Fillalou

My Grandfather Irish had nicknames for all of us grandchildren. Some dealt with attitude, some dealt with ability. Today, some of the nicknames would probably get him into trouble. A prime example would be his nickname for my cousin, Tim. Tim was simply known as "That Friggin' Kid". Believe it or not, it fit.

My nickname, on the other hand, was Fillalou. According to my Grandfather, a Fillalou was a mythical bird that flew backward to see where it had been, rather than forward to see where it was going. The result? Extreme clumsiness. It was his creative way of calling his grandkid a clutz. Like "That Friggin' Kid", "Fillalou" fit me to a T.

It likely began when I was a little over a year old, just learning to walk. My sister (KeddyJ in the comments section) decided that I 'looked stupid'. So she pushed me. INTO A COFFEE TABLE. There is still a scar over my eyebrow, if you need proof.

From that day forward, no walk down the street, no bike ride, no step off a school bus was safe. The Rennratt was sure to fall down.

I fell UP the stairs with such regularity in high school that, eventually, my bruises and bumps had bruises and bumps. Oddly, I rarely fell DOWN the stairs.

I have a scar on my scalp from a walk into town at age 16 or so. I ran into a telephone pole and drove a nail into my head.

I fell out of a school bus at age 16 and nearly broke my ankle. Naturally, it happened hours before receiving "MVP" at a SPORTS BANQUET. [I was fine at 2 pm when school let out. At 8 pm, I arrived with a cast/splint...on crutches. CLASSY.]

I regularly ran into doors, walls, parked cars. I don't know if it was from living inside my head or a true, undetected problem with balance. To my knowledge, I was never tested for hearing problems or sight issues. [Maybe my parents should have had me tested for THIS...] Other than sports physicals - which mostly were comments about how much I weighed - I rarely saw doctors at all.

By the time I hit college, I was sure that the curse of clumsiness had gone. I moved just shy of 1,000 miles from home (922, to be exact) in hopes that Fillalou had been safely left behind.

No such luck. By the time I graduated from college, I was on crutches 7 more times. My right ankle was severely weakened by the Bus Incident, and no step was safe for me. I took ONE STEP outside the cafeteria (Curse you, Benedum Hall!) and had to be taken to the ER. I was on crutches for 3 weeks. Each incident following had the same result - whether it was a friendly hike to Bickles Knob or simply a casual stroll across the room. There would be a fall, there would be pain, and someone would be driving Rennratt to the hospital.

Fast forward to...today. I am nursing a three day headache from an unfortunate encounter with a paper towel dispenser. There is a bump (under my hair), dried blood, and I'm sure, soon, there will be another scar. This time, however, I wasn't spacing out -0r even looking backward. I just had my eyes closed.

If Grandfather Irish was alive today, he would look at me, sigh, and shake his head. Then he would slowly say "Fillalou, really. You're getting worse than That Friggin' Kid".

I'm Done Counting

Finally. Six month inventory completed out today. Since this was my first full-on responsibility as Boss 2, it was somewhat nervewracking. However, both Boss 1 and Big Boss made sure that I was up to the challenge.

Two days before the final count, I was told we would have an Auditor. (Signal Primal Scream.) We had an auditor last inventory (Thanksgiving weekend), so I was surprised we had one this time. In our business, Auditors are generally handed out when there are problems. This time, in a fit of genius, Corporate decided that EVERY division should have an auditor of their very own.

The Auditor was prompt; he arrived 15 minutes prior to the official count. He spent a short time with Boss 1 - and the rest of the day? HE WAS WITH ME. I started off feeling twinges of Nausea and Panic. I finally thought 'This is STUPID!' - and blurted out "I really have no idea what I'm doing." TO THE AUDITOR!

He laughed. Then he said, "That's why I'm here. We will plod through it together. It is going to be just fine." Surprisingly, it was. We have inventory again in November. If we must have another auditor, well, I hope we get him again.

Did I mention that he was a Nerd?

White Horse Update

I was set to catalog the Journey of the White Horse - complete with pictures. However, Brenda's comment made me a little nervous. I decided, for this week at least, to simply keep track (via my notebook) where the horse was positioned each day. I realize that isn't nearly exciting as pictures, but it's something, right?

Wrong. Imagine my surprise when, on Sunday, the horse was gone. Ditto Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday. I even drove by slowly, trying to see if it had journeyed to the back yard - or if, for giggles, the owner had put it on the porch. It also looks like the house (a mere 3 years old) has been abandoned. There seems to be a large pile of trash - partially burned - in the back yard. Odd.

This brings me to my next set of burning questions: Was Sgt. Buzzkill right? Was this owner a heroin dealer? A vagrant? Or was the homeowner a simple Neo-Pagan with Feng Shui issues? [Did you know that, in majick/folklore, it is believed that a cyclops/man named Odin became Santa Clause - and he rode a white horse that had eight legs?]

My brain now hurts. What do YOU think happened to the white horse - and the family that lived there?

Random

Today, on my way home from work, I saw a broken down taxi. The name on the side? DEPENDABLE. I think not.

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A few weeks ago- (also on my way home from work), I passed a promotional vehicle for a local literacy campaign, which was funded by a grocery chain. Both the name of the campaign and the grocery chain were emblazoned across the vehicle in large, festive letters. Unfortunately, the vehicle chosen was a SHORT BUS. Snort.

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Chicken and Stapler (aka Stapled Chicken - for Brenda)

What started the game? A Joke - which was told thusly:

Why did the chicken cross the road?
To get to the other side.
Why did the TURKEY cross the road?
'Cuz it was stapled to the chicken!

Stupid, I know. But at two and a half years old, Nooze found it brilliant. She knew what a chicken was, and had been recently introduced to a stapler (not formally, as in how-do you do, but as in 'this is a stapler, the staples in it keep paper together').

Armed with this knowledge, Nooze was aware that, if staplers and staples kept paper together, then if STAPLED, a Turkey would be physically fastened to the chicken. It would have no choice but to cross the street.

This resulted in the creation of THE GAME. The gist as I remember it:

One person is the chicken. Unhappy about being forced to drag things across the road via staple, [s]he is RUNNING away. Thumbs and index fingers are pinching up and down in chicken/beak formation, protesting.

Naturally, this makes the other person the STAPLER. Obviously large (and therefore able to staple random items to live poultry), the stapler is chasing the chicken attempting to staple. Both arms are chopping up and down in an exaggerated fashion. Much screaming and screeching takes place during this game.

The game had a tendency to end abruptly, as Nooze discovered something more interesting to do...Like pick flowers, look at a book, or simply space out.

I wish that I could explain more about the game, but the rules were arbitrary. It was more about running around screaming than anything, and it was created in the mind of a toddler. And, of course, it all started with a joke.

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I pass a house each morning that has a horse in the front yard. Since I live in the country, this shouldn't be anything out of the ordinary. Yet it is. See, despite the fact that the horse is life-size, it isn't real. I don't mean that it is imaginary; it is real in the physical sense - it just isn't alive.

This is also not to say that I have a neighbor with a gift for grand scale taxidermy. The horse is simply...Fake. I have never pulled over, gotten out of my car and gone to inspect it up close (I should) - but it appears to be made out of some sort of high grade plastic. Like the horses on a Merry Go Round. Only larger. And upright. And white.

Yet, despite the fact that this creature is truly not alive, it MOVES. Daily. From the front yard directly in front of the house, to the side, peeking through the trees. I slow down each time I pass the house, trying to remember where I saw the horse last. Is this a trick? I wonder. Is it a Code? Is the homeowner a spy, or simply experimenting with external Feng Shui?

It has become a game of sorts for me: Guess where it will be next! I win nothing, I lose nothing. But I have fun nonetheless.

I mentioned this bizarre (though entertaining) daily encounter with my friend, who I call Sgt. Buzzkill. Laughing, I told him about the large white moving horse.

" Of course it's code", he snarled. "For drugs. He's obviously a dealer, telling buyers when and where the next shipment will arrive."

When I asked why, he snapped. "Don't be naive, Renn. White. Horse. He deals in Heroin."

Of course.

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I probably shouldn't admit this, but...whatever. I completely adore this guy. Especially this song...and this movie.

On Saturday, I volunteered to play a game. As a result, I have been assigned the letter 'W'. My assignment is for me to "give you ten words that start with this letter and then a brief description of what those words mean to me".

1. West Viriginia. My second home, the location of my college, my dream from age four. I moved away 11 years ago; I miss life here every day.

2. Wytopitlock (Maine). A bomming metropolis of approximately 100 people. My brother in-law hails from here.

3. Wunderbar. The German word for 'wonderful'. I think this word should start with a "V". ( I lack the capability of throwing in the umlaut, so please pretend it's there.)

4. Warehouse. I spend 95 percent of my day here, counting things.

5. Wellspring. An awesome, but expensive organic store. I would rather shop at the Treehugger store.

6. (The) Wiggles. A children's show with color-coordinated hosts. Quite possibly a cult, it may be best to limit exposure of both you and your children. You have been watching too much of this show if you develop a crush on any of them. Especially Jeff.

7. Wicca's Charm. A (research/investigative) book about the attraction of becoming a Wiccan. Written by Catherine Edwards Sanders, it is a fascinating series of interviews and history of the varied 'denominations' of the Wiccan religion. (A good, slow read).

8. Weep No More, My Lady. Originally a song (from the 40s, maybe?), this is more likely known as the title of a book by Mary Higgins Clark.

9. Wrong-headed. A colorful way to call someone stubborn. This term should be brought back.

10. Wordnerd. The person who gave me this assigment. More importantly, the person who encouraged me (over about 3-4 months) and convinced me that I was, indeed, qualified to have a blog 'o my own. Thank you.

As I drink my (decidedly un-Community) coffee and prepare to head off to work, my brain is a jumble of W's - and why I am thankful for the many words that begin with them. Have a great day!

What I got for Mother's Day

...Because not every mom wants flowers and jewelry. Chachi and Nooze, you rock!

Momma, You're Craaaaazy...

I was around six or seven the first time my mother lost her mind. A closet hippie, she rode the line between quiet homemaker and front cover of Mother Earth News. I don't recall what triggered the episode, but I remember the results: My mother joined a Co-Op.

When I say Co-Op, I don't mean a small group of friends casually discussing how to grow rutabagas. I mean darn near Commune Co-Op. We weren't lined up to drink the Kool-Aid, mind you. That was because, in a flash of genius, Mum decided that sugar was evil. The Kool Aid was thrown away. I think she even threw out the pitcher.

This type of event is cataclysmic to a small, impressionable child. The Kool Aid pitcher was replaced by a water distiller of such grand proportions that it was bolted to the kitchen counter. Not only was the water distilled, it was to be consumed at room temperature, or, per instructions, warm. The end result was not unlike dipping one's head into the bathtub for a casual chug-a-lug.

Mum also decided, for reasons still unknown, that we lacked adequate doses of daily vitamins. While this could have been easily solved by cutting back on our daily carb and salt intake (spaghettios, anyone? How about some generic hamburger helper?) - Mum decided that we needed mega-doses of vitamins (in pill form). I was also placed on prune juice- 'to keep me regular'.

In addition to the warm water, pills and prune juice, we were also forced to eat the 'food' purchased from the Co-Op. Everything was purchased in bulk, generally in five to ten pound quantities. I don't know about you, but I have no use for an OUNCE of carob chips laced with honey, nevermind TEN POUNDS of it. All these years later, I can still taste the 'desserts' made with those chips. The memory still makes me gag.

I don't recall how long this bout with eco-insanity lasted in our house. The distiller stayed bolted to the countertop for years, finally dismantled and trashed when the kitchen was remodeled. I was twelve when that happened.

The second time my mother lost her mind, I was around 14. For reasons still unclear, we ate quiche for a month. Every. Freakin'. Night. There was bacon quiche, broccoli quiche, cauliflower quiche (gag!), ham quiche, Cheese (plain) quiche. There was no sense in complaining: Mum would merely roll her eyes at whichever ungrateful child that spoke up, signaling that whining was simply our way to make her nuts.

In this instance, I clearly recall when the fad ended. My father (Mr. Law and Order) ate the quiche quietly for the entire month. On the last night, he simply put his fork down, looked my mum in the eye and said quietly, "Hon, when I come home from work tomorrow, I would really like not to eat Scrambled Egg Pie for dinner. It doesn't matter what you make. Just not that."

That was all it took. The next night, things took a decided turn for the worse. Mum decided that I needed to learn how to cook. This brings us to my mother's turn: The first time I thought I'd lose my mind, Renn was fourteen. She was just learning to cook, and I didn't want to discourage her. But all she knew how to make was Meatloaf. I think we ate it for about a month, along with boxed potato, corn and snickerdoodles. It's been twenty years, and the thought of how a snickerdoodle smells still makes me gag...

Now it's your turn! In honor of Mother's Day: When did your Mum first lose her mind? Or, as a mum, when did you first lose yours?

[In a twist of what can only be irony: Blogger spellcheck tried to change "Co-Op" to "crap"!]

Never Drive a Forklift in Kitten Heels (and other lessons learned in construction)

One of the ladies in our Corporate Office adores memos. A stringent Rule Follower, she insists that all regional offices be reminded of the varied rules and regulations that we are to follow, be it lunch hour policy, smoking, or public expulsion of gas (...Policy 4.6 of Corporate Regulations reminds us that loud BURPING within the office is prohibited, as it may be offensive to others sharing the same work space").

Management in each regional office receives at least two or three such reminders each week, via email. The nature of said emails has become so ridiculous that we (ok, I) have turned it into a game.

When any email regarding policy is received, I immediately print it out. I then run straight to Rick, the Big Boss with my take on the email. (Rick and I have worked together for years. He enjoys my input as much as I enjoy giving it.)

On Friday, I received my favorite email to date. I cut and pasted MOST of the email verbatim, for your enjoyment. The memo read as follows:

"...As springtime and warmer weather are now upon us, it is a good time to revisit office policy regarding proper in office attire. Examples of unacceptable office attire are as follows: Any color jeans (except Friday)...Tank tops...Anything faded or torn...Sweat pants...Tube tops...Anything low cut...Painters pants...Flip-flops...Anything see- through...spandex...Halter tops...Inappropriate language or graphics...Stretch leggings...Hats...Tennis shoes. At the discretion of the manager, an employee can be sent home to change if dressed inappropriately. The employee would be expected to make up any time lost on the same day".

I immediately printed out the memo and marched to Rick's office. "Have you seen the latest memo from Jess in Corporate?" I asked. "Do you mean 'What Not To Wear'?" Rick asked.

"Yeah, about that", I responded. "I only have two things to say."

"And they are..." Rick responded, waiting.

"Well" I replied, "First of all, I am sooo glad that I re-thought my outfit this morning".

Rick smiled slightly, leaning in, still waiting.

"Because" I continued "I was soooo going to wear my see through tube top covered in profanity - with my spandex painter's pants!"

Rick's laughter burst out, machine gun style, his hands slapping his desk. He recovered quickly, asking "What was the second thing?"

"As management, I realize I am duty bound to send people home for rule violations. I gotta tell ya, though. I won't."

He nodded seriously, waiting.

"At least not without taking a picture first".

I turned and walked back to my office slowly, with Rick's laughter following me.

[regarding the title: that is ONE email that I have never received - and it would have been really handy!]