It’s been a top-rack sort of fortnight around here, which has nothing to do with booze. (Well, a little.) Rather, it’s what happens when everyone is on the go, few meals are being served, and the dishwasher’s top rack — where the glasses and coffee cups go — fills up quickly, and the bottom rack — where the plates and silverware goes — sits empty.
Also, the kitchen table is strewn with newspapers and favors from the auto-company holiday parties Alan’s been attending all week. Right now: The New York Times, the Detroit News, some sugared almonds and a CD of the guy who won one of “The Voice” competitions, who was also the entertainment at the party. Can’t remember his name. You’re not going to make me get up and check, are you?
Chris Mann. I have no idea who he is.
And that’s one of the ways I keep track of things around here. There are days when I feel as though I could give you a snapshot description of every countertop, tabletop, closet and drawer in the house. I know the sound every appliance makes. I know how much laundry needs to be done and how soon we’ll need milk and orange juice. I’m not terribly organized, and I’m not the most efficient housekeeper out there, but I know my own house, the wages of years of working at home, spending long moments staring at a computer screen, trying to concentrate enough to come up with a new way to say the same old stuff.
And today I’m off. Burning up some v-days before the end of the year. I thought of making a quick run south to the Columbus Dispatch holiday party, but then Kate had her road test scheduled today, so that’s what I’ll do instead. Blogging in the morning for a change, seeing if it makes me any chattier, being all fresh and newly caffeinated ‘n’ stuff.
There’s about 10,000 words I could write about trying to teach a teenager a) stick-shift driving; and b) how to drive in combat conditions, which is what Detroit urban transportation is, but I’ll spare you. Tuesday, on my way home from Lansing, I was on the second-to-last freeway of the four numbered routes I take. I-696, the worst of the lot, four lanes of bumper-to-bumper, high-speed lunacy, the closest a civilian will get to driving the Brickyard 400. A Malibu drifted into my lane ahead of me, pretty far — both tires crossed the line. Then it overcorrected back and weaved into the lane on the other side. Classic drunk move. It was around 6:30 p.m., a little early for that, but what the hell, it’s holiday-party season. I saw my chance to pick up speed and pass before the driver came back into my side. Glanced over: A girl about Kate’s age, holding her phone directly in front of her face, with a passenger of the same age, doing the same thing. It’s days like this I want to grab my child, open the panel in her back, and dial back her age settings to 9 or 10 — before the teenage sullenness, before driver’s licenses.
Instead, I will bring you some bloggage:
What a week in the legislature. Assuming the gubernatorial John Hancock or non-veto, soon you’ll be able to take your gun to church. Quoth a supporter:
State Rep. Joel Johnson, R-Clare, called the bill a “pro-public safety bill” because it allowed gun owners to be an asset to public safety in volatile situations.
Yeah, baby! MMJeff, you’d best make that sermon sing, or we’ll be pulling out the shootin’ irons!
Also, the abortion restrictions passed, but not without compromise: You no longer have to give your aborted fetus a proper burial. And — compromise lives! — the bill that would allow your Catholic pharmacist to remain in prayer while you take your birth-control prescription elsewhere died on the vine.
They’re going for the citizenship thing on the voting form again, however.
A moment of silence, then a beep: The inventor of the bar code is dead.
And with that, I have filed 671 words that took me 30 minutes to write. I should do this morning thing more often. Happy Friday, happy weekend.