would report for duty in Eastern Washington and his unit would build a bridge over a gully or canyon. Then, another unit would come and blow it up. He said, “That just about broke my heart.”
Huh. Tax-payers’ dollars at work. Although, I’ve been puzzling over that and I guess that’s probably the most logical way to learn bridge-building and demolition.
BREAKING NEWS I just had a telephone call from Barb, a church woman we know. She works at the college where Anne Lamott is appearing tonight. Last Friday I saw the notice in the newspaper, advertising tickets for $20 and when I called on Monday, I was informed that this even thas been sold out for months.
Well. Then why was it in the newspaper? Huh? Huh? Tell me that! Al (the private investigator) tried to call in a favor and get me a ticket. No dice. So, my husband thinks of this woman at church who works at the college. He called her today and she has a ticket for me! I feel like a stalker or something because I was seriously thinking about going and lurking outside the auditorium with hopes that I might sneak into the building. The only catch is that the appearance is not on the campus near my house (just a few miles away), but in another town probably half an hour away.
Yesterday, a set of twin boys came over to play with my twin boys. They played basketball for awhile, but then disappeared around the corner of the house. When I finally investigated, I found them trying to use a small magnifying glass to start a fire. They had very carefully constructed a cement block fireplace, used newspapers and had dry leaves ready to add. “But Mom, we weren’t trying to start a fire!” TwinBoyB has successfully created flames in the backyard already–a few weeks back–but with a giant dinner-plate sized magnifying glass that was my dad’s. I immediately confiscated it. I remember trying to start fire myself with that magnifying glass and trying to sear insects. Still. I am a kill-joy. A party-pooper. There will be no campfires in my backyard.
It kind of reminded me of when the twin boys were over and all five boys created a potion by peeing into a bucket.
YoungestBoy could not be more “look-at-me-look-at-me” outgoing. During the kindergarten program Tuesday night, he was completely animated, bobbing his head to the songs. When the audience applauded, he pursed his lips and did a little “golf-clap.” I was so happy I video-taped him. Also, I saved the day for the mom standing next to me. The program was about to start and she pulled out a tape and said to her husband, “Oh no! I’m out of tape!” I said, “Hey, do you want a new one?” I happened to have a brand new, never-opened spare tape. I love it when I can do that sort of Supermom thing. Turns out that it was Brian’s mom. We met before on the day of YoungestBoy’s birthday party because Brian came to YoungestBoy’s party–and then vice versa because they share the same birthday.
Stupid Starting Over Girl
I mentioned previously my addiction to “Starting Over,” the reality day-time television show. Josie gave birth. Gushed over how she was so happy because she was the only one who could feed her baby. Then, the next thing I know, the baby has a bottle in its mouth. I hate that I’ve become so zealous about breastfeeding, but honestly. You’re poor, you have nothing, but you do have breastmilk. Use it. Dingbat.
It’s Thursday. What does that mean? It means I have forgotten to figure out what to cook for dinner. This also means that my husband will be extra-hungry, because on the previous days this week when I actually made a decent dinner, he was full. That’s how it works around here.