Dear Internet Visitor, This is a page where the work boots come off of tired, smelly feet, said feet go up on the table (after I clear off some of the junk of course), you might hear a beer tab open, and I become myself. That said, if you like honest, down to earth, humorous, sarcastic, blue collar, sometimes bawdy or raucous, then you've come to the right place. I've been a sheet metal worker for 23 years now (Ugh! Am I THAT OLD!?), and it definitely comes across in my writing. It's been so long now that it's all I know! They couldn't take me back in an office environment now to save my soul or their ass. A few of my favorite sayings are "Never give up the ship," "Well-behaved women rarely make history," and "No matter what the fight, don't be ladylike!" These sum up everything I do and know, including writing. There are stories here from long ago, some published and some not. There are stories from just recently, some published and some not. Some have been on the internet, some in magazines, most taking up space on floppy disks and in the filing cabinet. I've also decided to put "sneak peeks" of my next two novels on here which are still in various stages of undress (i.e., way too far from done for my taste). Cobwebs in the Oven takes over where Hey, Lady! Your Tin Snips are Showing! left off, and Val Szabo becomes the infamous wicked stepmother. ROFL deals with her as a 40-something computer dinosaur who drags herself, kicking and screaming the entire way, into the 21st century. This is a woman who cannot program the VCR (they made up the joke about HER!), and she teaches herself the computer like she has done everything else in her life, which is to say, by the seat of her pants. An excerpt from Hey, Lady! Your Tin Snips are Showing! can be seen by clicking HERE, along with ordering information. I welcome any comments, feedback,and, yes,even criticisms, so feel free to email me at the link at the bottom of the page. And please bear with me, since I am a computer dummy! Any mistakes and glitches you find here are completely my fault! :-) I tend to learn as I go! I also learn things every time I log on to Homestead, so your patience is appreciated as I gain navigation skills! Thanks for visiting, come back soon, and have a good day. |
THE WRITER'S BLOCK |
writing, pictures, and musings of a Blue Collar Gal |
Dear Internet Visitor, This is a page where the work boots come off of tired, smelly feet, said feet go up on the table (after I clear off some of the junk of course), you might hear a beer tab open, and I become myself. That said, if you like honest, down to earth, humorous, sarcastic, blue collar, sometimes bawdy or raucous, then you've come to the right place. I've been a sheet metal worker for 23 years now (Ugh! Am I THAT OLD!?), and it definitely comes across in my writing. It's been so long now that it's all I know! They couldn't take me back in an office environment now to save my soul or their ass. A few of my favorite sayings are "Never give up the ship," "Well-behaved women rarely make history," and "No matter what the fight, don't be ladylike!" These sum up everything I do and know, including writing. There are stories here from long ago, some published and some not. There are stories from just recently, some published and some not. Some have been on the internet, some in magazines, most taking up space on floppy disks and in the filing cabinet. I've also decided to put "sneak peeks" of my next two novels on here which are still in various stages of undress (i.e., way too far from done for my taste). Cobwebs in the Oven takes over where Hey, Lady! Your Tin Snips are Showing! left off, and Val Szabo becomes the infamous wicked stepmother. ROFL deals with her as a 40-something computer dinosaur who drags herself, kicking and screaming the entire way, into the 21st century. This is a woman who cannot program the VCR (they made up the joke about HER!), and she teaches herself the computer like she has done everything else in her life, which is to say, by the seat of her pants. An excerpt from Hey, Lady! Your Tin Snips are Showing! can be seen by clicking HERE, along with ordering information. I welcome any comments, feedback,and, yes,even criticisms, so feel free to email me at the link at the bottom of the page. And please bear with me, since I am a computer dummy! Any mistakes and glitches you find here are completely my fault! :-) I tend to learn as I go! I also learn things every time I log on to Homestead, so your patience is appreciated as I gain navigation skills! Thanks for visiting, come back soon, and have a good day. |
BEFORE WE LAUNCH. . .A LITTLE BLUE COLLAR HUMOR! :-) |
I got this silly attachment one day from a friend. The reason I like it so much and laughed until I had tears rolling down my cheeks is because it's what I call an "Equal Opportunity" joke, because it can just as easily be called "Men Waiting for the Perfect Woman." |
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WOMEN WAITING FOR THE PERFECT MAN |
Green heron -a skittish subject for portraits! |
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ONE RAINY HALLOWEEN NIGHT (A true story!) My stepson, Blake, came home from school one day in September insisting that he wanted to be a STOVE for Halloween. "A stove?" Bob and I asked him in unison. "How on earth can you be a stove!?" We were almost ready to tell him there was no way that could possibly happen, when ideas started forming in my mind. "You know, we could find the right size box, cut a hole in the top for his headspray paint it white..." I mused aloud. "Yeah, and we have scrap lumber," Bob said, getting right with the program. "I can cut a piece to fit on the back of the box, paint it white, draw some dials and a clock on it....!" Soon, we were all out in the garage concocting Blake's stove. We did have the perfect box, some hardware, and even an old pan that we'd used to fill the bird feeders with. We drew "burners" on the top with black marker, filled the pan with macaroni glued inside of it, and bolted it to the "stove." The project kept evolving as we went along. After a few hours, we had us a reasonable facsimile of the kitchen appliance! We drew the oven door on the front, Bob used a piece of conduit for the oven door handle, and Blake even found a picture of a roasted turkey in a magazine that we glued in the oven's glass "door." I hung my favorite kitchen sign on the oven door handle, the one that says, "You know supper's ready when the smoke alarm goes off!" As we stood back to admire our work, we decided that Blake's sister, Jenny, would have to be a refrigerator. Since they would be trick-or-treating together, it would be the perfect combination! Her "costume" turned out perfectly, too, but now everyone had to wait almost a month for the big day. We even decided that one of us would take off work to transport the costumes to school when the kids had their class Halloween parties and the parade around the block. Halloween day dawned windy and cold, threatening rain. By the time evening rolled around, it was literally pouring! There was no way the kids were going to be able to trick-or-treat in this frog choker without ruining the costumes we had all worked so hard on....or was there? While both kids were moping around and looking out the window about every ten seconds, Bob came up with a brilliant idea (which is one of the many reasons I keep him around the house!). He got out the telephone book and started calling nursing homes in the area to see if it was okay for a group of children to come in and trick-or-treat and show the residents their costumes. The only trick was, the kids would be the ones handing out candy. Every nursing home he called said, "Bring them right over! The people here will love it!" When Bob finished calling, he then got on the horn to some of the neighbor kids, and soon we had a van full of ghosts and goblins who had thought their evening was ruined. All the parents chipped in a couple bucks so we could run into the store for some candy, and we were off! I don't have to say that it was the best Halloween I had ever seen or participated in, but I'll say it anyway. The kids just naturally gravitated to the senior citizens, and, besides candy, many hugs and lot of laughs were exchanged that night. The best part of the evening, though, was when all the kids said they could hardly wait until next year! ~ ~ ~ Note: If your Halloween turns out to be a rainy one, this is a great way for the evening to remain a success. A couple tips, though: Always call first to make sure it's okay with the nursing home. Have an adequate amount of adult supervision. When buying the candy, be sure to include a few kinds with no sugar and a few that aren't gooey and chewy! Most of all, have fun! |
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I found a good use for my old tool pouch--fill it with peanuts and sunflower seeds, and the squirrels have a place to eat and not damage the bird feeders. |
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Aside from writing a bunch of useless drivel, I love to plant flowers. Please note that the film does not do the colors justice! |
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Some of my very favorite nimrods to deal with have always been the Infernal Revenue Service! And we've had to deal with them several times in the past. My FAVORITE time (before this one, that is!) was when they made a $100 dollar subtraction mistake on my refund check! Does anyone there own a calculator, for cryin' out loud? What about a scratch pad and a damn pencil? Can we do simple subtraction problems and remember to borrow from the next column when we have to? The letter below is one I wrote when they lost the check that I had sent them and then had the nerve to tell me that I was the one at fault! AARRGGGHH! |
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Infernal Revenue Service Kansas City, Missouri 64999 To Whom It May Concern: So, who was it who lost my check? I go to all the trouble of sending you all our goodies "return receipt requested," and do NOT staple the check to the form as instructed, and you manage to lose it anyway. Next time I WILL staple it, consequences be damned! You know, it's been several years since I've had trouble with you people; I mistakenly thought maybe you had gotten a little better at filing and depositing checks that poor slobs like me send to you so someone can study more owl vomit or whatever. FOR THE RECORD: The check was in the envelope that contained all our forms. It was check #2404, dated April 7, 2001. I just wanted you to know that, since my husband and I work hard at having a good credit rating and paying what we owe on time! If by some miracle you find it lying around there someplace, please shred it, as I have put a stop payment on it at the bank. I'm glad there is not a fee for this, because I would take it out of the $1477 we owe you. You will also note that the enclosed check is still for the amount of $1477. I'll be damned if I pay penalties and fees for something that someone on YOUR end messed up. I am also sending a copy of this letter to my senator, as he has helped me deal with you in the past! Please do not let me hear from you again! Why don't you use some of the enclosed cash to go after the real criminals who haven't paid any taxes in years and years! You will notice that this time it is in the form of a cashier's check, so if you lose it this time, don't call me! I am marking this case closed! Very truly yours, cc: Dick Durbin |
Stereotyping "deadbeat dads" paints unfair picture! (This appeared in the State Journal Register, 6/27/97) after I saw the Father's Day cartoon on the editorial page. Since I live with a custodial father and work with them, too, I was really MAD when I saw it. Hence, this diatribe: I would like to take issue with Mike Thompson's cartoon of June 11, regarding what to get "deadbeat dad" for Father's Day. (Handcuffs.) This stereotype is unfair! While certainly there are people who could be classified as "deadbeat dads," they are like bad check writers or anything else - a few bad apples spoil the barrel for everyone else. There are also "deadbeat moms," so maybe a more apt description would just be "deadbeat parent." I know a lot of divorced dads, and there is not one deadbeat in the bunch. There is not one who doesn't pay and pay, not only financially, but mentally as well. Many of them (perish the thought!) have custody of their kids and they still pay! They care about their kids and anguish over them. They have even been known to cry over them. They have a legal system from medieval times that is stacked against them. When in court, they are automatically the scumbag who drank/gambled away the money/messed around on the wife or whatever. None of them could possibly have their kids' best interests at heart, and certainly none of them should be allowed to have custody of their kids because (of course) they are men, and men aren't capable of raising kids - NOT! Let me continue to bend your ear. Money munching mom sends the kids to"deadbeat dad's" in rags, but you never see her in the same outfit twice. Dad buys the kids clothes, but when they get sent over to MMM's house, it's like they disappear into a black hole, never to be seen again! "Deadbeat dad" also provides a lot of other things for two households - toys, bicycles, roller blades, vacations, hobbies, fishing poles, basketballs, school supplies, movie tickets, etc. If "deadbeat dad" only has money for, say, one bicycle, MMM expects it to be parked at her house. If he wants the child to ride it at his house, he may find that it, too, has fallen into the black hole. "Deadbeat dad" is supposed to provide medical and life insurance - because he's the man! Getting MMM's share of the deductible would either make a good episode of "Mission Impossible" or a sit-com, depending on your mood. On the other hand, MMM's responsibilities may have ended when the kids popped out. If the kids are to have anything, whether it be a bicycle, an old beater to tool around in, or a college education, MMM doesn't owe anything. Oftentimes, MMM can do whatever she wants, move wherever she wants, spend money on whatever she wants, party wherever she wants, marry whoever she wants. If she does remarry, her husband shouldn't have to contribute to her children's welfare, but if "deadbeat dad" remarries, then his spouse should be an instant source of cash. "Deadbeat dad" gets called back to court a minimum of twice annually so they can remind him of what a jerk he is, how he is never there for the kids, and tell him he owes more child support. MMM is always present, looking extremely forlorn. "Deadbeat dad" gets tired of sending money over there, always on time unless the mail is slow, never to see it benefit his children directly. This is money he's already paid taxes on and has to declare as income, while MMM claims none of it on April 15. Then "deadbeat dad" gets a notice from the circuit clerk's office that says he owes an annual fee to process the child support payments, while all MMM does is keep signing checks. Sometimes MMM uses the children as pawns. She likes to play on "deadbeat dad's" guilt. It could be something as mundane as saying, "If you don't buy little Tommy's school supplies, then he just won't have any!" or it could get more serious when MMM wrongfully accuses "deadbeat dad" of child abuse, neglect or molestation for revenge. If this happens, then "deadbeat dad" cannot see his children at all unless DCFS is present. This is often when "deadbeat dad" often unwillingly throws in the proverbial towel: Rather than see his kids suffer and have to put up with a bunch of chaos, he bows out. But he still sends the child support, and he hopes that when the kids grow up, maybe they'll realize he's not the jerk that MMM has made him out to be. "Deadbeat dad" knows he cannot have a normal relationship with his kids, because MMM only tells them her side of the story. For some reason when the kids are little, they believe everything that comes out of MMM's mouth. He hopes they won't disown him when they are adults. Even though he will miss most of their childhoods from not being told of the important dates, etc., he thinks about them constantly. He wishes things could be different, and it tears him up inside. These are the "deadbeat dads" that I know. I hear their stories all the time and can't begin to imagine how they feel when they open up the newspaper and see a cartoon like the one June 11. What a slap in the face. "Deadbeat dad" has his side of the story, too, but you might not hear it because he's worn out from working and from going to court. (PS: Since my last name is different than hubby's some of his friends saw this in the paper and then asked me if I had seen it. When I said it was me who wrote it, they weren't too surprised. One man told me he cut it out and put it in his wallet to take out and read occasionally.) |
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Poor momma robin built her nest in the wrong place. She stayed there for a few days, but I needed to use the hose on an almost daily basis. We also had starlings trying to build a nest in the gas grill. Ugh! What a mess that was! |
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Blue Collar Roots Some of my earliest memories center around the times I got to spend a week or two with my grandparents in the summer. They lived in Gary, IndianaSteel City. My paternal grandparents were from the working class in Hungary, my maternal grands from Czechoslovakia. I can remember telling my paternal grandmother to be sure to wake me up early so I could helps see Grandpa off to his job at the mill. It really made me feel grown up, because while I helped pack his lunch, Grandma would pour me a small cup of coffee (more milk and sugar than java, I'm sure) and speak to me like I was much older than my five or six years. We'd carefully pack his sandwich and an apple in the black metal lunch box, and then Grandma and I stood on the porch and waved until Grandpa was out of sight. It wasn't until years later that I actually learned what he didhe was a skilled craftsman of metals. I remember being surprised when my own father brought out the meat grinder with which I got to assist in making sausage as a child. The grinder took on new significance when Dad told me Grandpa made it with his own two hands. Grandpa came from a time and place where people hand crafted many of the things they used in daily life. He made his own tools, not only hand tools, but a whole line of drafting instruments, stamps and dies. For my thirty-fourth birthday last year, my dad gave me the most precious gift I could have asked fora stainless steel ashtray, handmade, hand stamped and hammered by Grandpa himself. The English language, with all its power, cannot begin to attempt the task of describing the feelings I had as I turned this over and over in my hands and ran my fingers along the fluted edge and over the little leaves and flowers stamped into the metal. Holding the intricate piece of work to my heart, I wished I could have known him longer (he died when I was six), but it makes me happy to know that he is part of me. I have memories of my maternal grandparents, too, and am lucky enough to still have them around: I learned how to make stuffed cabbage ("halupki" in Slovak), perroghis, little ravioli-type noodles stuffed with mashed potatoes inside, and beautiful, delicate Easter eggs by applying melted wax to the shells with the end of a pin stuck in a pencil eraser. Now I do the same thing with my step kids and tell them as much as I can recall. Granny and Great Grandma also wanted to teach me basic Slovak until Great Grandpa found out and nearly hit the roof: "This is America!!" he told them angrily, "and we will speak American!" I can also remember Great Grandma holding a glass of Grandpa's wine, smoking defiantly and grinning wickedly when her daughter snapped her picture. This is now a favorite family photo. Great Grandpa was a mechanic, handyman, junk yard owner; he also made wine in his basement that would purportedly easily blow one's socks off. He was involved with bootlegging during Prohibition, and family legend states the he brushed elbows with death on at least two occasions. Even as an old, grizzled man, Great Grandpa still demonstrated his Old Country values and stubborn disposition when he escaped from a prescribed stay in the hospital, clad only in his hospital gown and boxer shorts with Irish Setters on them flapping in the breeze. My maternal grandpa also worked at the Gary mill as a guard. One of his scariest stories I remember is when they had to fish a body out of Lake Michigan. When Gramps grabbed onto the corpse's arm to pull the body to shore, it came off in his hand. Gramps also helped his dad with the junk yard and the wine, and went on too many tear-out jobs to count, always bringing back any sellable junk. Modern day recyclers could probably learn a thing or two from these characters. In their home, there were always several remodeling jobs brewing at the same time, and I remember fondly the times I was hollered at for climbing on the lumber pile or to stay away from that saw. I get a serious case of deja vu now when I yell at my step kids about the same things. . . My parents have inspired me, too. There were also remodeling projects galore in my childhood home, and these were frequently a family affair. I remember watching my dad and grandpa jack hammering the old front porch to make a place for a larger one, and I was in hog heaven when I got to help lug chunks of concrete to the wheel barrow and was allowed to assist in mixing new concrete. I also "helped" plaster the walls of my parents' bedroom and remember getting into hot water when I got caught red-handed putting some unlucky ants into the plaster mixture. I also learned which end of a shovel to use when the septic tank backed up into the bath tub. My mom was a housewife as were many women during that time, and she suffered a severe blow when she and my dad got a divorce in 1977. She is the classic case of suddenly being on one's own after twenty years of raising children, yet having no "training." It is with her that I lived during this time, and we did some hilarious handy woman projects together, our most famous being the rewired vacuum cleaner plug that tripped several breakers. With this woman I share strong ties. I was there when she hit bottom and when she started the climb back up. I was there when she finally learned to say the word "fuck." I was also there the day she called and said, "Your silly old mom is now a mail carrier with USPS." She has always supported my decisions and backed me up 150 per cent. I would have to say my family has inspired me as much as economics, although the latter must "share" the blame for my choice of a careers in the trades. I tried the usual female shit of secretarial work and quickly discovered that it didn't supply enough cash flow for even basic needs. (I couldn't walk in heels, either, so there!) I hated it, and hated the attitudes of some of the men who looked upon themselves as marvelous business tycoons while we women were creatures put in the office only to serve them. How often now I entertain the perverted fantasy of being called to one of their homes on a service call where I would thereby sabotage their furnace! I had stumbled and fumbled through several office jobs when a funny and strange thing happened that fateful day I saw the ad for sheet metal worker apprentices in the paper: I KNEW I had found my job. Don't ask how, but I knew. I had no earthly idea what tinners even did, had an extremely limited mechanical education, had no other qualifications except stubbornness, but I couldn't deny the part of me that day that commanded me to call the number listed in the ad. So now, twelve years later, and at the risk of sounding like a complete idiot, I like to think that maybe my Grandpa the metal worker was the one behind me the day I made that call in 1979. Then I look at the ashtray that he made with his own hands and tools, and I hold it to my heart, and I know it's true. (Note: originally published in "Tradeswomen" magazine, now defunct, 1991, when they asked readers for stories about why we chose the paths we did.) |
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Reroofing the Capitol Building--1998 |
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The first spring we lived here and started building the deck, a female duck would come up and beg bread off of Bethy the Big Sucker. She had her babies late the summer, and by then she was used to me feeding her. She would bring her babies up every day that I was out there, and I soon had them eating out of my hands! They'd even climb up my arms and peck at my watch band. When winter arrived, they were starting to get their adult plumage, and I told the males they looked like scruffy teenagers. We had long since developed a routine--I'd go outside with some cracked corn and yell "HERE DUCK DUCK DUCK DUCK," and here they'd come. Now their descendants do the same thing, but none of them are as brave as the babies from 1998. |
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Impatiens in three bottom pots Begonia center top |
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Torenia - a favorite of mine |
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Housekeeping at My Place* *(or the lack thereof!) Heh, heh...how many of you have seen the Martha Stewart e-mail floating around with all of her convenient and handy tips in it? I think this gal has WAY too much time on her hands, only because, of course, she is taking a whole bunch of money from people with all her handy tips and matching flowered towel/toilet paper kits, etc., and laughing all the way to the damn bank! One of my favorite "tips" in this e-mail is the one where you stuff a miniature marshmallow into the tip of your ice cream cone so it won't drip....yeah, like I have a bag of these varmints on hand! Or maybe I do (from when the kids were little), and it's sneaked way to the back of the cabinet like my leftovers entombed in plastic containers do in the fridge....if this bag of whipped air, fat and sugar is really hiding back there, it has ossified into something never before seen by humankind and you could probably hammer nails with it! (I probably have boxes of Jell-O like that, too!) My solution to the problem (duh!) is to go to the ice cream place and then eat the darn thing outside. If it drips on you, use a napkin to wipe! (Use spit if you have to!) And for all you dummies who are sitting in your car with it, get out of the vehicle, but please make sure it's not in gear while doing so. I am wondering what Martha Stewart thinks about while she is making love, that is, if she can find somebody stupid enough to take part in this activity in the first place? Is she making up grocery lists in her head? Do you suppose maybe she has some kind of voice-activated recorder into which she can spout her words of wisdom? "Note to my agent...? (Lower, dear!) Martha Stewart Plastic Sheeting for the Mattress? (Ooh, ah...) Have him look into this?" So what is next? Martha Stewart Condoms? Martha Stewart Candy Underpanties? You know THOSE would have some really cute names! This person is NOT from this world! She is from Mars, the rest of us are probably from...reality! She would not like my house at all...for some reason, I can just sense this! Matching dinner plates? No, I don't think so! The only plates that match around here are the paper ones that come fifty to a package! We have a hodge podge from combining two households, and miscellany from when they get left after drunken parties! Same thing with the silverware, unless you count matching marks from being stuck in the garbage disposal while it's running? Let's see, what cool name could we call THOSE? I know, Silverware for the Reality-Based Home? We still might have a couple matching water glasses around here somewhere, but we usually just use the ones we get from drive-up windows. None of those match, either! Ditto for the bath towels, wash cloths and sheets. Dish towels? Ah, let's not even go there! She wouldn't like the way we clean house, either - just another thing I can intuit with my acute perception! A shovel and garden hose would do me just fine, while I can envision her in a flowing gown and high heels, waltzing around dusting her furniture and cleaning the toilet with Alka-Seltzer (tip #12). I always thought that Alka-Seltzer was for when you drank too much beer? Oh yes, you can also remove stains from your vase with Alka-Seltzer! I do this all the time, don't you know! If I can find the vase, that is, which I think is out in the garage filled with used oil from the lawn mower. (Note to self: Check this out later after you've thrown a load of clothes into the washer and not separated them or used the Martha Stewart fabric softener, de-stinker, or fresh rain scented bleach!) (Or after you've vacuumed behind the fridge and the waterbed like you do religiously twice a year.) Oh, while I'm thinking about it, I have a handy tip about housekeeping, too - when you're looking for spare change under the couch or the cushions, do NOT try to "crisp up" the stale popcorn and pretzels you find there. Just throw it out into the yard for the birds. Then, go outside and watch the birds! They are smart! They have simple homes made from twigs and spend most of their time eating, singing, and kicking the kids out of the nest. I almost walked out of K-Mart this past spring while I was looking at what flowers I would like to plant. There was HER picture again! Martha Stewart's Annuals and Perennials! I was flabbergasted! She's already on all the patio furniture and toilet brushes in the place! There is no avenue of escape! She's slinking around the paint department, too, in hundreds of designer colors! Peachy This and Lilac That! What ever happened to plain old white? And if you slipped up and put too much salt in dinner, I've always found that eating out fixes that problem in a jiffy! Even a Martha Stewart Pizza-To-Go will work in a pinch! And plain old Martha Stewart Elbow Grease can get rid of a lot of dirt! And who gives a hoot if the glasses have, good heavens no!, water spots on them, anyway? I wonder if her refrigerator is the residence of some of those containers full of calcified, moldified, unidentified Who Knows What? I wonder if her bar of soap at the kitchen sink and her washing machine are grimy like mine? Does she find dust bunnies under the bed the size of grapefruit? And now that I've ranted and raved so long about Martha Stewart, I wonder if her headache remedy will work? You know, the one where you cut a lime in half and rub the juice on your forehead? The fridge here hasn't even SEEN a lime in recent history, not even as a garnish for the famous Martha Stewart Frozen Strawberry and Peach Margarita, so I guess I'll go try to find some plain old aspirin! That is, if such an animal still even exists |
Please feel free to share these pages with friends. Also, most of the photos are mine, except for those of the World Trade Center on the main page. Feel free to share these, also, but please give credit to Beth Szillagyi, aka Blue Collar Gal. Thanks! |
