Boxes Boxes Everywhere

If you had asked me last September where I thought I would be in a year, I would have never guessed Kansas. But sometimes life takes you where you never thought you would go.

That's where we are headed. Kansas. Land of Dorothy, Toto, and the Wizard of Oz. Flat rolling landscape of endless fields of golden wheat, and best of all, killer tornadoes.
But when I traveled the innumerable miles to Kansas, it didn't seem that bad. In fact, it just seemed like any other midwestern town. It fact, the small town suburb we are moving to is much like the one we are leaving.
For the forth time in as many years, I opened up the moving boxes. From Indy to Cinci and back again. Now farther west, towards the setting suns of my youth.
I'm absolutely positively sick of moving. I'm exhausted. In the entire 30 some years of my life, I've moved at least twenty three times. I'm not exaggerating. I just counted.
So you can understand how one would become weary of the whole thing.
At least I know how to move. From a young age, I learned how to pack dishes so they won't break, how to secure priceless family heirlooms between linen closet sheets and blankets, and how NOT to pack books. (HINT: smaller boxes are better!)
I was thinking the other day that I should become some kind of moving consultant, but then I decided I couldn't stand to look at another box.
I've become somewhat of a box snob in all my years of moving. Like most people, I started out begging for boxes from grocery stores or pulling boxes out of dumpster. I then moved up to procuring boxes from the company print room. (Still excellent boxes, if they can be had). Once, while in college, my roommates and I moved 1 block to a new apartment, so we just chucked everything into the back of my woody station wagon and cruised over with the mattresses on the roof. I had it especially easy, moving from one first floor apartment to another.
Oh, the good old days, when you didn't care if your desk got a few more dents. Now, my furniture costs considerably more than I paid for that woody station wagon!
Also, I've noticed that almost every time I move, I need a bigger moving truck. No amount of purging and yard sales seems to solve this problem. Of course, my packing is now for four people, instead of just one or two.
My first move, I started out with the wimpy 12 foot U-Haul. At some point, we moved up to the 28-foot Penske truck. I currently have reserved a 53-foot semi. The beauty of the semi is that we don't have to dive it.
My mom told me that I should get rid of everything. The problem is, I like my stuff. I like my comfortable old couch and well broken into bed. If I got rid of it, I would just have to get more stuff. That wouldn't be very cost effective, would it?

If you don't believe that I've moved at least 23 times in my life, here is a brief breakdown. I'm sure I'm missing a few moves in there when I was younger.

Indiana:
1. Lake house/apartment
2. Green house

New Mexico:
3. Albuquerque apartment
4. Bernalillo Apartment
5. Bernalillo Trailer
6. Bernalillo House
7. Madrid House

Back Home again in Indiana:
8. Fort Wayne apartment 1
9. Fort Wayne apartment 2
10. Fort Wayne apartment 3
11. Lafayette apartment
12. West Point House
13. West Lafayette Dorm
14. West Lafayette Apartment 1
15. West Lafayette Apartment 2
16. West Lafayette Apartment 3
17. West Lafayette Apartment 4
18. Indianapolis Apartment 1
19. Indianapolis Apartment 2
20. Indianapolis House

Ohio:
21. Cincinnati House

Back Home again in Indiana Revisited:
22. Brownsburg House

Off to visit Dorothy and Toto:
23. Granger Kansas House

The Replacement

New Mr. Bear (aka The Replacement) arrived today. With great haste, I opened the box. I was shocked at what I found. New Mr. Bear, in a pristine condition. His gleaming white countenance smiled up at me, his manufacturing tags standing crisp and at attention. I snapped this picture for prosperity. Old Mr. Bear, meet The Replacement.
Actually, Old Mr. Bear is resting comfortably at the old folks home. He is planning on taking up golfing in his old age, and maybe scaring hikers and panhandling for picnic baskets.
New Mr. Bear has begun work. He slipped in under the cover of darkness, and has not yet been identified as a covert agent.
I think New Mr. Bear will have an easier life. My son has pretty much stopped chewing on his toys. Maybe New Mr. Bear's legs will stay intact for a while.

The Saga of Mr. Bear Vol 2

The sad sad story of Mr. Bear continues. As many of you know, Mr. Bear is my son's lovely. He has had a traumatic existence. As soon as he was able, my son started chewing on Mr. Bear’s head and ears. He made a really great teeter. Unfortunately, he developed a nasty odor and an unpleasant brown appearance. I attributed it to the fact that Mr. Bear was becoming partially digested from all the slobber that covered his body. One could pick up Mr. Bear hours later, and he was still a sodden sloppy mess. Once those pearly whites came in, my son moved to the feet and arms.
I tried to solve this problem by soaking Mr. Bear in a variety of caustic baths. I tried using Oxy Clean, vinegar, Tide, and Shout. All these would work with varying degrees of success, but poor Mr. Bear would soon regain his lackluster appearance.
Mr. Bear (and my son) turned two recently. Mr. Bear has not aged well. His ears are threadbare and his legs are tattered. He is missing about 50% of his stuffing. It fell out of his legs.
I did try extreme measures to save Mr. Bear. I performed a rare and dangerous operation. With great care, I extracted the nasty hard stuffing and replaced it with nice soft stuffing. I then sewed up all his holes with precision. I think I took more care than a doctor in the ER.
However, Mr. Bear's fabric was so worn out and threadbare from constant chewing, that he soon ruptured again. His new stuffing became hard and flat again. As the days have gone on, I have watched with a heavy heart the rapid death of a much-loved bear.
Then I panicked. My son won't sleep without Mr. Bear. If he loses him in the middle of the night, I have to rush to the rescue and return Mr. Bear to his empty arms. If Mr. Bear simply disappeared into nothing, my son would be crushed.
I found out that a friend had purchased Mr. Bear from the hospital gift shop where my son was born. One day, I happened to be at the hospital for some minor tests, and decided to swing by the gift shop and see if I could pick up a spare. I looked high and low, and finally asked the volunteer. She informed me that they had stopped carrying that bear. She did tell me that it was made by Russ.
Upon further research, I found out that Mr. Bear was discontinued. I searched the Internet high and low, but all I could find was the same bear, but in pink. I nearly bought pink Mr. Bear, but decided against it at the last minute. I could just see my son throwing a fit because Mr. Bear was not the correct color.
So I thought about drastic measures. I figured I might be able to amputate Mr. Bear’s legs and then sew on new legs. I thought about going to the fabric shop and looking for some velour that matched. But each time, I didn't do it. I knew that if Mr. Bear wasn't exactly the same, my son might reject him.
Finally, many months later I searched the Internet again. Again, I found pink Mr. Bear, this time on Ebay. I was a little disappointed, and thought again of purchasing pink Mr. Bear. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed that the seller had a web site store. When I clicked over, I FOUND MR. BEAR in BLUE!! I made great haste to my Visa card, and immediately ordered the beloved bear.
Now, the challenge that faces me is this. I have to somehow sneak Old Mr. Bear into retirement. I'm thinking I’ll wash new Mr. Bear a few times and then when my son is sleeping gently place New Mr. Bear in his grubby little hands. Old Mr. Bear will be retired.
Will I shed a tear for Old Mr. Bear? Not at all. I'm retiring him to the quiet and peaceful memory box, where he can rest. Old Mr. Bear didn't need an amputation after all which I'm sure he is happy about. Anyway, he can always come out of retirement at a later date, if New Mr. Bear doesn't fulfill his job duties. I just hope New Mr. Bear doesn't mind being wet!

**NEW MR. BEAR ENJOYS A MOMENT OF REPRIEVE BEFORE BEGINNING HIS DANGEROUS WORK**

June Bug

The vicious and killer beetle called the June bug has attacked my roses. These distrusting creatures have a blue green caprice, and love to feast on the flowers. They are aggressive little buggers, flying with reckless abandon towards my head in a kamikaze attempt to keep me away from their prize.
I don't think June bugs bite, but there is something disconcerting about a wild swarm of June bugs descending on an unsuspecting person. I saw one on my sleeve, and did the hurky jerky pat pat dance to get it off.
I started out spraying them with a gentle mist of this product that is supposed to kill them. It just pissed them off. That's when they started swarming at my head. So I turned the nozzle to stream, and started blasting the little buggers. That seemed to take some of the pep away.
Apparently, I have June bugs because I have a terrible lawn. I'm sure it is grub infested. The person who lived here before us thought that weeds made an attractive flowerbed, so go figure. I need to get some more poison to spread around.
Unfortunately, with kids you have to be careful of the stuff. You don't want to apply some nasty poison and then send the kids out to play. It also can't be too hot, cold, dry, or wet. So trying to find the optimum time to do this is a trick.
Here is a picture of my little June bug. Isn’t she a cutie?

Don't CALL US!

My dad recently left on a trip to the UK. It's a trip that he has wanted to go on his entire life.
Unfortunately for him, he decided to fly with United.

I don't know if you know this, but United has been having a few little problems. They filed for Bankruptcy, pissed off the pilots and stewardesses by cutting their salaries, and laid off a bunch of people. Of course, they also outsourced everything to India.

My dad's luggage never made it to him. In fact, it is in some kind of bizarre luggage limbo. He flew United to the UK, and then finished out his trip on another airline. He can't even get a hold of a real person with United.

In desperation, he asked me to try and call them. Three times now, I've waited on PERMA hold. Once I was cut off, and the other two times I gave up. Their lovely electronic voice tells you to fill out a luggage claim form and MAIL! it to them. WTF!? In this day and age, I have to print something out and MAIL it to you? You don't have a system for taking this form over the INTERNET?

So I really haven't been able to help out my dad all too much. He has emailed me that he bought a few items at a discount store over there. I feel kind of bad. I'm sure when I go pick him up at the airport, he'll have all his stuff taped up in a garage bag. That is, of course, if United doesn't loose it again.

A few links about how terrible United is:

http://www.usatoday.com/money/industries/travel/2007-06-18-ual-service-usat_N.htm

and this web page:

http://www.untied.com/

Soups On

Home too early
the car parked askew
Home for lunch?

A silent no the answer
I didn't want to hear

I stare into the soup
The liquid depths a
mystery

Square carrots potatoes
and the occasional
pea mocking me

The empty Campbell's can
Red and White
Standing sentry
on the counter

Vegetarian Vegetable
forever burned
on the psyche

Jessica Miller 06/25/2007

Bohemian

The online dictionary defines a bohemian as: a person, as an artist or writer, who lives and acts free of regard for conventional rules and practices.

I've always had a tough time meeting new people because of my bohemian childhood. It's not that I'm shy; it's just that I don't feel like I have anything in common with most people. I've lead an interesting life. Once everyone who would be offended is gone, I promise I'll tell you all about it some day.

In the meantime, I'll give you just an innocuous glimpse:
In my teen years, we moved around a lot. We would just get to a place, and then we would move again. My shortest tenure at any school was Santa Fe Elementary, where I stayed just long enough to get a desk and my schoolbooks. I contend it was three days, my parental units say it was a week or longer. During that time, we lived in a house without running water. We got all our water from a pump outside. We were lucky, some people in that community had to haul their water from a well that was a good distance away in trucks. Because the lack of running water, we used outhouses and took baths in a barrel.

A short time later, we moved back to civilization. We returned to Indiana were my parents were originally from. My parents both enrolled in college, and attempted to make better lives for our family. In was weird to be the only kid in my class whose parents were college students. Invariability, someone would ask what my dad did, and I would have to stutter around for an answer. It wasn't that I was embarrassed; it was that he worked three jobs, AND was a college student. I really just didn't know how to answer. He was a night desk clerk, rented plant gardener, and green house dude. In his spare time he studied a lot.

It's the same thing when people ask me where I'm from. I usually just say Lafayette Indiana. But really, I didn't move to Lafayette until I was in 7th grade. The years before that are a blur. I really don't call anyplace "home". Although if pressed, I say that I "grew up" in New Mexico. I'm really jealous of my husband, who lived in the same house almost his ENTIRE life. He never changed schools EVER! His parents still live in the same house they built in 1976!

Another reason I have never really "fit in" is that I was probably the most well read kid in my school. I would snitch my parent’s novels from their bookshelves and take them with me to read during study hall. I became addicted to science fiction at an early age. I sure I freaked my teachers out when I came to school with Heinlein, Brooks, and Varley under my arm at the young age of 13. One teacher asked me if I thought "The World According to Garp" might be a little to mature for me. I just shook my head and kept walking. It wasn't until later that I found the sex scene between the mentally challenged man and the nurse. That was some interesting reading for a 13-year-old girl!

To this day, I'm an avid reader. My favorite classes in college were history classes, because I could read big thick books. Once for the fun of it, I took a speed-reading class. On the first day, I clocked 600 words a minute. Believe it or not, my dad reads faster than I do. We gave him a book for Christmas once, and he had it finished by noon.

So I think the reason I have a tough time meeting people is that I don't really feel like I have a lot in common with people. Now that I have kids, it's a little easier, because at least we have that common ground to talk about.

I still find myself cringing when someone tells me contradictory information about parenting. I want to yell, "Hey, I read the book!" When someone tells me to rub whiskey on my baby's gums. But usually I just smile, nod my head, and pretend to listen.

What can one say to a neighbor who thinks that the moon landing never happened, that's it's okay to eat fish out of a contaminated river, and that George Bush is the best thing that ever happened to this country (sorry if your a fan)? Maybe my problem is that Indiana is one of the most conservative states, and I really just can't relate sometimes. Maybe I'm not a bohemian in the traditional sense, I don't wear bedsheets or put flowers in my hair, but in some ways, my mind will always be tainted by a hint of bohemian.

I think I'll just take my liberal mind and go home. I have another book to read.

Oh, and don’t forget to look for my novel in bookstores in about twenty years!

The Midnight Gardener

The midnight gardener

Roams alone

Through the rustic wonder of night

The moon shines down as the world

Goes to sleep

Illuminating the world in soft grays

And muted colors

With rake shovel and hoe

Instruments of death

Weeds falling to the slaughter

Hiding behind shadows to escape

Solace surrounds me as I bring life

To this world

Create color out of brown mud

Sound fills the air,

An owl or a coyote in the distance

A cricket’s chirp, a friendly sigh in a welcoming ear.

I am a midnight gardener.

Jessica Miller Spring 2007

Smells Like New Car

Years ago, when I was still young and more in touch with my hip side, I vowed I would never ever drive a mini-van.

However, a decade and two kids later will make you change your mind real fast.

Yes, I know. I'm a married thirty something with two kids living in the suburbs. But really, once you have two kids, you need the mini van

My "new to me" mini van was delivered today, and I can't wait to drive it. It's a sleek sporty sliver color. My old car was "spruce green." I was really getting sick of that color. It seemed okay when I bought it, but three years later, the green really wears on you. It reminded me of a big green booger.

I thought the family size sedan was going to work. And it did, until we added the baby. Once the baby was added, and two car seats, the sedan became a little too cramped. With both myself and my husband near six feet tall, we ran out of legroom, and headroom, and moving room. Don't get me wrong; the kids had plenty of room in the back. But because the seats can't touch the back of the front seat, we were pushed uncomfortably close to the dash.

Now with the new wheels, we will all be able to have breathing room. Or at least room to sit without our knees being bashed against the dash. I'll also have plenty of room for the double stroller and groceries. I know, I know, I'm such a stereotype, but you know what? If nothing else, it's a comfortable life!

A real conversation Vol !

This conversation actually took place. This is not fiction. Names may have been changed to protect the innocent, or the really stupid.

Scene: Wendy's drive through.

Time: Noon

Starring:

Me: A harried mother of two on the go. Wearing a lovely new shirt, now covered with drool, spit up, and muddy spots.

Employee: A witless moron type, wearing the requisite Wendy’s attire, complete with moronic look on face.

Me: Hello. I would like to order a chicken nugget kids meal, with white milk and a fruit cup.

Employee: We don't have fruit cups.

Me: Oh, I thought you did. What do you have?

Employee: I don't know, let me check (Pause). We have orange slices.

Me: (confused) I think that will work.

My question is, isn't a fruit cup and a cup of orange pieces the same exact thing? And why did you have to check, don't you work there? Also, they forgot the kid’s toy in the meal. What a bunch of amateurs!