Midwest summers: a guide for mountain people

By some care.com miracle, we wound up with an AMAZING nanny for our kids while they’ve been out of school. She was vastly overqualified to watch my children, but she was in Kansas City for her husband’s job this summer and was looking for a summer childcare gig. She is from Utah, which is apparently a land of mountains, no humidity and Mormons. 

It didn’t take long to realize she was a foreigner living in a foreign land, and I realized it was my duty to teacher her the ways of midwestern summers. Some topics we had to cover:

Humidity

A friend of mine once described humidity as “the air giving you a hug.” (She lived in Ohio before moving to Colorado and now misses living in air that can best be described as “moist.”)  I could tell the humidity was new for our nanny when she cut about 10 inches off her hair in her first week here. She has beautiful hair, but I guarantee you she realized it was more beautiful in Utah. Missouri summer means your hair tries to lift off your head and curl in the most unflattering way possible in the unending battle of white women vs. frizz. But hey, she didn’t have to spend any money on lotion or Chapstick while she was here.

Our nanny also lamented that in Utah, it gets plenty hot, but you actually find relief in the shade. She soon realized that here it is just as soupy under the tree as it is in an open field. 

Wildlife

Apparently, Kansas City is a verdant summer paradise compared to Utah. We’ve had much more rain than usual this summer, but the nanny said everything is dry and dead this time of year in her home town. She said she was shocked to see so many squirrels, rabbits and other fauna hopping about all the time. She couldn’t believe our weekly raccoons vs. trash battle (a whole blog for another day). She said they just don’t have any cute, furry, destructive wildlife scampering about in southern Utah in the summer. 

She also got introduced to another less-cute and less-visible Kansas City native: the chigger. She was complaining of really itchy bites all over her feet and ankles, and I had to introduce her to this mite with the name of a racist redneck. I also told her the cure for chigger bites that has long circulated in the community: to put clear nail polish over them because then those little suckers that have established squatters rights under your skin can’t breathe anymore and die. I don’t know if that really works, but it is passed down from generation to generation of midwesterners. (Interestingly, clear nail polish also has been passed down as the cure for runs in pantyhose.) 

She’d also never had to deal with ticks before or the higher amount of mosquitoes. I’m beginning to think we may have gotten the short end of the stick here in Kansas City … but our ovens cook faster down here closer to sea level!

Tornadoes and the warning sirens thereof

At about 10:30 a.m. on the first Wednesday of the month in June, I texted her in a panic. The monthly tornado siren test was due to happen at 11, and I realized she would probably think an air raid was about to go down. We live pretty close to the sirens, and I didn’t want her to think bombs were about to drop on the children. I advised her this siren testing would recur on a monthly basis (unless it’s stormy at 11 a.m. on the first Wednesday, and then emergency management doesn’t want to confuse people into thinking it’s a legit tornado, and they schedule it for the second Wednesday, and I can see how this can get confusing if you’re not used to it). I also told her to go to a basement if a tornado does happen. Her apartment didn’t have one, so we drove home the lowest-interior-area-with-no-windows location.  

She also got a first-hand look at flash flooding. Turn around, don’t drown, mountain friends!

Aldi

The nanny did not have the world’s best discount grocer where she lived in Utah. Friends out west, I am so, so, sorry. They’re expanding like crazy in Kansas City (a new one is opening less than a mile from my house!), and I hope they come to you soon. Then you, too, can enjoy all the savings a quarter-deposit on a grocery cart can buy on tons of delicious foods at prices that will make you mad when you are at regular grocery stores. I hope the Aldi boom follows our sweet nanny back to Utah. 

School starts for the kids next week, and our wonderful nanny goes back to Utah this weekend. Our whole family will miss her terribly. But she goes back with a new cultural awareness of Kansas City and its summer climate. She previously spent a couple years in England on her Mormon mission, but I’m sure this will go down in her memory as the most exotic and enjoyable place she has ever lived.  

I like cults

While most white women love murder (mostly just the shows and podcasts about it), I find myself inextricably drawn to cults. (Again, of the shows and podcasts variety. I do not keep joining cults.) Why are they so intriguing? Why do people keep falling for their charismatic-leader, brainwashing junk? What’s with all the polygamy? It’s time to explore my fascination with them. 

I’m not against a good Dateline episode or true crime podcast. I’m not a cop, but I have worked in and around law enforcement for almost two decades, so murder is, sadly, kind of old hat to me. The vast, vast majority of murders are not made-for-TV. They’re usually the same unfortunate story of throwing a gun into poor conflict resolution skills and/or drug deals gone bad. The kinds of homicides that do make it on 48 Hours are much rarer and sexier, usually featuring scorned lovers, big life insurance policies and attractive white women. 

But cults, man. Cults are not a part of my day-to-day life, and I cannot watch and listen to enough stuff about them. Here’s why I think I find them so intriguing: 

My religious upbringing

I was brought up as an evangelical Christian. Not culty. A lot of pot luck dinners, though. (As I have said before, I mostly still consider myself an evangelical Christian, but the term “evangelical” has come to mean such gross political conservatism I scarcely use it anymore.) My politics aside, I learned growing up of all the warnings about false prophets in the Bible, which I guess has always kind of had me on high alert and given me a healthy degree of skepticism for people who claim God told them something very explicit and very weird. Oh, God told you the true believers are all gonna’ ride a comet to a new planet full of virgins on Sept. 27, 2026? Sure, Jan.   

My Dad

To be clear, my dad is not and has never been a cult leader. He did serve on his town’s board of parks and recreation for 10+ years, though. He helped shepherd in a new dog park, not underage wives for a “prophet’s” nephew. He also was the teacher of our high school Sunday school class at church. He taught several lessons on different cults and how to identify and avoid them. He had several books about them at home that I frequently perused. I remember wondering how people could literally drink the Kool-aid of these belief systems? How did a book that was clearly science fiction spawn a whole celebrity-filled religion? Why do women almost always get the short end of the stick in these deals?

Polygamy

Speaking of oppressing women, let’s go with the obviously most fascinating feature of some of these cults: polygamy. I think any married mom can admit there are times a sister wife sounds appealing. Like who doesn’t want a little help pulling out all of the underwear the kids leave in their pants at laundry time or reading all the emails from school? And maybe someone to clap back with you when the husband is being a tool. But like a celibate sister wife because otherwise, just no. I can’t with the “whose bedroom is he going to tonight?” BS. 

According to my highly reliable source of television documentaries, cults with polygamy pretty much always get into oppressing women and sexually assaulting underage girls. There are always the stupid dresses and the stupid hair braids and the gross old man “prophets.” The girls and women are just breeding property who do all the cooking and cleaning while the men are constantly doing construction work. What are they always building? My best guesses are temples for invasive ceremonies, warehouses for homeschool curricula and armories to fend off the feds when they come to rescue the girls and arrest the prophet. 

Charismatic leaders

I realize a lot of cult members were born into them and know nothing else. But then there are the people who are just living their lives and come across the coo-coo teachings of some guy and are like, “Yup, I should leave my family and friends, get a bowl cut, go live off the grid and give all my money to that guy!” How does that happen? It is such an intriguing psychological phenomenon: both the characteristics of the leader and the characteristics of the people who get sucked in by them. 

You know what would make me want to join a cult? Mandatory daily naps, an ever-ready supply of Dippin’ Dots, a kitten room and someone else who makes dinner for your unappreciative children. Maybe these are just part of the benefits package at some Silicon Valley companies. 

I realize cults have destroyed the lives of many people and families. They traffic in shame and aim to quash critical thinking. I just want to wrap my arms around those people who have managed to escape. I want to tell them about the real, amazing grace the loving God offers and enroll them in a community college debate class. And ladies, you don’t have to share your man with anyone else. You can even wear pants. 

Hermit Neighbor Mystery: The Thrilling Conclusion

Hermit Neighbor's house for sale

Alright, Dateline fans, this is the much-anticipated conclusion of the Hermit Neighbor Trilogy. To fully understand this, you must first read Part 1 and Part 2 .

When we left off a little over a year ago, there was an active missing person investigations for Hermit Neighbor. I checked county court records on a very regular basis (I’m a former reporter - stalking public records is my jam) until one day I saw something pop up in his name. His elderly mother from Louisiana had gotten “conservatorship over a disappeared person.” Sort of like the “Free Brittney” case only with no back-up dancer ex-husbands, and Hermit Neighbor was missing, not doing a residency in Vegas.

I knew people who knew the detectives in the case and got the deets. The supposition was that Hermit Neighbor, while dying of colon cancer, checked into the hospital with a fake name. The detectives were waiting on dental records to confirm. Meanwhile, the unclaimed body of a man with a fake name lay on a chilled slab in the hospital morgue for nearly a year. His house across the street from me remained empty for a while, and then cars started showing up. 

They belonged to Hermit Neighbor’s mom and her sisters from Louisiana. And the guy who reported him missing in the first place - his online gamer friend from Nebraska - along with some of his friends. They had set to work on his house. I don’t even know how they got inside. One morning when I was loading the kids in the car for school, the Nebraska guy and his lady friend approached me and asked where the DMV was so they could get Hermit Neighbor’s car - which had sat untouched in the driveway for a year - properly licensed again. It was the most conversation I’ve ever had with anyone from that house. Ever. 

They rented dumpsters and filled them with boxes of papers, an old recliner and untold junk. I have never in my life wanted to dumpster dive so badly. Would the keys to Hermit Neighbor’s secret world be in there? Would there be an obvious explanation to why he was so averse to human contact? A diary detailing being scorned by an ex-lover? Documents linking him to a murderous drug cartel? Or just lots of Twizzler wrappers from his tri-monthly five-pound shipment from Amazon? 

Alas, there was never really a good time to dive into the dumpster without drawing suspicions from neighbors. Maybe nighttime, but what if I encountered a raccoon in there? I have no doubt they would fight me to the death for some juicy missing neighbor gossip. Have you seen their claws?

Then a roofing company came and replaced the house’s roof. A man came and bought the Porsche that sat in Hermit Neighbor’s garage that I never once saw him drive in the decade we lived across from him. Things seemed to be moving forward, so I checked back in with the detectives.

They had confirmed that Hermit Neighbor did in fact check into the hospital with a fake name in July 2021. He died a few weeks later at the age of 51 years old. This left me with two very big questions:

1. How do you check into a hospital with a fake name? 

Don’t you have to show ID? And your insurance? 

Who paid for Hermit Neighbor’s end-of-life care if they didn’t have his insurance with his name on it? 

When I was hospitalized at the end of my second pregnancy, I had to recite my name and date of birth pretty much any time a new nurse came into the room. How can you keep up the facade if you’re barely conscious?

2. Why would you want to check into a hospital with a fake name when you’re dying?

You hate your family so much you don’t want them to know whether you’re dead or alive?

You’re being hunted by an assassin? (But you’re dying anyway, so does it even matter?)

You want to stay on the hermit brand until the bitter end?

Whatever his reasons, Hermit Neighbor’s family finally found him, even if it was months after his death. His mother paid for many repairs to the house and put it on the market. She also got his 401K. For a guy who was so private, I could tell you exactly how much was in it because it’s all now in the public record of the probate case. Anyone could look it up (but probably only public record stalkers like me actually would).

When the house was listed for sale, the realtor said it was a “well-maintained home.” I laughed out loud when I read the listing. Maybe she meant well-maintained in that the top two floors hadn’t been lived in for the last decade. Hermit Neighbor resided only in the basement (see the previous installments of this trilogy) like a good hermit would. And in the 10 years we lived across from him, I never once saw any kind of home maintenance van - no HVAC, no electrician or plumber, no repair person of any kind. The two-story deck in the back was rotten. And still the house sold for about the same price as what ours is currently valued at. The housing market today, man. “Come buy a dead basement-dweller’s house that until recently had a hole in the roof for way over market value!”

This weekend, I was working out in my yard when the new owners of the house came by. They are a couple who hasn’t fully moved in yet, but the man was mowing his new yard. He waved at me. It’s the dawn of a new era. 

 

  

 

The top 10 things Facebook advertised to me in 2022

Actual Facebook ad I got yesterday.

There were plenty of top 10 year-end 2022 countdowns, but they all start to run together for me: biggest news stories, most famous people who died, songs, etc. What you didn’t get, and am sure have been dying to know, is what kind of Facebook advertisements I got this year. Bonus points if you can pick what I actually bought from them!

Anyone on Facebook knows that its advertising is creepy as hell. This past summer I plunked a few keys on a piano. I did not Google pianos. I didn’t even say the word “piano.” Then bam, a few hours later, I get an ad for pianos. A couple months after that I went into an alterations shop that also sells police uniforms. Later that day: ads for police uniforms and tactical equipment. All those paranoid folks worried about big brother are carrying him around with them all the time on their phones. Luckily, my life is so boring, I’m not particularly concerned about it. (“Oooh, she went to work again!”)

Sometimes, Facebook ads nailed me in embarrassing ways. Other times, um, not so much. There are two of the things listed below I actually bought after the ads. See if you can guess which. I’ll put them at the end.

10. Bomb-sniffing rat adoption

Apparently you can train rats to sniff out bombs. Facebook keeps asking me to adopt some. I assume in the donate-to-the-nonprofit-that-uses-them way and not actually take them home. Because #1, I don’t have hidden bombs in or around my house that I’m aware of; #2, my husband thinks rats are gross because of their hairless tails (I think they’re adorable) and #3, I’m not sure how my elderly cats would feel about them. 

9. Trite think pieces from The Atlantic

“Why making friends in midlife is so hard.” “The opposite of toxic positivity.” “There’s no way to repair marriage without repairing men.” “Stop fetishizing old homes.” 

Those are all clickbait headlines The Atlantic Magazine tried to sell me on this week on Facebook. I don’t have time to read 3,000 words from someone whose relationship track record is probably worse than mine. 

8. Bras for small-breasted women.

Fine, you figured me out, Facebook. But I will never buy bras with seams on the cups, regardless of whether they were specially designed for the itty bitty titty committee. That chafing on delicate parts is unacceptable.

7. A $400 zit zapper

It’s technology developed by NASA! Or something. You hold the thing with a blue light on your zit for 90 seconds, then the red light for 90 seconds, and your zit magically disappears! Maybe. 

6. CC creams

Facebook must have figured out that I don’t love my skin and has been relentlessly trying to sell me stuff to cover it up. Don’t skin-shame me, Facebook! Does the body-positivity movement include loving your sun damage spots?

5. Modest swimwear

I’ve never been a string bikini kind of girl, but I also don’t practice Islam. Yet over the summer, i got daily ads for swimsuits featuring full-length skirts over leggings and tops with attached head coverings. Do I own a long-sleeved swim shirt? I do. But for sun protection purposes, not because I might tempt a man with my shoulder blades. 

4. Cat hair scraper

Thankfully, I got this ad more often than the one that’s a sort-of brush you hold in your mouth so you can pretend to lick your cat. The hair scraper ad shows it miraculously pulling entire cats’ worth of hair off your rugs and furniture with zero effort.

3. PMS gummies

Gummy vitamins designed with the premenstrual bitch in mind in a variety of yummy fruit flavors! You can tell a man came up with these, because if a woman had designed PMS vitamins, they would obviously be chocolate. 

2. Hair removal scrubby pad thing

These ads show women with disgustingly long armpit, leg and even toe hair. I can’t even. Then they rub some pad on them and the hair magically and painlessly disappears! If there’s anything I learned from the Epilady in the late 1990s, body hair never “disappears” painlessly. 

1. Period panties

This is apparently underwear you just free bleed into. I’m honestly both intrigued and grossed out. You can also get them as leggings. That you just wear around. With uterine blood in them. At the grocery store or something. No. 

So in 2022, Facebook had me pegged as a modest, hairy, cat-owning, small-boobed woman of child-bearing age with bad skin and relationship concerns who isn’t concerned if rats get exploded. Can't wait to see what they think of me in 2023!

* Quiz answers! Can you guess which of the products above I actually purchased after seeing the Facebook ads?

Drumroll please: No. 7, the $400 zit zapper (the results of which I am not so far impressed) and No. 4, the cat hair scraper (works great on short-piled rugs, snags on most everything else).