Adventures in Passport Photos

Earlier this week, I wrote of my thwarted attempts at obtaining a Michigan Drivers License with the end goal being a passport so I can participate in the Bud Light Port Paradise III in December.


My sister and I left West Michigan early Friday morning, driving to the Passport Office in downtown Detroit. Those of you not familiar with Michigan culture, we might have well been visiting another country.

Without any struggle and in awe of the congeniality of everyone we interacted with we go to Greek Town for lunch. Literally we wonder if they do drugs in the back room? We figure it must be payday and they are happy to have jobs in Detroit. My representative even told me he was going to Google me and read AD/OC.

As the waitress delivers the pizza to our table, my phone rings flashing a 313 area code. Recognizing the incoming call is from the Detroit area I answer. The male on the other end informs me that I need a different picture, as you cannot see my eyes in the one I submitted. He requests, if I am still in the Detroit area, a new photograph.

Problem: I was actually happy with my initial print. I even applied mascara, concealer and powder prior to taking said picture. These days, I am rarely bothered to wear pants with buttons let alone make-up.* As we were speaking about the problems I might encounter using said image I thought (luckily to myself) “I am going on a Booze Cruise it’s not like I am going to Yemen.” Unbeknownst to me there is some sort of Fed Ex terror threat involving said country currently occurring in the real world.

Luckily, in the main floor of the building is a shop that provides passport photos while you wait guaranteed. ** After gorging myself on Stuffed Chicago Style Pizza, we drive back to 211 West Fort Street.

As I am getting out of the car I ask Rachel how I look. Her response, “You could look worse.”

The sign on the door says, “Be Back in Five Minutes.” After waiting for ten minutes—with an expanding assortment of people—a clerk begins his shift. I pay $12.50 and return back to the second floor to deliver the new picture.

Bigger Problem: In the retake I opened my eyes really wide hence the new image could be confused for Ramona Singer’s Mug Shot. Crazy Eyes all the way. If I knew how to use Photoshop, I would have some fun with my Facebook Profile avatar.

As I hand them to the earlier clerk, he apologizes informing me that the approval for photo’s in subjective. Thankfully, I keep my smart-ass mouth in check about Yemen or terrorists.

Rachel and I are en route to the Coach Outlet in Howell when she starts to laugh and says, “You just look so insane in your picture.”

Nice. I am second guessing inviting you to join me in the Bahamas.

Coach is having a big sale and I get a purse for an additional seventy percent off the ticket price.*** Better yet, I find a purple passport case for twenty percent off; given purple is my favorite color I must have it.

As we head home, I start to laugh out loud asking Rachel, “Do you think the Coach Case will make me seem less insane in my picture.

“Probably Not.”

Fed Ex delivered the book this morning. I disagree the holder makes me look a teensy weensy bit more sane. Or maybe just less embarrassed. My likeness is contained in a purple Designer case. Whoever wants to mock me can kiss my ass.

For you enjoyment I have included both photos****. Again, please refer to the last sentence of the paragraph above….

Smooches!

*Except lipstick.

**Really not sure what the guaranteed part means but they had in italics in three different signs so it bears mentioning.

***The Dutch Girl in me delights at such bargains thus must purchase.

****They were taken less than a week apart so no I did not suddenly develop a pumpkin head in honor of Halloween.

In my Opinion

OK, so my dad and I just watched Shit My Dad Says…he is way funnier and has agreed to let me pimp him out if I take care of him in his twilight years. Given his eating habits I am getting the better end of the deal. And given the decades of absolute embarrassment he owes me!!!


We are approaching the election so every ad—regardless of candidate or party—my dad makes fun of the media by saying things such as “Whore,” “He kills puppies,” “She should be hung,” or “they should hang that bastard.” When the good candidate appears he states, “the new hope,” or “she likes puppies.”

I just asked how to spell election and he responded, "Did you know you have a spell check in Microsoft Word?"

Followed by him asking if I was registered to vote in time for this election,  I responded no and as I do not know enough about the Michigan candidates it's ok.  He said, "that's easy you just vote for who I tell you to." 

Um, no.

Mercury in Retrograde????

Recently, I won a booze cruise to the Bahamas.* Overall, a happy occurrence; however, a passport is required to board. On the surface that seems like an easy enough endeavor; yet, I am not certain if Mercury is Retrograde in Alyssaland but everything that can go wrong has gone wrong this far this week.


Oh did I mention I won the drawing on 10/17/10 but my guest and I must supply our information by 11/1/10? Yep, on Friday we will be driving to Detroit to secure expedited licenses to travel abroad. Prior to said appointment I need to get a birth certificate and a Michigan Driver’s License.

Yesterday, opting not to travel in what was predicted to be Armageddon, we ventured to the Secretary of State (SOS) in Grand Haven to acquire my Driver’s License. Armed with the information required in Illinois, I am informed I need to prove I have a Social Security Number (W-2, pay stub or government issued card), my identity (birth certificate or Passport), I am who I say I am with a photo idea (my Illinois license or a High School Yearbook**) and residence (utility bills, insurance certificate or a lease). I guess they do not trust that other states are doing their due diligence. Also, are there that many people longing to live in Michigan that they will lie about it such that two proofs of residence are necessary?

Luckily, the weather reports greatly exaggerated the rain portion of the doom and gloom therefore we later drove to the booming metropolis of Grand Rapids where I obtained two copies of my certificate.

First thing this morning I returned to the Grand Heven SOS armed with a pay stub, my valid out of state drivers license and two bills addressed to my parents as I could legally prove a family relationship given the birth certificate. Except, that branch doesn’t open until 11:00 on Wednesdays. Crap. After this ass ache I am going to need a booze cruise.

Having a doctor’s appointment later, I opt to go to the office in Muskegon—a lower caliber of clientele***—as it is nearby.

Did I mention that we have wind gusts of up to 50 miles per hour and I fear the clown car—the Red 1999 Ford Escort—will get swept into the sky and I will land in Oz?

No surprise, I enter the doctor’s office to be told I didn’t need to have the test after all. Um, maybe you could have mentioned that yesterday when you called to confirm the appointment?

I am in and out of the SOS within 20 minutes. I would have been out quicker but the clerk initially entered all my information for an ID Card as, “No one can qualify for licenses anymore.” Said another way Mollie spends a large portion of her day issuing photo identification for people whom, for whatever reason, the justice system of Muskegon have dubbed unfit to drive. Furthermore, she does that more than issue documentation allowing one to do so.

Soon, I will write a blog about Muskegon Drivers….till then I need to say I thought they allowed any moron to operate a motor vehical.

Friday, my sister and I head to D-town for Passports. I pray after all this effort they offer something other than Bud Light.

Later today, I rushed to the post office to mail something before 5:00. After flying by the Fruitport Branch twice, I entered the building to discover they close at 4:00. Nice.

I attended yoga tonight. I usually have no issue empting my day and being present. The sum total of the events from today annihilated my mellow and the relaxation came as a blessing.

Do you ever have days like mine? If so share with me.  If you know of anyone who can relate pass this on to them.

* Bud Light you are good for something. When life is good in Alyssaland When bad it is...well read this blog.


** They didn’t put a timeline on this and I was tempted to bring in my 1992 North Muskegon High School Yearbook.


*** Fortunately for me the only thing I witnessed was the woman who locked her and her toddler daughter out her car. How do you even accomplish that this day in age?

http://www.sos.state.mi.us/drlic/proof.html

Drugs and Me

Over twenty years ago I first encountered my frennemy codeine; indeed time had washed away the bad influence he had on me. Perhaps I was so under his spell that I do not fully recall the detrimental effects he has on me. Sure, I remember being high as kite as my mom drove me from oral surgery as well as hours later laying in my own puke of blood in my our beige bathroom. I also remember attending the museum with my family only to get disoriented. Later the same day, I visited a friend forgetting I rode my bike to her house. After Wisdom Teeth Extraction (all four) I have very few memoriores of the following days except I was often confused.


Pills/drugs have never been a good idea for me. Actifed = Acifried. I become the poster child Nancy Regan’s anti-drug program. In fact after taking the innocent allergy tablet I have been forbade to drive. Once I inadvertently took said medication and I recall meeting a friend to usher for Cabaret in New York. When we met and I said, “Hi,” he smiled and said, “I think you are.”

Last week I went to an Urgent Care Facilty and left armed with more prescriptions than my 60 plus father. One of which was cough syrup with codeine. He was far kinder this rekindling of our relationship. Perhaps gentler due to the fact that he was mixed with cough syrup and not a narcotic painkiller. One will never know.

I am like Helen Keller, as words cannot describe my experience. I was a blob of flesh for whom language was insuccient. Given my control issues, I avoid most drugs as a rule. My only fore being pot in college, which was over a decade ago.

Last  week melting into the couch I am sleeping on given the bed fiasco, I bonded with my Frennemy. Pretty sure I hallucinated, if not I encountered dream so vivid, I repeatedly woke myself up with my verbal, and at times physical, response. During the night, not quite asleep and not conscious I found myself in a conversation with myself.

Certainly, I can understand the draw to this drug; hence I am running as fast as I can. As for Alyssaland, It is a nice place to visit; you might want to live there.

Let me know your thoughts.

On Politics and Writing

I am not political yet last night I tonight I found myself watching O’Reilly due to the fall out of Juan Williams. As for that situation, the state of society scares me because I do not want them (government) to tell me where I can smoke, eat, dry-clean or what I can say.


Admittedly, I am ignorant about most of politics—I do not know who George Soros is or why he is so evil. In Alyssaland, life works without getting worked up about such issues. Likewise, as a reaction to ALL politicians involved in the current Michigan election—the jobs that have left the state for China or wherever ARE NOT coming back. You are beating a dead horse. Think of how to create new jobs and I will pay attention to you. KNOCK KNOCK the 1980’s called they want their platform back.

Basically, my view is same shit different election and what is going to happen is going to happen.....

Most frightening to me, as a writer, is when Glenn Beck stated that his new book employed alliteration because it was written in three parts. Huh? My understanding is this tool--one of my favorite when I give a damn to edit--is the repeated use a letter starting words in a sentence and/or paragraph. I listen, thinking perhaps the names of the parts employed said literary device. Later in the show, someone asked Mr. O’Reilly about “Talking Points” wherein he responded it is a literary device taught in High School. Again, huh? I do not remember learning talking points but I sure remember learning the poetic device defined as:

In language, alliteration refers to repetition of a particular sound in the first syllables of a series of words and/or phrases. Alliteration has historically developed largely though poetry, in which it more narrowly refers to the repetition of a consonant in any syllables that, according to the poem's meter, are stressed, as in James Thomson's verse "Come…dragging the lazy languid Line along" [1]

Education and test scores being what they are in this country we cannot afford such misinformation from any outlet. Mr. Beck please learn your tools before you use them and Mr. O’Reilly, I fully support making fun of the lack of basic knowledge about reading, writing and arthritic. Perhaps you shouldn’t let a blatant error take place before your condemn another for not knowing.

Talk amongst yourselves....and let me know what you think.

Couch Surfing not for Me......

I have been absent from the sphere for 6 days. I hope I have been missed. Rest assured it has been wild in Alyssaland. Early last week I wrote about the long awaited arrival of my belongings. I later posted on Facebook I was so excited I might roll around naked in my shoes.


I must have been smoking crack if I thought it was going to be that easy. I mentioned that I was waiting for 4 pallets equaling 2562 pounds. Unfortunately, I did not employ the proper intellectual effort to consider each pallet would be over 500 pounds. Indeed the deliveryman arrived and deposited boxes that were about 8 feet (three of them were too tall for the garage) by 6 feet. I spent the remainder of Wednesday with cordless drill unscrewing boxes that are bigger than some New York City Apartments bringing down to stairs whatever I could carry which turned out to be very little—one pallet.

I had hired movers yet, being Dutch, as a general rule I try to save money whenever possible which means as paying for as little time as possible.

Thursday, I receive a call from Two Men and a Truck stating the movers would arrive in 15 minutes. At 1:15, almost forty-five minutes later, I get a call that the movers are lost. When I called earlier in the week to schedule, they inquired, “Are you near Seminal.” “Uh, no. Off Sternberg.” Turns out those were wasted words, as the movers were sent to Fairview Street in Norton Shores, not Fairview Court in Fruitport. An hour after the original heads up, Papa and Junior arrive.

Things are clipping along until the final pallet containing the couch. After much struggle the Expert and Novice maneuver the couch down the stairs when fifteen minutes later the Mini Mover called me downstairs. They cannot get the couch in the storage room as I had instructed. After consulting with my dad--and him calling my mom at work--I reluctantly resolve the couch must go in my room. After said directive the movers get it stuck in two doors.

Thwarted and flummoxed, I don’t see a way to have the couch and a full or queen size bed in the room as well. As cool as I am about living in my parent’s house I do not want to sleep in a twin bed at age 36. I might as well get a bed-in-a-bag marketed towards college bound students.

Disappointed to not be replacing the white and taupe quilt with my plumb down comforter. I unpacked on Friday resigned that the multiple pillows would remain on the storage side of the basement.

Did I mention that I am a not only an adult but a bed hog hence a twin bed will not work? Moreover, let me remind you I am cheap thus not wanting to by a bed that would excite a potty trained three year old.

Still uncertain what route to take, the whole operation was further complicated by the fact that yesterday, feeling like an ass inflamed with hemorrhoids, I went to the doctor to find out I had Strep, Bronchitis, and a sinus infection. I wanted to lie in my bed and moan all day and alas, the couch is not the same. Further, strung out on cough syrup with codeine last night I forgot where I was and almost turned over onto the floor. The hard cement floor covered with carpet.

Today, feeling about 50 percent better, I took matters into my own hands. First I laid down the frame of my full bed then compared it to the queen bed. Luckily both fit without feeling as cramped as a clown car. I then dragged the box spring in waiting for my mom to get home from work to assist me with the mattress during which time I washed my linens.

Clean sheet are usually enough to make me happy however a mattress and my comforter please me even more.

I expect tomorrow, after a good nights rest in a proper bed, I will be feeling close to 100 percent. Stay tuned for updates about my adventures with codeine as well as winning a trip to the Bahamas.

Illegal, at the Very Least Unethical

I have been waiting for a delivery from Barnes and Noble.  Today I got a Collection Notice from my former apartment building, Newport Village Apartments. Not the same. On October 8, 2010, The Southwest Collection Service, Inc in Orange California sent a communication informing me that I had been turned over owing $685.37 plus $7.14 in interest. Yet, I have never received a bill from either Newport Village or the parent company Norman Jacobson Realty. Which left me with the question, how can I be in collection for money I did not know I owe?


Befuddled, I phoned the office. After looking through my file, the woman who answers the phone lists the variety of ways they nickel and dimes away my security deposit. $150 for carpet cleaning, $10 for blind cleaning and so on and so forth. After being put on hold twice she informed me she would have to call me back.

Twenty minutes later, my phone rang. She now had an explanation of the collection notice. I owed money.

I have two issues with this. First, how can I already be turned over to collection on October 8, 2010 when I moved out on September 11, 2010 for a debt of which I wasn’t aware? Second, why are they charging me for “normal wear and tear” repairs and cleaning that they would do regardless of the state of my apartment.

When I inquired into issue number one, I was informed that I should have known I owed but they do not send bills. Never, not even when I returned my keys, did anyone inform me that I would owe money.

As for question number two, she claimed that the security deposit was supposed to go towards normal wear and tear. I asked if I had the carpet cleaned before I move would they still have had them cleaned. She said, “If it were not professionally cleaned.” Which I took as an unequivocal yes.

Finally, I spoke with her manager. She informed me that the same day she, Newport Village Apartments, reports the debt to the collection agency is the same day she send the information of amount owed to the corporate office, Norman Jacobson Realty so they can send a bill. Huh? You turn me over to collections before an invoice can even be printed. She is certain, as it is California law they sent me a bill however if I “received it is another question.” Seems illegal, at the very least unethical.

Granted, once it gets sorted out I will pay without any impact on my credit score; however the approach seems a bit, well, drastic.

Can they do this? Anyone in the know, please advice. If you know someone who might know please forward. Anyone else, pipe in.


http://normanjacobsonrealty.com/contactUs

On Moving

Rachel: So here’s the deal for tonite: Shorty’s is a t-shirt jeans and sneaks place. No hooker heals. We r staying @ jamies. I will call when I know what time but prob picking you up @ 8ish. If I get there & you look prissy you aren’t coming.


Me: My hooker heels and prissy clothes have yet to arrive.

I left California over a month ago and the moving truck is scheduled to arrive tomorrow. Granted when I moved out west I was separated from my stuff for 3 months. I will be glad to be reunited with my belongings as being surrounded by them allows me to truly settle into my parents pad. Tomorrow may be as exciting for me as Christmas is for Children. I get giddy thinking of opening each box and discovering the contents.

I look forward to replacing the taupe and white quilt with my plumb comforter, to filling the empty walk-in closet with my clothes, to retiring to my room to watch TV, and, mostly, to not feeling like a house guest. Please note it is not so much about the stuff as it is about creating an environment, a space, and a sanctuary.

When I fled OC, I gave away or sold anything I no longer needed or wanted. Pots and pans, glasses, kitchen utensils, bath towels—you name it. I invited neighbors to come loot my apartment as if the Lakers had just won the title. I sit here today certain that every item contained on the moving truck—all 2562 pounds—are objects I cherish yet if something were to happen to the cargo I would simply mourn the loss of the sentimental stuff and go shopping. I am not my belongings but my belongings are me.

The upside of moving across the country and back in less than two years and spending a grand total of four months with little more than the clothes you are wearing is the death of material attachment. A freedom that allows me to cruise around town in a 1999 Red Ford Escort.*

So I went to Shorty’s sans hooker heels** donning a white T-shirt I bought at Sam’s Club, Jeans and Sneakers.

What is your relationship to material items.

*I used to fancy myself a BMW, Mercedes or, at worst, VW type of girl.  Now I just care that it runs and gets good gas millage.

**I have so many that it might account for half of the cross-country cargo.  Even the moving men commented on how nice my collection was when he packed them up.

Alyssaland

I am engaged in an intense course of study called FUNDAMENTALS OF TRANSACTION offered by INFLUENCE ECOLOGY. At the midway point of the six-month endeavor we are shifting from gathering knowledge to applying it in our offerings. When the FOT began I did not have an offering. A month in, after reading Fernando Flores and Michael Graves “Notes for Ontology of Career,” I hesitantly declared myself a writer. I then enlisted a person to hold me accountable to actually sit down and work as I was suffering from creative resistance.


Influenced by Jennifer Lancaster’s Bitter is the New Black, Valerie Frankel’s Thin is the New Pretty, Steve Dublanica’s Waiter Rant and Are you There, Vodka? It’s me. Chelsea I choose the popular genre of memoir with a chick lit flair.

Monday through Friday from 10-12:30 I sit at my laptop and do the work of writing. Sometimes it flows and sometimes it is torture. Five weeks into the process—having given up my attachment to the story I want to tell and embracing the story that demands to be told—I am getting into a groove.

Yesterday, inspired, I decided on a title.

Adventures in Alyssaland

Countless times I have rehashed an occurrence to my mom and her only response is, “only you.” Often she relays my adventures and exploits to her co-workers who respond with, “only Alyssa.” In fact, I had a coworker who would entertain her mother with “Alyssa Stories.”

Once, I was meeting a few friends at a gay bar called Big Chicks on the Northside of Chicago. After driving up and down Clark Street, I went into another establishment flying the rainbow flag—The Eagle--to ask for directions. It was a bathhouse.

Another time, two days before my college graduation, on my way to pay my phone bill a man randomly punched me in the face and I ended up in the ER. Upon my release I went to work at the Barnes and Noble at Webster Place. My roommate found me high on Motrin wandering Lincoln Park in a summer thunderstorm.

In many ways I am crazy, my life is crazy. Welcome to Alyssaland. Such a nice place to visit you just might wanna stay.

One of the homework questions in FUNDAMENTALS OF TRANSACTION inquires, “If you had to describe yourself as a “brand” how would you express it?” The definition of brand being “A singular idea or concept that you own inside the mind of the prospect" - Al Ries. I still don’t have the answer but I am thinking Alyssaland is something I can own. Let me know your thoughts or any alternative answers to the question. Also, how would you express yourself as a brand?


http://www.influenceecology.com/

Tick Tock Not

The other day I reconnected with a friend from High School. I went to her house in the afternoon with the agreement to come back for dinner. I entered her house a few hours later as she was preparing a meal for her three children.


“What did you do when you went home?” She asked.

“Um, took a nap,” I smiled sheepishly.

She rolled her eyes.

This morning I posted on Facebook “Cooler weather + Warm Bed = 9 hours of sleep.” One of my mom friends commented, “= Lucky.”

I have been a babysitter all my life. Children are usually drawn to me and I can always, at worst, tolerate them. Over the summer, I spent time watching my neighbor kids--Liana (10) and Aubrey (7). Given that they like to spend their days the same as I—at the pool—this was really an easy task for me. In fact, we invented a game where they would “captain” my raft and spritz me with water. We called it the Queen Game. During this time, it became clear to me that though I love kids, I have no desire to sire my own. Said another way, I have no biological clock.

This dawned on me a few weeks before I left California when I took a workshop with Alison Armstrong called Understanding Women: Unlock the Mystery. She was talking about motherhood and the biological clock and how nutty women get around 35. At age 36 a single woman with a internal timepiece goes crazy trying to find a husband before it is too late. That is not my experience.

Until the course, I felt like I “should” children. Moreover, there was something very wrong with me that I don’t, and most likely, won’t. Over the summer I confessed to someone that I didn’t think the whole kids thing was for me. Their concern was who would take care of me when I got older. I think spawning offspring based on a fear of being alone in your golden years is a one of the worst reasons to get knocked up. *

I was on the phone with a friend, “You know…I don’t think I have the any hormonal or biological desire to have babies.”

Apparently this was already evident to him, “You, hell no. You like to play with them and give them back. You are practicing to be the world’s best aunt. Besides if you think of the top three things you enjoy—Cocktailing, Smoking and the Pool—none of those scream motherhood”

True, I drink like an Irishman, swear like a sailor and tan like a homeless person.

Yet, I had to think of my parents. What if I never have children AND my sister never has children. Then we would deny them the privilege of being grandparents. After everything they have provided—and continue to provide—don’t I owe them a little bundle to spoil and send back when done?

I am starting to experience the other effects of a dwindling shelf life for reproductive eggs; yet, they are more a physical annoyance than a call to action. In speaking with my mother two weeks ago I summoned up the courage to tell her what I discovered.

Her response was, “Well some people don’t.”

I then asked her, “But what about you and Daddy?** What if you never have grand kids?”

“One should not become a parent simply to give their parents grand children.” After she said it, I saw that would also be a really bad motive to procreate.



*Even I am not that selfish.

**Yes, I call him Daddy.

On Getting Lost

The day we drove to get my loaner car* from Ruth and Bob, my father would not let me stop at Starbucks stating, “No need to complicate driving with Coffee.” Granted I had not driven a car in years. Also, my parents moved in 2005 and I do not know the town very well. All that coupled with my history of getting lost he may have had a point.


For a brief period I had a car while I lived in Chicago and you could bet money I would get lost if I ventured to the suburbs. In fact, once my sister and I were driving to sell my car in Joliet. The plan was simple; we would drop the car off and take the Metra home. I had taken in the 1988 Gold Honda Accord to have something done  and the person buying the car told me not to pay to have the thingy** that secures the hood fixed as he could do that himself. . While we are en route on The Stevenson the hood flies into the windshield. Bam!  I pull over and phone my boss.


“How do you get to Joliet of the back roads?”


“Why?”


“My hood just flew into my windshield on the highway.”


“How about I give you the directions to get to my house on the back roads and we will have my husband look at the car.”


Her husband is a semi-retired theater producer and set designer and the master of gerry rigging things and his garage houses all the supplies to do so.


We enter their house, immediately greeted by Pasta. They are Italian and if you enter their house you must eat. Meanwhile her husband finds some cord used on Airplanes and ties the hood down. We are off to Joliet***.


With no illusions of having an internal compass, I am armed with the directions from Mapquest.


Two hours later, driving lost in the rain; I swear I will never use Mapquest again.


We finally drop the car off; however, we missed the last train back to the city. Oh, now would be a good time to mention that my sister and I have a 10:00 AM flight to New York tomorrow. Staying in Joliet is not an option.


Wait, I have a brilliant idea!  Go to the Casino surely they have a shuttle bus back to the city. We enter the Riverboat and head straight to the concierge.


“Do you have a shuttle back to the city?” I ask.


She directs me, in as many words, to the Red Phone, which is a direct line to Joliet Taxi. I am informed that  the flat rate to get back to the city is $100.00. I whip out my cell and call my boss again.


“We are trapped at the Joliet Casino.”


“How did you end up there?”


I briefly retell the events since I had left her house 3 hours ago.


“Well, you have to get home. You cannot miss your flight tomorrow.”


“I know.”


She turns and bats her eyes to husband who agrees to drive from his house to pick us up at the Joliet Casino then drive us back to the city. We got home at 12:30.


A word about the people who patronize said establishment late Thursday nights. We saw one man with a disheveled mullet wearing a wife beater heading like a zombie through the doors. We joked that he woke up, realized his direct deposit was in his account and thought, “Gamble. I must gamble now.”


That said I understand my parents hesitation about me driving. In fact, if I open my trunk I double-check the latch to avoid any variation of a repeat on US 31. Google Maps is my friend.


When my parents take me on the back roads—surface streets—it often involves a quiz on which way to turn to get home. I wish they had been this concerned about my absolute lack of direction when I was in Mr. Bee’s Drivers Ed Class.


I did get lost coming back from the Dermatologist last week. Embarrassingly, I have been to that office 3 times. I have been taking Sternberg (the main street which 1.5 miles away from the condo offers every shopping option one could dream of in the sleepy berg of Muskegon County) to almost everything. Emboldened in my new comfort level with driving I thought I would take Mt. Garfield home. I turned left out of the doctors’ office and then left on what I thought was Mt. Garfield. When I drove past one of the elementary Schools I knew something was wrong. Eventually I hit Downtown Fruitport and found my way back to Sternberg. On the plus side, I now know how to get Downtown ****


*A 1999 Red Ford Escort.
** A technical term.
***A town best know for having a Casino and Prison.
***Should I ever have an intense craving for Burger Crest I am able to fulfill it.  Did I mention that Fruitport is right next to Ferrysberg?

Adventures in Recycling

Our garage resembling a fraternity house after Rush Week rather than that of an upstanding resident of Still Water Spring Condominiums; I took the bottles back to Meijer the other day. I thought it would be a simple task. When I lived in Michigan before you would bring in your bottles, some teenager would count them and give you cash money. *

1:15 on Tuesday I enter the bottle return room. The no taste having mullets** returning their Schlitz Cans are waiting for the Aluminum and Plastic machines to open up. The machine—the ONLY machine—that accepts glass in available. Uncertain of how this works, I insert the empty Bells Amber Ale. I get a notification “Bottle Not Big Enough.” Huh? It’s bottle sized. I try again. This time the machine turns and scans the bottle and throws it down a shoot similar to the drive through thingy*** at the bank. With each bottle you can hear the glass break when it reunites with the others. To the right of me is a box for general recycling—to discard the bottles yielding the message “product not sold” or “unauthorized bottle” as well as the cardboard materials that housed the bottles. I turn to discard the Bells Box and am obstructed by a woman who is digging through  said box. Digging, like a bum rummaging though the trash. As she obliviously stands in my way I watch with annoyance—she is slowing me down--and awe. Who goes searching for empties at the bottle return? I am tempted to take my 7 rejected items home to spite her. Finally I can discard my rubbish. $9.10 (91 bottles) later I move to an available Aluminum and Plastic machine to add another $1.10 to my pocket.

I must be getting old because I miss the days of pushing a cart of bottles--in those days cans of Goebel****--to the rear of the store and interacting with some student.  The new system is an ass ache for customers and means one less minimum wage job for some kid's gas fund.  I suspect the only entity that benefits is Meijer....

My Mom detests going in there hence avoids it by any means.  I think she, as usual, has the right idea. 

Reporting live from the Skee. 

*Used immediately after for a hangover breakfast at Denny's.

**A term my father uses to describe Rednecks

***Technical Term.

****Pronounced JoeBell (the French Beer). $9.99 got ya a 36 of cans.