cat sank trio

No bags!

Hi All–I’ve been struck by an idea. Maybe some of you will think it’s beyond obvious. Maybe some of you will think it’s beyond belief. I’m not trying to sell you anything–except an extremely simple thought.

     If you are like our family, you are making slight adjustments in your life and habits to be more aware of the environment, to become more “green.” One of the ways many are doing this is to buy cloth bags for carrying groceries–to reduce or eliminate the use of plastic bags. A few weeks ago we were shopping, and when we were checking out we realized that we had forgotten our cloth bags at home. When the employee asked if we wanted paper or plastic, I said, “Neither. We’ll just take our items out in the cart.”

     The check-out girl was stunned. She stared at me for a moment, then said, “I wish all our customers would do that! I’ve never heard anyone suggest that before!” (It is actually her reaction that is still provoking me to write this). We rolled the shopping cart of items out of the store, loaded the stuff into our car, and it was no problem at all to carry our purchases into the house. Since then, I’ve been doing this all the time (and I almost always get startled reactions from store employees).

     Such a gesture seems so simple to me–but a revelation, too. Maybe we’ve grown so used to the idea of having bags of some sort that our acceptance of them is automatic. Here is my proposal: the next time you’re in a store of any kind, ask for no bags (there are some exceptions to this rule, of course–such as if you bought 2,456 tiny beads). Cart your items out. If you wish, keep your cloth bags in your car or in your garage (then you never have to remember to bring them into the store) for transport to the house. Bag your items in your car, in your garage, or not at all. Voila!–drastic measures taken toward the ultimate end of plastic bag use. I think I’m going to have a t-shirt printed up that reads “Just say no to bags.” I may even suggest that you all start calling me “No Bags” (that is, if you ignore the ones under my eyes).

     As I read this blog, I’m beginning to realize that Lori was probably right (again)–there is a fine line between simple and downright idiotic. Perhaps most of you have been bagless for ages already. But I have resolved myself to post this, no matter what–and if three or four of you hadn’t thought of this yet, then today I’ve made one feeble (or perhaps feeble-minded) gesture toward bettering our planet.     

Thanks for letting me get this double-bagged weight off my chest.

Sincerely (in a Linus sort of way)

Terry

Diva Gets a New Ride

Hello CatHeads — Crystal here — good old, melodica-blowing, whistle-tweeting, living-in-harmony, Crystal. Summer’s here, and aside from the exciting, queen-like existence that makes up my daily life (you know, demanding the most amplification in an acoustic trio of four, sleeping until 9:30 AM, watering my bonsai tree), the time has been right for dancing in the streets.

Since the Cat Sank got a PA system, Terry started referring to me as “The Diva.” I suppose he justifies the title by referencing my steady need for cranberry-lime vodkas, an ice water, and glossy lip balm — or my lack of ability to lift heavy things, such as his red guitar cord, capo, or Mike’s drum towels — or my sudden interest in the “creepy guy in front” when the band starts to load equipment. Either way, everyone knows it’s always only been a nickname — relatively harmless and completely meaningless. Divas don’t chew their nails like me; they break them putting a tiera onto their hairsprayed heads and then cry when they find out their nail-chicky is on vacation.

I, on the other hand, pride myself on my innate adaptability. I can be one of the boys, one of the girls, or something else (weird story — don’t ask). My needs are easily met, and I don’t expect anyone to cater to me (keep a straight face, Terry) just because I was born a girl. This has always been true, minus one detail — I have, traditionally, needed rides almost everywhere I wanted to go. Todd (the husband) and I have always had one car. Since he’s had to drive all over for his job, he finds himself with the car most of the time. I, consequently, find myself without one. This pickle has resulted in me, over the years, coming to actually believe that my friends enjoyed driving me places. They relished in my passenger-ness, making sure to show up on time and giving me permission to “throw it in the back” if something was in the way of my precious behind.

Though I hated to disappoint these adoring fans, my lack of a car recently started to inhibit my ability to please the masses and be everywhere at once. In short, my very independence was near extinction, not that I’m dramatic. I had to join the commonfolk and start driving my own sweet self around.

So Todd is driving me around Fargo, driving in and out of every car lot this fine metropolis has to offer, and nothing is right. Living high-on-the-hog as we do, I had a flexible budget of between $150-153 dollars a month to work with. The options were limitless — a 1997 Buick Century with only 103K, a taupe F-150 with an airbrushed aluminum topper, Ford’s finest 1998 Taurus with 5% of its original breakpads still intact, etc., etc., etc. None of these could reasonably tow the likes of my beauty around. Finally, on the last pass through a certain car lot (that’s right — I’m not naming names), there sat the most silvery of coaches — a 2002 Mazda Protege5 automatic (manual should be a swear word) with 63K and exactly within my budget. “Stop the car!” I commanded my beloved. So he did.

At once, both one of the most exhilerating and one of the most offensive experiences in my short life began. Todd stayed at the helm of our current ride, keeping princess Ramona the Labradoodle cool with the AC on high, while I ventured out to check out the Protege. Not a salesman in sight. I go into the dealership and request some keys so I can take my soon-to-be-new car for a test drive. Ryan helps me — he’s new, I can tell by the awkward way he tries to start conversations about WeFest. The car drives like a dream, zooming around corners and stopping safely at stoplights. I tell Ryan that I want to talk “numbers” — I’m not entirely new to this process NOR the lingo — and we go inside, just me and Ryan. Half-way through the process, Ryan has to go check the numbers with the numbers guy (Todd nicknamed him “Jackpot”). I go outside to talk to Todd, and we decide he can leave the car running while he comes inside to keep me company and find me a glass of water. Ryan comes back, meets Todd, and from that moment on, doesn’t really make eye-contact with me at all. When a new price is presented, Ryan writes it up and shoves the paper toward Todd with a pen to sign. Todd, of course, slides the paper toward me and shoots Ryan the “don’t-you-know-who-she-is” look I love him for. I sign the paper, push it toward Ryan with the “you-get-one-more-chance-with-me” kind of look everyone loves me for.

The price is agreed upon and we’re now signing contracts and financial papers. Jackpot puts the papers in front of us and says, “Huh. Would you look at that! I put Todd’s name first on everything. I wonder why I did that.” I wanted to retort, “I know! I know! It’s because you have a —- and I don’t!” But, I didn’t. Jackpot then says, “I’ll need the $1100 down we agreed upon now,” to Todd. Todd says, “Crystal, you should write out the check.” Jackpot asks, “Really, why?” — like it’s a cute thing to do for daddy’s little girl who’s watching closely the world around her, trying to figure out how she fits into it all. And I answer with a pity-ing smile, “It’s because I have all the money.” Jackpot: “Oh, in that account?” Diva: “No! In ALL the accounts!”

We shift gears then. Jackpot gets up to retrieve the title for the car, fresh off the printer. “The actual title will of course read, ‘Todd OR Crystal’, because that’s the way they all are, or, I mean, because that’s the way it SHOULD BE!”

Diva gets a point for the ladies, two sets of keys, and her independence. Mama’s got a brand new bag! And, Ryan was even smart enough to put a half-tank of gas in the Protege5. Make that two points, ladies.

Cat Sank Solstice

Hello, from the middle of the summer. July is quite busy for us, and we just finished our gig at the Roseau County Fair–one of the greatest small-town fairs ever (Terry worked on 4-H projects for that fair when he belonged to the Gatzke Busy Beavers 4-H club. He was young, at the time) . A few of the Back Behind the Barn Boys were there, as well as a pile of relatives, and everyone was wowed by Crystal’s virtuosity on the melodica. A few people even asked what that “thing” was.
It’s a Hohner Melodica. Terry played one while attending sixth and seventh grades at Gatzke Elementary School (the third, fourth, and fifth grades played flutophones, and only after they became masters of the flutophones could they progress to the physical, mental, and emotional demands of the melodica). When Terry reached the eighth grade, the city of Grygla built a high school, and all Gatzke students were bussed and bustled away from their hometown of Gatzke, and from everything they knew–including flutophones and melodicas. As a direct result, most of those Gatzke kids never played instruments with their mouths again. When Terry met Crystal (not at all like when Harry met Sally) he was immediately taken back to his days at Gatzke Elementary School, and could not get the rings and drones of melodicas and flutophones out of his head–so he purchased a melodica on ebay for her to play. Crystal, not being from Gatzke and–until this blog–having never even heard of it, was undaunted by the thought of learning to play a wind-powered oral keyboard instrument.
We also had some guest singers in Roseau. Terry’s four-year-old daughter Maggie and her cousin Taylor came up to join us for rousing renditions of “Puff, the Magic Dragon” and “Family Picture.” Terry paid them each a dollar, so they could legitimately say that it was their first paying gig.
We’re looking forward to a repeat performance at Summerfest, in Casselton, ND this Saturday–temps are predicted to be up there close to the percentage of humidity again this year. That’s why we are a water-generated and water-driven band–at least in the summertime. Deb Jenkins and her hubby supply sound and engineer, and they do a great job. The Past Due band, which includes three of Terry’s former bandmates from the Convertibles, will be playing the street dance shortly after Cat Sank’s sets. Come to Casselton and shake and howdy with us–despite the temps, it’ll be cool.
Last year at Summerfest, some ne’er-do-well skewered Fanks’s van tire with a kabob stick–just slammed it right into the sidewall. The city of Casselton graciously and most kindly opened up a repair shop and took care of the problem immediately. Thank you very much, Bernie! All of you criminals reading this blog, now don’t get any ideas! Just my luck, there’ll suddenly be an epidemic of tire punctures by kabob sticks at festivals all over the world, and I will be to blame for disclosing the details of this dastardly, ingenious deed. I’ll try to counterbalance it by coming up with a good idea, one of these days. I’ll let you know when such a thing comes to me.