Let me get this straight: You lost your mind over requiring people to wear masks a couple of years ago to stop the spread of COVID, but now you are forcing women to wear sleeves?
You claim it was to clarify language to be “equal” to men. (By the way, you really should hire a PR person or copy editor or SOMEONE to help you with your writing skills.)
Sure it was.
I can’t believe it was adopted 105-51. (Note that the House is made up of 116 men and 43 women. Party affiliation for reference: 111 R, 52 D.)
I can’t believe you wasted any time on this at all. Have you seen the state rankings? Just look!
I swear to God — you are affecting my healthcare: my mental health!
I really don’t know why I’m surprised at either of the things above. It’s so much easier to control women and what they do and wear rather than tackle big issues in all people’s lives. Right, Ann?
What an embarrassment this is for the state. You want to be in the international consciousness with this foolishness?
I’m so glad my representative didn’t vote for this nonsense. (Granted, I think he was absent that day.)
Pull yourself together, please. Focus on important issues.
Sincerely, Beth, a Missouri resident with sense
Bare arms vs. bear arms (God forbid she wears a mask.) Photo credit here.
As many of you know, I’m adopted. I was adopted when I was about six weeks old. (“Fresh baby! Get her while she’s pink!) I’ve always known I was adopted. My parents said they would help me look for my birth family when I was ready.
I was never ready when they were alive.
It felt like it would be disrespectful to them to search. Also, what if my birth mother hadn’t told anyone about me? Showing up on her doorstep would be a bit of a surprise — and likely not in a Prize Patrol kind of way.
I had great parents. Howard and Jeanne loved me, and I loved them. I had a normal middle-class childhood: We lived in a standard subdivision of ’70s split levels (say that three times fast) outside of Atlanta, and I went to public schools but a private college (scholarship, FTW!). We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor. No abuse. (Unless you count all those times I got whacked with a fly swatter because of my smart mouth. And I certainly don’t.)
Some of my friends were adopted too, and we commiserated about what it must be like to actually look like someone else or see some of your behaviors handed down from a parent. My parents often looked at me like I was a zoo animal because I had so much more energy than they did. They were sedentary people. And y’all know I am … not.
Still, my friends weren’t so keen to search either. It’s a big thing. Rejection looms large.
All I knew about my birth mother was that she was a very young college student and didn’t feel she could care for me at the time.
When I left college myself and started thinking about starting a family, I wrote to the adoption agency to see if I could get any medical information. It felt important to find out if I had a family history of cancer, heart disease, diabetes (“The Shugahs” if you are from the South), etc.
They sent back a few pages of typed social information: birth parents’ first names, general background, number of siblings, physical features, college education, circumstances surrounding my conception and birth, etc.
Then, the kicker:
My people, I was not ready for that. I folded that little letter back up and tucked it into a file folder. There it stayed for nearly two decades.
And even now as I try to explain what has been going on over the past few years, I realize I have to stop here for now.
This feels like a four-part series: Beginning (this part), Discovery, Meeting Mom, Meeting Dad.
Thanks for going with me to the Haunted Mine at our university (aka place of business).
I know we are coworkers who barely know each other, but you came through. People I knew better begged off (because haunted, because mine, because both).
Even though I’m an Explosives Technology student, I had not yet been to the experimental mine. I read all about the prep, though.
“Scaring starts at 6.”
Too bad I live 1.5 hours away and couldn’t get in some hours.
I’m glad we met up at the Tater Patch. I don’t know what any of that means.Sporting saucy hard hats!
We got the safety briefing (“It’s a mine. The walls are made of rock. If you hurt yourself, let a scarer know immediately.”). Then it was time.
It was genuinely terrifying, especially the bit with the clown with the chainsaw.
This is the photo that one accidentally takes when running from a clown wielding a chainsaw.
NO, THANK YOU.
I had to remind myself that the scarers were not allowed to touch me. (And I was not allowed to touch them either. Consent goes both ways.)
Huddled together, we screamed/laughed our way through it.
Well, the screaming/laughing was me. You were mostly laughing. At me. For good reason.
Anyway, it was great, and I appreciate you going with me. Thanks again!
It’s been a dozen years since I’ve been in a for-credit course. I really don’t know what I’m doing in your Explosives in Industry course. Or what I’m doing in the Explosives Technology graduate certificate program in general.
My background is journalism/mass communications and performing arts.
So why am I here?
I genuinely don’t know.
I guess it just seemed cool to learn about explosives.
And I guess I wanted to do something completely different.
Even though this certificate program is billed as being for non-engineers, there’s still a steep learning curve.
I mean. What is going on there? Those acronyms mean nothing to me!
However, I did enjoy your video tour of the experimental mine.
Also, EXPERIMENTAL MINE?! That’s DOPE!
Anyway, I’m Tracy Flick, so I will figure out what I don’t know. I plan to get an A in the class.
We appear to have a symbiotic relationship. I force you to get out and “people” occasionally. You tell me about all the good stuff going on in the neighborhood.
I had no idea when I moved in that our neighborhood is such a happening place!
At least I think that’s your name. Hard to remember when lightheaded from blood loss.
I hope you remember me. I was strapped to your machine for a hour Friday.
When you originally asked if I wanted to donate two pints of blood, I said, “Sure.”
You said it would take no longer than 30 minutes.
But then the machine started “acting up.”
Not something anyone in my position wants to hear.
Finally, I was free to go.
Maybe a few more minutes with you would have been good, though. Maybe with my donation arm up over my head. Maybe with a little more pressure applied to my new wound.
I got to my car, and suddenly I looked like I had been in a knife fight.
You’ve heard of a shy colon? Apparently, I have an extroverted vein.
Back in the blood mobile, you and everyone else sprung into action.
I kept saying I was ok, though.
No one believed me. I got loads of attention, some apple juice and a snack.
I even got an offer of drycleaning.
You should see the other guy!
No need. Hydrogen peroxide worked wonders.
And today I’m barely bruised.
You know what else I am? Happy I successfully donated blood when the need is critical.
It was the best of times. It was the worst of times.
Best?
When Gideon was visiting me, he found a 2014 Dodge Charger he liked at your establishment. (What is it with my kids and muscle cars? Just teenage boys, I guess.)
We took a drive to Nashville, Illinois, and purchased the car on the spot.
Gideon save up $2,000 for the down payment.
We were assured that you had inspected the car and all was well. We purchased a warranty to be on the safe side.
We drove back to St. Louis, and arranged for Gideon and Eddie to come up this weekend to drive it back to Georgia.
Worst?
I took the car for safety and emission inspections to get it registered.
I bet you know what is coming.
It failed the safety inspection because it needed a new catalytic converter, engine mounts, an engine leak fixed, etc.
I think you knew this. That’s why we got such a good deal.
And your warranty doesn’t cover any of that. Of course. (So what good is it? I’d love to know.)
More than $6,500 later, the car is finally road worthy.
Happy about the car. Not happy about the 12-hour drive ahead.
Sigh.
It was worth it to see Gideon so happy, but I’ll be contacting you tomorrow for a discussion.
My guy, WHAT were you smoking when you created City Museum? Whatever it was, it was some good stuff. City Museum is like nothing I’ve ever seen in my life — in person or in movies/on TV. Not even “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory” comes close to this crazy place.
When I moved to St. Louis, people kept telling me I needed to visit. However, I don’t like museums. (It’s true. I’m sorry. But I don’t think you do either.) Finally, my friend Kate said that it is not a museum in any traditional sense of the word. She tried to describe it, then basically gave up.
“You have to see it,” she said. “It’s … sensory overload.”
So I went. And she’s right.
City Museum is like a museum in the way that I am like Beyoncé: barely any resemblance in form or function.
It is a building that houses artifacts — artifacts presented in chaos. It’s a 10-story fever dream.
I’ve now been four times.
Why?
You created notable features such as:
• An actual school bus cantilevered on the top floor over the street
• A Ferris wheel on top of the building
• A 10-story slide
• A five-story slide (that has not been open any of the four times I’ve been)
• A cave system
• The world’s largest (maybe) pair of underpants
• Two airplanes
I can’t even begin to summarize what is there. And every time I go, I discover something new.
Dominic and Gideon were in town, and I said we were going. They, like me, are not into museums. I said, “Hold that thought.”
Neither of them could believe what you created. Dominic lamented that, at 6’2″, he is too big for some of the tunnels.
“I wish we had come here when I was a kid.”
I fully agree. This could have entertained them for HOURS, and they would have slept well. (Every parent knows a day that wears out the kids is a good day.)
Here is just a sample of what we got into at your creation.
A seagull disgorges Dominic.Gideon finds a tunnel under the first floor. No, thank you.Dominic goes where I won’t.This is the entrance to a slide. Seriously.The caged bird yells, “Take my picture!”My hips don’t lie, nor do they fit in this opening.Dominic makes it to the top of one of two castles.
Speaking of the castles:
I’m sorry, TWO WHAT NOW?
There were a few moments where I worried about their safety and mine. I was right to worry. From the actual City Museum website:
The do-it-yourself, trying-anything nature of the museum led, not surprisingly, to injuries and, also not surprisingly, to dozens of personal injury suits. Mr. Cassilly’s response was to post telephone numbers of lawyers at the door.
The kids and I developed the habit of them going first into some cave/tunnel/hole to do reconnaissance then reporting back about the viability for me.
This tunnel was not for me.But this one was ok.
Yes, I used my own children as canaries in a coal mine.
I make no apologies. They were willing participants. And had a fabulous time.
Observe and report 