I dislike Halloween. I really do.
For the past 25 or 30 years I've told people that my dislike of it stems from all those Halloween-motif birthday parties I had when I was a kid. My birthday is the next day, you see -- November 1.
On the other hand, I remember liking Halloween at one time in my young life. I trick-or-treated in the neighborhood and was pleased with the haul I took in. I'll never forget the woman on the next street over who was giving cans of soda pop. That's when cans of soda pop were new and unusual.
As I look back now, I remember disliking answering the door when kids came trick-or-treating, especially if there were big kids at the door. And I've never been interested nor more than faintly amused by grown-ups dressing up for Halloween at the office or in stores and restaurants.
Maybe I'm just too sophisticated and urbane for Halloween. Yeah. I'm sure that's it.
However, I can never let the day go by without marking its importance in my life. Today is the 58th anniversary of the day I got my first pair of glasses. It was on Halloween in 1952, the day before my sixth birthday.
And I've been seeing happily ever since.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Beer Shots
OK, I cannot be the only person in the world who drinks beer shots.
I Googled beer shots and beershots, drinking beershots and drinking beer shots, and I got nothing much to go on.
There were many references to a shot in the beer, as my father would have said.
Reminds me of a time we were visiting my grandparents, my mother's parents, in downstate Illinois. On Saturday afternoon my dad and grandfather decided to take a walk, and I went with them. Not by design -- neither of them was much of a drinker -- we ended up in a local tavern where the three of us sat at the bar. I was about 11 and probably had to be helped up onto the stool. The bartender looked at Grampie who said, "Beer," and then at Dad who said, "Beer," and then at me. My father said, "Give her a shot in the beer."
The very earnest old barkeep got real serious and said, "Oh, no! Sorry, sir, I can't do that. Now, I can sell it to you and you can take it home for her to have." My father just shook his head and ordered me a Coke.
Anyway, my Google got me a shot in the beer, also things like ...beer, shots, and wine... and not much else. There is apparently a beershots.com, but I'm not sure what they are about. They do say they are interested in finding talented writers. Maybe I should apply.
So, back to the point, if any -- for my beer shots you need a shot glass -- 1-1/2 ounces is good. From a can or bottle of beer, pour yourself a shot; drink; repeat.
Now, how fun is that?
Well, get this. I have also been known to drink 7-Up shots. So there.
I Googled beer shots and beershots, drinking beershots and drinking beer shots, and I got nothing much to go on.
There were many references to a shot in the beer, as my father would have said.
Reminds me of a time we were visiting my grandparents, my mother's parents, in downstate Illinois. On Saturday afternoon my dad and grandfather decided to take a walk, and I went with them. Not by design -- neither of them was much of a drinker -- we ended up in a local tavern where the three of us sat at the bar. I was about 11 and probably had to be helped up onto the stool. The bartender looked at Grampie who said, "Beer," and then at Dad who said, "Beer," and then at me. My father said, "Give her a shot in the beer."
The very earnest old barkeep got real serious and said, "Oh, no! Sorry, sir, I can't do that. Now, I can sell it to you and you can take it home for her to have." My father just shook his head and ordered me a Coke.
Anyway, my Google got me a shot in the beer, also things like ...beer, shots, and wine... and not much else. There is apparently a beershots.com, but I'm not sure what they are about. They do say they are interested in finding talented writers. Maybe I should apply.
So, back to the point, if any -- for my beer shots you need a shot glass -- 1-1/2 ounces is good. From a can or bottle of beer, pour yourself a shot; drink; repeat.
Now, how fun is that?
Well, get this. I have also been known to drink 7-Up shots. So there.
Friday, October 22, 2010
Oh, yeah, you think so?
I have noticed that in e-mails and letters and even in this very blog, I have a tendency to begin paragraphs with the singular personal pronoun.
I am doing it on purpose now, of course, to illustrate my point.
I occasionally go back and change the sentence structure in order to avoid this problem, or I will sometimes simply add some throw-away word such as "Well" or "So" or "Anyhow" to the front of the sentence.
I am convinced that if I notice it, the reader must also notice it, and I am so afraid that it will lead people to conclude that I am a screaming egomaniac.
I am not a screaming egomaniac. I never scream.
I am willing to bet one hundred billion dollars that upon reading this, the inimitable Judy Brown is softly singing to herself, "You're so vain, you prob'ly think this blog is about you..."
Well, you know what? It is.
I am doing it on purpose now, of course, to illustrate my point.
I occasionally go back and change the sentence structure in order to avoid this problem, or I will sometimes simply add some throw-away word such as "Well" or "So" or "Anyhow" to the front of the sentence.
I am convinced that if I notice it, the reader must also notice it, and I am so afraid that it will lead people to conclude that I am a screaming egomaniac.
I am not a screaming egomaniac. I never scream.
I am willing to bet one hundred billion dollars that upon reading this, the inimitable Judy Brown is softly singing to herself, "You're so vain, you prob'ly think this blog is about you..."
Well, you know what? It is.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
L distal radius fx, and its aftermath
I have just noticed that blogs I posted before I broke my arm generally have titles in sentence case, whereas in post-fracture blogs, I have put them in title case.
What do you suppose happens to a person during recovery from a fracture that results in a complete change in their personal sense of capitalization?
I wonder if I could get a government grant to study this.
I dislike inconsistency in general, although I suppose that the occasional mixing of cases might lend an air of whimsy to a blog of this sort, especially considering the staid and stuffy bookshelf that appears as its background.
Aren't you absolutely sure those books are dusty?
There is one, though, in the lower left that I recognize. Here's the one I mean:
It's an 1897 edition of selected poems of Christina Rossetti. I'd know it anywhere -- no broken bone can upset my poetical applecart.
What do you suppose happens to a person during recovery from a fracture that results in a complete change in their personal sense of capitalization?
I wonder if I could get a government grant to study this.
I dislike inconsistency in general, although I suppose that the occasional mixing of cases might lend an air of whimsy to a blog of this sort, especially considering the staid and stuffy bookshelf that appears as its background.
Aren't you absolutely sure those books are dusty?
There is one, though, in the lower left that I recognize. Here's the one I mean:
It's an 1897 edition of selected poems of Christina Rossetti. I'd know it anywhere -- no broken bone can upset my poetical applecart.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Just suppose ...
Some friends and I recently maligned the ignoramuses who say supposably when they mean supposedly.
I think I’ve secretly harbored the notion that there is no such word as supposably. I may have been encouraged in this belief by spell checkers, including the one this blog uses. However, I got to thinking that a back-formation would take me from supposably to supposable, and that is a word.
I, therefore, consulted a real book dictionary (Webster’s New Collegiate), and it confirmed my suspicions. Supposably is a word. As I presumed, it is the adverbial form of supposable, which is the adjectival form of suppose. Something is supposable if it is capable of being supposed.
The verb suppose generally takes an object; the adjective generally modifies a noun; and the adverb -- ah, that's the tricky one. It modifies anything except a noun, but usually a verb.
So --
I suppose (v.) he is dead.
His being dead is supposable (adj.).
I supposably (adv.) offer (v.) that he is dead.
OK -- it's a word, but it does not mean the same thing as nor can it be used interchangeably with supposedly.
And it is making my head hurt.
I think I’ve secretly harbored the notion that there is no such word as supposably. I may have been encouraged in this belief by spell checkers, including the one this blog uses. However, I got to thinking that a back-formation would take me from supposably to supposable, and that is a word.
I, therefore, consulted a real book dictionary (Webster’s New Collegiate), and it confirmed my suspicions. Supposably is a word. As I presumed, it is the adverbial form of supposable, which is the adjectival form of suppose. Something is supposable if it is capable of being supposed.
The verb suppose generally takes an object; the adjective generally modifies a noun; and the adverb -- ah, that's the tricky one. It modifies anything except a noun, but usually a verb.
So --
I suppose (v.) he is dead.
His being dead is supposable (adj.).
I supposably (adv.) offer (v.) that he is dead.
OK -- it's a word, but it does not mean the same thing as nor can it be used interchangeably with supposedly.
And it is making my head hurt.
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Unleaven That Bread, Madam!
I wanted something crispy but with little flavor of its own to have with hummus. In his New York Times column, Mark Bittman had a recipe for olive-oil matzo that I decided to try. There was even a video in which he made it look easy to do.
My attempt was not wildly successful. I didn’t roll the first batch thin enough, and I thought it would never bake. Subsequent attempts were thinner but never got as crispy as I wanted.
So the next day, thinking somebody who knew about matzo might be able to give me a tip or two about making it, I called a co-worker who is Jewish. Here is what she said:
“You made matzo? Nobody makes matzo. Matzo comes in a box in the grocery store. I don’t know anybody who makes their own matzo.”
I abandoned matzo making, but then not long ago on the Internet I ran across a recipe for unleavened bread among several recipes Maria von Trapp had included in her autobiography. I was hoping for insight to improve my luck with Bittman’s matzo, but I really got stumped on this one. After combining flour, salt, butter, egg, and water, Frau von Trapp says to …
“… mix dough quickly with a knife, then knead on board, stretching it up and down to make it elastic until it leaves the board clean. Toss on a small, well-floured board. Cover with a hot bowl and keep warm 1/2 hour or longer. Then cut into squares of desired size and bake in 350-degree oven until done.”
I’m moving right past mixing it with a knife (a knife?) and going straight for tossing it onto a small board. I picture a lump of dough that is compact enough to sit on a small board under a hot bowl. And then 30 minutes later when I remove said bowl, how will this lump have miraculously become something I can cut into squares?
Undaunted, I Googled for unleavened bread recipes, hoping somebody could shed light on this technique. I could not find anything remotely similar, but – and here finally is what set me about relating this tale -- I did find one really remarkable recipe at cooks.com for unleavened bread that calls for two ounces of yeast. I think somebody has completely missed the point there.
Who’da thunk recipes for matzo could be so entertaining?
P.S. Did you know that egg white is considered a leavening agent when whipped?
My attempt was not wildly successful. I didn’t roll the first batch thin enough, and I thought it would never bake. Subsequent attempts were thinner but never got as crispy as I wanted.
So the next day, thinking somebody who knew about matzo might be able to give me a tip or two about making it, I called a co-worker who is Jewish. Here is what she said:
“You made matzo? Nobody makes matzo. Matzo comes in a box in the grocery store. I don’t know anybody who makes their own matzo.”
I abandoned matzo making, but then not long ago on the Internet I ran across a recipe for unleavened bread among several recipes Maria von Trapp had included in her autobiography. I was hoping for insight to improve my luck with Bittman’s matzo, but I really got stumped on this one. After combining flour, salt, butter, egg, and water, Frau von Trapp says to …
“… mix dough quickly with a knife, then knead on board, stretching it up and down to make it elastic until it leaves the board clean. Toss on a small, well-floured board. Cover with a hot bowl and keep warm 1/2 hour or longer. Then cut into squares of desired size and bake in 350-degree oven until done.”
I’m moving right past mixing it with a knife (a knife?) and going straight for tossing it onto a small board. I picture a lump of dough that is compact enough to sit on a small board under a hot bowl. And then 30 minutes later when I remove said bowl, how will this lump have miraculously become something I can cut into squares?
Undaunted, I Googled for unleavened bread recipes, hoping somebody could shed light on this technique. I could not find anything remotely similar, but – and here finally is what set me about relating this tale -- I did find one really remarkable recipe at cooks.com for unleavened bread that calls for two ounces of yeast. I think somebody has completely missed the point there.
Who’da thunk recipes for matzo could be so entertaining?
P.S. Did you know that egg white is considered a leavening agent when whipped?
Saturday, October 16, 2010
Mrs. Malaprop, I Presume?
My Aunt Blanche has a way at words.
She is 83 years old now and lives in Washington in a tree -- well, amid the trees on the Olympic Peninsula. And she says the darnedest things. Here are some of my favorite Aunt Blanche-isms:
• She gives every year to the Salivation Army.
• She felt like she was stuck between a rock and a hot plate.
• You can save money by buying genetic brands.
• In a movie she saw, an octopus grabbed a guy with its technicals.
• Buying is better than renting because you always have iniquity in the house.
• Those darned soota-pharmical companies are making a fortune.
• Even though it is narrow, the cars go down that street two at a breast.
• She was so surprised she jumped up like a ton of bricks.
Just poking a little gentle fun -- I love my Aunt Blanche, who is warm and fun-loving and generous and has always been very good to me. And I love it that she says funny things and says things funny.
As she once said about someone else -- she's a piece o' art.
She is 83 years old now and lives in Washington in a tree -- well, amid the trees on the Olympic Peninsula. And she says the darnedest things. Here are some of my favorite Aunt Blanche-isms:
• She gives every year to the Salivation Army.
• She felt like she was stuck between a rock and a hot plate.
• You can save money by buying genetic brands.
• In a movie she saw, an octopus grabbed a guy with its technicals.
• Buying is better than renting because you always have iniquity in the house.
• Those darned soota-pharmical companies are making a fortune.
• Even though it is narrow, the cars go down that street two at a breast.
• She was so surprised she jumped up like a ton of bricks.
Just poking a little gentle fun -- I love my Aunt Blanche, who is warm and fun-loving and generous and has always been very good to me. And I love it that she says funny things and says things funny.
As she once said about someone else -- she's a piece o' art.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Disjunct and Fugitive, Both
I’ve got a couple things on my mind today, not related to one another.
For one thing, I need a solution to the problem of my baloney sandwich coming apart. This happens to me every time. The baloney is cemented to both slices of bread with mustard, but where the meat meets the meat, it is very slippery, and when I pick it up to take a bite, all of a sudden I’ve got slip-‘n-slide going on, two pieces of sandwich heading in different directions, and mustard all over me.
The other thing is I didn’t have time yesterday to remark upon it being October 13, my father’s birthday. He would have been 98 years old (if he hadn’t died in 1978).
Well, there might be some commonality here after all. My dad liked a good sandwich, which, incidentally, the way he pronounced it sounded more like sanwidge.
My father's idea of a sandwich was a one-inch stack of meat between two pieces of bread. That's all. No mustard, no mayonnaise, no lettuce, no nothin' else. Bread and meat, and lots of it. One day he told my mother, who made lunches for us to carry to work and school every day, that he wished she’d put more meat on his sandwich. She promised to do better, and the next day when he sat down for lunch with the fellas at work, he found two thick slabs of left-over meatloaf with a slice of bread between them.
Maybe that was the original sanwidge.
You never wanted to tempt my mother, especially when it came to food. I once complained that her peanut butter sandwiches had all the peanut butter in the middle and none around the edges, so that I ended up eating plain bread crust. My next sandwich had gobs of peanut butter all around the edges and nothing in the middle.
If I ever open a restaurant, the lunch menu will say:
SANWIDGES
Perimeter Peanut Butter
Meatloaf with Bread
Sliding Lunch Meat
For one thing, I need a solution to the problem of my baloney sandwich coming apart. This happens to me every time. The baloney is cemented to both slices of bread with mustard, but where the meat meets the meat, it is very slippery, and when I pick it up to take a bite, all of a sudden I’ve got slip-‘n-slide going on, two pieces of sandwich heading in different directions, and mustard all over me.
The other thing is I didn’t have time yesterday to remark upon it being October 13, my father’s birthday. He would have been 98 years old (if he hadn’t died in 1978).
Well, there might be some commonality here after all. My dad liked a good sandwich, which, incidentally, the way he pronounced it sounded more like sanwidge.
My father's idea of a sandwich was a one-inch stack of meat between two pieces of bread. That's all. No mustard, no mayonnaise, no lettuce, no nothin' else. Bread and meat, and lots of it. One day he told my mother, who made lunches for us to carry to work and school every day, that he wished she’d put more meat on his sandwich. She promised to do better, and the next day when he sat down for lunch with the fellas at work, he found two thick slabs of left-over meatloaf with a slice of bread between them.
Maybe that was the original sanwidge.
You never wanted to tempt my mother, especially when it came to food. I once complained that her peanut butter sandwiches had all the peanut butter in the middle and none around the edges, so that I ended up eating plain bread crust. My next sandwich had gobs of peanut butter all around the edges and nothing in the middle.
If I ever open a restaurant, the lunch menu will say:
SANWIDGES
Perimeter Peanut Butter
Meatloaf with Bread
Sliding Lunch Meat
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Made Better Most of the Time
Better Made potato chips are made in Detroit, Michigan. They are beloved by people from Michigan because they are made in Michigan. Better Made products can be seen in some of the tourist-attraction television ads touting "Pure Michigan," that's how proud Michigan is of them.
Hey -- they are the recipients of the Rachael Ray Best Salt and Vinegar Chip Award. What else do you need to know? Their website also mentions other awards, including "Detroit Free Press Best Potato Chip 2002-2007."
So, it's 2010 -- what has happened since? I'll tell you what. Quality control went down the toilet, that's what. Even though they are cheap in Michigan (because they're so often on sale) and even though the plain chips are thin and crispy just like I like 'em and have the best potato flavor of any chip I ever had, we stopped buying the brand because every bag seemed to contain way too many inedible pieces of potato yuck.
Well, last time we were in the grocery store, I was appalled by the price of Frito-Lay products, so I grabbed a bag of Better Made chips.
I had some with my sandwich today. Is there anything better than a thin, crispy, perfectly salted, potato-y tasting chip with braunschweiger on rye? Huh? I ask you.
But I digress. I had some of those chips at lunch today, and I'm here to tell you, Better Made are the best chips I've ever had. Yes, I've had Mike-Sells. Yes, I've had Charles Chips. These are better.
There is only one thing I like more than Better Made potato chips: Better Made potato sticks. But I think I'll leave that for another day.
Not to be outdone by Rachael, I hereby bestow upon Better Made Potato Chips of Detroit, Michigan, the Jan Knez Zowee! Award.
Hey -- they are the recipients of the Rachael Ray Best Salt and Vinegar Chip Award. What else do you need to know? Their website also mentions other awards, including "Detroit Free Press Best Potato Chip 2002-2007."
So, it's 2010 -- what has happened since? I'll tell you what. Quality control went down the toilet, that's what. Even though they are cheap in Michigan (because they're so often on sale) and even though the plain chips are thin and crispy just like I like 'em and have the best potato flavor of any chip I ever had, we stopped buying the brand because every bag seemed to contain way too many inedible pieces of potato yuck.
Well, last time we were in the grocery store, I was appalled by the price of Frito-Lay products, so I grabbed a bag of Better Made chips.
I had some with my sandwich today. Is there anything better than a thin, crispy, perfectly salted, potato-y tasting chip with braunschweiger on rye? Huh? I ask you.
But I digress. I had some of those chips at lunch today, and I'm here to tell you, Better Made are the best chips I've ever had. Yes, I've had Mike-Sells. Yes, I've had Charles Chips. These are better.
There is only one thing I like more than Better Made potato chips: Better Made potato sticks. But I think I'll leave that for another day.
Not to be outdone by Rachael, I hereby bestow upon Better Made Potato Chips of Detroit, Michigan, the Jan Knez Zowee! Award.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Oh, Puh-LEASE!
This is a special message to the driver -- no, the owner (just in case they are not one and the same) of the 2010 Lexus that was in front of me on the way to work. That is, specifically, the 2010 Lexus with the license plate 1 LEXUS.
Did it occur to you that putting LEXUS on the license plate is a dead give-away that this is the first luxury car you've ever been able to afford? Are you so excited about your new car that you are willing to advertise to the world that you've just recently traded up from a 15-year-old Chevy?
Well, good for you getting that big new job with the big new paycheck, but this is Michigan, sweetie. As the last one in, you'll be the first one out when they downsize, and you'll be selling that car back to Lexus of Lansing and heading for the used car lot.
I hope driving to job interviews in a 1998 Ford with 1 LEXUS on its license plate will be as embarrassing to you then as your pretension should be now.
Did it occur to you that putting LEXUS on the license plate is a dead give-away that this is the first luxury car you've ever been able to afford? Are you so excited about your new car that you are willing to advertise to the world that you've just recently traded up from a 15-year-old Chevy?
Well, good for you getting that big new job with the big new paycheck, but this is Michigan, sweetie. As the last one in, you'll be the first one out when they downsize, and you'll be selling that car back to Lexus of Lansing and heading for the used car lot.
I hope driving to job interviews in a 1998 Ford with 1 LEXUS on its license plate will be as embarrassing to you then as your pretension should be now.
Sunday, October 10, 2010
A Date By Any Other Name
Today is 10-10-10.
I do pay attention to these things, ever since the spring day when I was in the third grade and my teacher (Wilma W. Watkins, for those of us who love alliteration) pointed out that the date was 5-5-55. For the next 45 years, I paid attention every 11 years (almost) when this phenomenon occurred again. I remember where I was on 6-6-66 when I pointed out the date to someone, and I remember 8-8-88 and 9-9-99, but I seem to have missed 7-7-77. I don’t remember noticing that date, nor did I remark upon it in my journal. I always try to note odd dates in my journal.
Well, anyway, since we hit the new millennium, there have been lots of those amusing dates, because that’s what happens during the first dozen years of a millennium, principally because there are twelve months to match the first twelve years.
So, from 2001 to 2012, starting with 01-01-01, there have been or there will be one of these dates every year until we get to 12-12-12.
Also during the first dozen years of a millennium, we get some other funky dates like counting up (e.g., 02-03-04) and down (09-08-07). Some people got excited counting by twos up (02-04-06) and down (07-05-03) although those did not impress me quite as much.
In the next couple years we will have 12-11-10, 9-10-11, 11-11-11, 10-11-12, and 12-12-12. After that we have to wait until February 2, 2022 and then every 11 years thereafter until a new millennium gives us 12 more years that can be numbered 1 through 12.
Avid reader Kristin Mersberger of Rochester, Minnesota (OK, my niece) pointed out that the Chicago Bears started their second-string quarterback today. He wears number 10 – and they won. Matt Forte had a great game, rushing for two touchdowns. He wears number 22. He must just be ahead of his time.
I do pay attention to these things, ever since the spring day when I was in the third grade and my teacher (Wilma W. Watkins, for those of us who love alliteration) pointed out that the date was 5-5-55. For the next 45 years, I paid attention every 11 years (almost) when this phenomenon occurred again. I remember where I was on 6-6-66 when I pointed out the date to someone, and I remember 8-8-88 and 9-9-99, but I seem to have missed 7-7-77. I don’t remember noticing that date, nor did I remark upon it in my journal. I always try to note odd dates in my journal.
Well, anyway, since we hit the new millennium, there have been lots of those amusing dates, because that’s what happens during the first dozen years of a millennium, principally because there are twelve months to match the first twelve years.
So, from 2001 to 2012, starting with 01-01-01, there have been or there will be one of these dates every year until we get to 12-12-12.
Also during the first dozen years of a millennium, we get some other funky dates like counting up (e.g., 02-03-04) and down (09-08-07). Some people got excited counting by twos up (02-04-06) and down (07-05-03) although those did not impress me quite as much.
In the next couple years we will have 12-11-10, 9-10-11, 11-11-11, 10-11-12, and 12-12-12. After that we have to wait until February 2, 2022 and then every 11 years thereafter until a new millennium gives us 12 more years that can be numbered 1 through 12.
Avid reader Kristin Mersberger of Rochester, Minnesota (OK, my niece) pointed out that the Chicago Bears started their second-string quarterback today. He wears number 10 – and they won. Matt Forte had a great game, rushing for two touchdowns. He wears number 22. He must just be ahead of his time.
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Land of Lincoln
I'm from Illinois.
I’ve lived in Michigan since 1980. When I travel (literally or virtually) and someone asks me where I'm from, I say Michigan because that's where I live now. But I'm from Illinois.
I never intended to stay in Michigan. I've never really liked it here. Among the things I dislike most are the complete lack of specialty liquor stores, the primitive driver license issuing system, the Eastern time zone, the auto industry, and the habit of local television stations to broadcast sports featuring Lions and Tigers instead of Bears and Cubs.
You would think that after 30 years there would be something about Michigan I find redeeming. Nope. Well, all right -- Michigan does have a cool big bridge and lots of Indian casinos, but that doesn't inspire sweet feelings in me. When I cross the state line back into Michigan after a trip, I tend to notice it. When crossing the state line into Illinois, I still get all warm and fuzzy inside.
So why did I stay in Michigan all these years? Because that's where the love of my life is, who, incidentally, is not from Michigan either. And we both stayed here for our jobs.
On January 31, 2014, I will have lived in Michigan longer than I lived in Illinois.
That is going to mess me up.
I’ve lived in Michigan since 1980. When I travel (literally or virtually) and someone asks me where I'm from, I say Michigan because that's where I live now. But I'm from Illinois.
I never intended to stay in Michigan. I've never really liked it here. Among the things I dislike most are the complete lack of specialty liquor stores, the primitive driver license issuing system, the Eastern time zone, the auto industry, and the habit of local television stations to broadcast sports featuring Lions and Tigers instead of Bears and Cubs.
You would think that after 30 years there would be something about Michigan I find redeeming. Nope. Well, all right -- Michigan does have a cool big bridge and lots of Indian casinos, but that doesn't inspire sweet feelings in me. When I cross the state line back into Michigan after a trip, I tend to notice it. When crossing the state line into Illinois, I still get all warm and fuzzy inside.
So why did I stay in Michigan all these years? Because that's where the love of my life is, who, incidentally, is not from Michigan either. And we both stayed here for our jobs.
On January 31, 2014, I will have lived in Michigan longer than I lived in Illinois.
That is going to mess me up.
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