Since the blizzard of Christmas Eve 2009 has passed and we've survived, I'm focusing on the positives. The negatives include not seeing relatives, having to ignore tradition, and forego watching the kids run and play and scream their fool heads off until they collapse from exhaustion around noon.
The positives: we have snow, and milk, and vanilla and sugar.
Mix 'em together and you get ice cream!
The problem is the proportions of each ingredient. There is no science or true recipe.
I go with this:
One big bowl of snow
Enough milk until the mixture is creamy
Enough vanilla 'til it's a brownish color
Enough sugar 'til it tastes good
There! The perfect recipe for a fast delicious and quickly melting treat for a blistery, blustery day.
Enjoy.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
New Idea for Textophiles (it's a word, I made it up; I made it a word)
My dilemma continues: how to get hubby away from his new addiction of TEXTING.
Dear Lord in Heaven, it feels like my husband is a thirteen year old boy with Nintendo DS spasms that carry over into the texting world. He's lightning quick on the dang thing, I'll give him that. Way too many adventure games over the course of his life.
So -- I've been thinking of an invention to battle the texting thing I am living with.
What if:
Instead of typing, the machine worked with your voice, so that you could speak into it.
And whomever you are chatting with could respond right away. Sure, T9 is helpful sometimes, but how often have you tried to write "me" and ended up with "if?" Changes the whole context of your message. This way, you have no wasted seconds on tapping out messages. (Texting is a bit like Morse code, huh? I hadn't thought of that...)
And with a voice system, inflection and sarcasm could be heard, so there is no miscommunicating, which results in 18 more texts to clear up the confusion.
And instead of LOL, you could actually hear the other person actually laugh! Out loud!
OMG!
Wait a second...
*blink blink*
I think that might be the telephone.
Sweet! I just invented the telephone!!!
Dear Lord in Heaven, it feels like my husband is a thirteen year old boy with Nintendo DS spasms that carry over into the texting world. He's lightning quick on the dang thing, I'll give him that. Way too many adventure games over the course of his life.
So -- I've been thinking of an invention to battle the texting thing I am living with.
What if:
Instead of typing, the machine worked with your voice, so that you could speak into it.
And whomever you are chatting with could respond right away. Sure, T9 is helpful sometimes, but how often have you tried to write "me" and ended up with "if?" Changes the whole context of your message. This way, you have no wasted seconds on tapping out messages. (Texting is a bit like Morse code, huh? I hadn't thought of that...)
And with a voice system, inflection and sarcasm could be heard, so there is no miscommunicating, which results in 18 more texts to clear up the confusion.
And instead of LOL, you could actually hear the other person actually laugh! Out loud!
OMG!
Wait a second...
*blink blink*
I think that might be the telephone.
Sweet! I just invented the telephone!!!
Thursday, December 3, 2009
I Believe I'm a Relic
I think I am the only person on the planet who misses the hand written word.
Could this be true?
I know that technology has accelerated at the speed of light, and I'm doing my best to keep up, I assure you, but here's my concern: I've complained of it before, but does anyone miss personal conversations, the kind with complex sentences and correct grammar? Are we really so short on time that we don't type whole syllables, whole words, but use acrynoyms in everyday speech just to get through a conversation that much more quickly?
If I hear someone so O-M-G in that slow, drawn-out cutesy style one more time, I might actually scream. They don't even realize that they're being "so 1980's" with the whole Valley-girl attitude that they are laughable. And LOL has become a verb phrase? Reallly??
I know that after my grandmothers died I found letters they had written me when I was younger. I feel like I have actual evidence of their existence because I have inked verbage from them. It's priceless. Even the way that they penned their letters evokes images and memories from my childhood. The memories aren't even all happy, pretty ones, but still they are redolent of experiences from my youth, things that I had completely forgotten.
I may sound maudlin, morose maybe.
Perhaps I really am a relic and I should retire to my rocking chair on the front porch and let the world ease on by.
Oh...wait...since when have I had a front porch to sit on, one that was bigger than the exact dimensions of a "welcome" mat so that I could have an actual chair upon which to perch?
Oh, yeah, when I was young. It just really didn't seem like I was that old until I got a text message telling me so. lol (please note the sarcasm, it's difficult to read what with the electronic typing and everything...)
Could this be true?
I know that technology has accelerated at the speed of light, and I'm doing my best to keep up, I assure you, but here's my concern: I've complained of it before, but does anyone miss personal conversations, the kind with complex sentences and correct grammar? Are we really so short on time that we don't type whole syllables, whole words, but use acrynoyms in everyday speech just to get through a conversation that much more quickly?
If I hear someone so O-M-G in that slow, drawn-out cutesy style one more time, I might actually scream. They don't even realize that they're being "so 1980's" with the whole Valley-girl attitude that they are laughable. And LOL has become a verb phrase? Reallly??
I know that after my grandmothers died I found letters they had written me when I was younger. I feel like I have actual evidence of their existence because I have inked verbage from them. It's priceless. Even the way that they penned their letters evokes images and memories from my childhood. The memories aren't even all happy, pretty ones, but still they are redolent of experiences from my youth, things that I had completely forgotten.
I may sound maudlin, morose maybe.
Perhaps I really am a relic and I should retire to my rocking chair on the front porch and let the world ease on by.
Oh...wait...since when have I had a front porch to sit on, one that was bigger than the exact dimensions of a "welcome" mat so that I could have an actual chair upon which to perch?
Oh, yeah, when I was young. It just really didn't seem like I was that old until I got a text message telling me so. lol (please note the sarcasm, it's difficult to read what with the electronic typing and everything...)
Monday, November 16, 2009
First "Real" Haircut
For the last three years when my son needs his hair cut, I have done it.
It has cost suckers to get the job done -- usually five -- because he hates with a passion even the mere idea of having his hair chopped. I don't know why, but scissors terrify him. Nothing has happened, that I know of, to cause such a phobia, but nonetheless, the fear exists.
And when I mention the suckers, each lasts about forty-five seconds, as my son is a chomper, not a licker, when it comes to candy on a stick.
Lately, though, not even suckers have been enticement enough for him to sit even remotely still for a trim.
Brilliant idea, I stupidly thought, "I'll have a pro do it! AND -- I'll take the camera! (hahahahahaha!)"
Oh, bless her heart.
We walked into Super Cuts and fortunately not another soul existed in the building.
I had been prepping him for the cut -- he kept shaking his head and saying "no, it's fine! I don't NEED a cut!"
But I am stubborn. I've been told that before. I accept it.
The stylist, along with myself and my hubby all tried the gentle soothing tones that come with bribery.
"You can get a treat as soon as your hair is cut! Yay!"
The screaming started immediately, and as I was holding him in order to pin him, the first spews of vomit landed directly on me. Yes, vomit. This story is not for the weak. And, fortunately, I was caped as well as my son. Whew!
The second eruption, however, landed on a towel, as me, the stylist, and my husband were prepared for further anointing, shall we say. The problem, however, was that my son literally went face first into the towel and didn't back away from it, thus he was trying to breathe/choke/vomit simultaneously, so my solution was to throw the towel away from his being as quickly as possible. I didn't want him to aspirate. Sadly, though, there was a creature in the way of the towel's disposal: my poor husband.
While hubby went to the restroom to clean up, while I was left to try to calm the bewildered little half-shorn creature in my arms.
The stylist was "looking for toys" but I'd bet money she was drinking from a "special" flask in the back room.
I was being kicked, pummeled, and rained upon with tears while trying to tame the beast. But, bravely, we all went back in to try and finish the job.
Hair was flying, capes having been disposed, and the hair invariably rained upon me and my child, who abhors hair on his delicate skin. He whimpered, he cried, he screamed -- literally screamed, into my ear; it's still ringing -- while we held down limbs. Appendages everywhere. At one point, no joke, my husband was accidentally holding my arms down, thinking they were the boy's!
Whoosh! Off went the newest cape! Off went the vomit-soaked shirt! Powder was liberally applied across the nape of his neck to rid him of the offending hairs, but they floated across to mom, lucky me...
BUT. The important part is that we all lived to tell the tale! And obviously, pictures were NOT taken in remembrance, though the visual is burned into my brain forever.
(I wish I had a picture of my son's face when the stylist said, "We'll see you in a month!")
That boy was still angry and spitting and hissing as I put him in the car.
Then, a short while later, calm reigned in the land.
And I am still itching all over the place. I can STILL see little hairs falling off randomly.
I'm headed to the showers, and then maybe a nap of my own!
It has cost suckers to get the job done -- usually five -- because he hates with a passion even the mere idea of having his hair chopped. I don't know why, but scissors terrify him. Nothing has happened, that I know of, to cause such a phobia, but nonetheless, the fear exists.
And when I mention the suckers, each lasts about forty-five seconds, as my son is a chomper, not a licker, when it comes to candy on a stick.
Lately, though, not even suckers have been enticement enough for him to sit even remotely still for a trim.
Brilliant idea, I stupidly thought, "I'll have a pro do it! AND -- I'll take the camera! (hahahahahaha!)"
Oh, bless her heart.
We walked into Super Cuts and fortunately not another soul existed in the building.
I had been prepping him for the cut -- he kept shaking his head and saying "no, it's fine! I don't NEED a cut!"
But I am stubborn. I've been told that before. I accept it.
The stylist, along with myself and my hubby all tried the gentle soothing tones that come with bribery.
"You can get a treat as soon as your hair is cut! Yay!"
The screaming started immediately, and as I was holding him in order to pin him, the first spews of vomit landed directly on me. Yes, vomit. This story is not for the weak. And, fortunately, I was caped as well as my son. Whew!
The second eruption, however, landed on a towel, as me, the stylist, and my husband were prepared for further anointing, shall we say. The problem, however, was that my son literally went face first into the towel and didn't back away from it, thus he was trying to breathe/choke/vomit simultaneously, so my solution was to throw the towel away from his being as quickly as possible. I didn't want him to aspirate. Sadly, though, there was a creature in the way of the towel's disposal: my poor husband.
While hubby went to the restroom to clean up, while I was left to try to calm the bewildered little half-shorn creature in my arms.
The stylist was "looking for toys" but I'd bet money she was drinking from a "special" flask in the back room.
I was being kicked, pummeled, and rained upon with tears while trying to tame the beast. But, bravely, we all went back in to try and finish the job.
Hair was flying, capes having been disposed, and the hair invariably rained upon me and my child, who abhors hair on his delicate skin. He whimpered, he cried, he screamed -- literally screamed, into my ear; it's still ringing -- while we held down limbs. Appendages everywhere. At one point, no joke, my husband was accidentally holding my arms down, thinking they were the boy's!
Whoosh! Off went the newest cape! Off went the vomit-soaked shirt! Powder was liberally applied across the nape of his neck to rid him of the offending hairs, but they floated across to mom, lucky me...
BUT. The important part is that we all lived to tell the tale! And obviously, pictures were NOT taken in remembrance, though the visual is burned into my brain forever.
(I wish I had a picture of my son's face when the stylist said, "We'll see you in a month!")
That boy was still angry and spitting and hissing as I put him in the car.
Then, a short while later, calm reigned in the land.
And I am still itching all over the place. I can STILL see little hairs falling off randomly.
I'm headed to the showers, and then maybe a nap of my own!
Friday, November 6, 2009
Tulsa Radio Stations and Me
I live in Tulsa currently. I once lived in Oklahoma City, not so long ago.
In OKC I have a favorite radio station -- KISS-FM -- particularly because of the afternoon drive time team, Drew and Kaci. I love their banter and they seem like genuinely nice people.
KISS plays current top 40 tunes, as well as some older stuff, but mostly current music, and they play those songs repeatedly, again and again, ad nauseum, as do most of the stations whenever they lock onto music that listeners respond to. I understand that, so every now and then I switch to another station until I get tired of their line-up, and then back to KISS.
Now, though, I live in Tulsa and I cannot find current music.
I've tried 97.5, but it's a little too hard core for me.
I like 103.3 when I'm in the mood for classic rock, but come on, not all the time.
I have listened to the Oldies station, and I just can't take any more repetitions of "Teen Angel."
I'm not a huge country fan; I live in the wrong part of the world, huh?
I have 96.5 plugged into my pre-set button, and it touts itself as playing 70's, 80's, 90's, and today.
I can't seem to drive during the "today" section of their playlist.
Or much 90's.
And then the station has All-80's weekends seemingly every single weekend.
But Prince and Madonna, 80's? Still very relevant in the Tulsa metro! Pick a time of any day, weekend or not, and one of those two artists will be belting it out on Tulsa radio everywhere.
If I hear "Kiss" or "Borderline" again I will have to rip out my stock radio and get some sort of adapter for my i-Pod so I can listen to something I enjoy.
And irony of ironies, invariably when I visit OKC it is a Wednesday. I don't know why, it just seems to be the trend. And guess what? Every Wednesday if Way Back Wednesday on KISS-FM!!
NOT current, not at all, not on Wednesday.
Sigh. I guess I'll get back to Tulsa.
In OKC I have a favorite radio station -- KISS-FM -- particularly because of the afternoon drive time team, Drew and Kaci. I love their banter and they seem like genuinely nice people.
KISS plays current top 40 tunes, as well as some older stuff, but mostly current music, and they play those songs repeatedly, again and again, ad nauseum, as do most of the stations whenever they lock onto music that listeners respond to. I understand that, so every now and then I switch to another station until I get tired of their line-up, and then back to KISS.
Now, though, I live in Tulsa and I cannot find current music.
I've tried 97.5, but it's a little too hard core for me.
I like 103.3 when I'm in the mood for classic rock, but come on, not all the time.
I have listened to the Oldies station, and I just can't take any more repetitions of "Teen Angel."
I'm not a huge country fan; I live in the wrong part of the world, huh?
I have 96.5 plugged into my pre-set button, and it touts itself as playing 70's, 80's, 90's, and today.
I can't seem to drive during the "today" section of their playlist.
Or much 90's.
And then the station has All-80's weekends seemingly every single weekend.
But Prince and Madonna, 80's? Still very relevant in the Tulsa metro! Pick a time of any day, weekend or not, and one of those two artists will be belting it out on Tulsa radio everywhere.
If I hear "Kiss" or "Borderline" again I will have to rip out my stock radio and get some sort of adapter for my i-Pod so I can listen to something I enjoy.
And irony of ironies, invariably when I visit OKC it is a Wednesday. I don't know why, it just seems to be the trend. And guess what? Every Wednesday if Way Back Wednesday on KISS-FM!!
NOT current, not at all, not on Wednesday.
Sigh. I guess I'll get back to Tulsa.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Grass May be Greener, but You Still Have to Mow
We live in Tulsa now. Tulsa is far prettier, it's hillier, it's less windy, and allergens aren't quite so prevalent to our sensitive snoots as they were in the City.
We may move back soon. But until such time, I am trying to see a new side of Tulsa that I haven't seen yet.
I always seem to have one route, to the grocery store, to the post office, to a favorite park, and rarely do I venture away from the beaten path unless inspired by something shiny or on sale.
Yesterday I took my son to Mohawk Park, to visit the zoo for the zillionth time, and discovered a sign to the Oxley Nature Center right behind the zoo.
I was feeling frisky or something 'cause we followed that sign, parked the car, and actually got out to explore! It was a tangle of paths and trails to venture down and find critters and flora in abundance.
Granted, my son was quickly bored, as none of the creatures looked like the giraffe he was expecting to see when he awoke that morning, and without a stroller, those paths became more of an upper body workout of continuously lifting forty pounds up and down than a leisurely stroll, but it was a lovely day and grasshoppers zigged and zagged enough to amuse us for a little while.
We went into the actual nature center buildling and found out it had been there since 1977! Who knew?
Of course, we ended up at the zoo in short order, where we finally saw the giraffe as well as a litter of four brand new pot-bellied pigs. Too cute.
Who know what adventure we will find tomorrow??
Any suggestions, please let me know.
Below is a picture of what my son found interesting in the world. I have a whole series of things just like this, should anyone be interested. Thank goodness for digital cameras and their tireless memory cards.
Tuesday, October 13, 2009
Eye Exams are not for the Weak
I shall preface my tale of woe with this caveat: I have an eye thing. I cannot stand for anything to be near/in/on/coming toward my eye. Granted I wore contact lenses for years and years, but that was simply due to my own perseverance and a need to get rid of the coke-bottle lenses that pushed my nose down and caused cheek muscle strain from the weight of the frames. (Plus, I wanted to eliminate one of the big three: I had frizzy hair, braces, and goggles to see. Truly a Trifecta for adolescent torture.)
It's been about 5 years since my last eye exam. I'll sit here a minute so that you may lecture me just as the eye doctor did...
Yes, yes, I'll go again next year, provided the memories of today fade quickly and forever.
The exam consists of normal high tech equipment, taking measurements, you know the drill. Then of course they pull over that behemoth of a machine that blows air onto your eyeball with the velocity of paint ball guns. Do you know the machine I'm referring to? It tells you if you have glaucoma or not. I could have told her I didn't, she didn't need to blow me off of a stool to know.
The rest of the exam went as smoothly as it can when one is being tortured. Bright lights are not my friends, and now, sadly, neither is either of the technicians at the local doctor's office. Sigh. I lose so many people that way...
But then the poor doctor arrived! With soft contact lenses the size of Frisbees that she WANTED TO PUT IN MY EYE!!? Hello, Optimist!!
And, bless her, she wanted to put them into my eye herself, cutting me out of the process.
If it hadn't been for the headrest, I believe I would have scored in the high nine's for the backbend I tried to do. My head left a veritable dent in the leather.
But the part I could not help, it was involuntary, was the kick.
Hey, don't judge me.
The doctor was spared from impact because she was to the side of my leg, which went straight up, into the air, and flailed about looking for something relatively firm and human in which to impale. It could not be stopped.
Come to find out, I have TWO eyes! I had to put in BOTH contacts to be evaluated! TWO!
This time, for the other eye, I asked, oh so sweetly, could I possibly try to put it in myself?
She concurred until she saw that no matter how close my finger got to my eyeball, my head and eye were parallel and never the two were to meet. So she, bless her again and again, took the contact and stuffed that thing in my eye again. I remember hearing her say, "Look to the left, open your other eye, try to keep it open, look at me," but in my tragic world of shame, I thought she was saying, "This will scar you for life, you need to run for the door and not stop until you hear the "O Canada" theme song." Turns out it wasn't her talking, it was my fear. Had no idea I had that kind of ventriloquist in my head, but I believed that voice. Believed it.
That was when my Joyner-Kersey gears started up, and I guess I was physically trying to remove myself from the embrace of this Mengele doctor and head to Alberta.
Fortunately, she was bigger than me and restrained me.
She took her measurements, blah blah blah, and then said, CHEERFULLY, "Now we take them out!!!!"
Can you believe this woman's bravery, her fortitude? She is heroic!
I won't bore you with details, but let's say the nightmare of removal ended with her saying, loudly and with feeling, "Don't grab my hand!"
Now I've lost two technicians AND a doctor as Facebook friends.
But the good news: they all made it out of there twenty minutes before noon! They earned that nice long lunch, and I just pray none of them harbor ill will for long, because I had to order the correct lenses, and I have to put them into my own eyes. I have to wear them!! In front of these same people!!! And I have to look happy about it and be pleasant, and not hit anyone, or that bill may mysteriously not be covered by my insurance.
Say a little prayer for us all...
It's been about 5 years since my last eye exam. I'll sit here a minute so that you may lecture me just as the eye doctor did...
Yes, yes, I'll go again next year, provided the memories of today fade quickly and forever.
The exam consists of normal high tech equipment, taking measurements, you know the drill. Then of course they pull over that behemoth of a machine that blows air onto your eyeball with the velocity of paint ball guns. Do you know the machine I'm referring to? It tells you if you have glaucoma or not. I could have told her I didn't, she didn't need to blow me off of a stool to know.
The rest of the exam went as smoothly as it can when one is being tortured. Bright lights are not my friends, and now, sadly, neither is either of the technicians at the local doctor's office. Sigh. I lose so many people that way...
But then the poor doctor arrived! With soft contact lenses the size of Frisbees that she WANTED TO PUT IN MY EYE!!? Hello, Optimist!!
And, bless her, she wanted to put them into my eye herself, cutting me out of the process.
If it hadn't been for the headrest, I believe I would have scored in the high nine's for the backbend I tried to do. My head left a veritable dent in the leather.
But the part I could not help, it was involuntary, was the kick.
Hey, don't judge me.
The doctor was spared from impact because she was to the side of my leg, which went straight up, into the air, and flailed about looking for something relatively firm and human in which to impale. It could not be stopped.
Come to find out, I have TWO eyes! I had to put in BOTH contacts to be evaluated! TWO!
This time, for the other eye, I asked, oh so sweetly, could I possibly try to put it in myself?
She concurred until she saw that no matter how close my finger got to my eyeball, my head and eye were parallel and never the two were to meet. So she, bless her again and again, took the contact and stuffed that thing in my eye again. I remember hearing her say, "Look to the left, open your other eye, try to keep it open, look at me," but in my tragic world of shame, I thought she was saying, "This will scar you for life, you need to run for the door and not stop until you hear the "O Canada" theme song." Turns out it wasn't her talking, it was my fear. Had no idea I had that kind of ventriloquist in my head, but I believed that voice. Believed it.
That was when my Joyner-Kersey gears started up, and I guess I was physically trying to remove myself from the embrace of this Mengele doctor and head to Alberta.
Fortunately, she was bigger than me and restrained me.
She took her measurements, blah blah blah, and then said, CHEERFULLY, "Now we take them out!!!!"
Can you believe this woman's bravery, her fortitude? She is heroic!
I won't bore you with details, but let's say the nightmare of removal ended with her saying, loudly and with feeling, "Don't grab my hand!"
Now I've lost two technicians AND a doctor as Facebook friends.
But the good news: they all made it out of there twenty minutes before noon! They earned that nice long lunch, and I just pray none of them harbor ill will for long, because I had to order the correct lenses, and I have to put them into my own eyes. I have to wear them!! In front of these same people!!! And I have to look happy about it and be pleasant, and not hit anyone, or that bill may mysteriously not be covered by my insurance.
Say a little prayer for us all...
Eulogy for a Zoey
She never cried, even though her big "sister," my other white bichon who was about six months older, would roll little Zoey over and over, growl at her, snap at her, try to get the best of her. Zoey always went back for more.
Even when my older pup got tangled into a roll of double sided tape, created herself into a tripod and had attached Zoey to her underside (what I wouldn't give for pictures of it), Zoey still sat patiently while I untangled the mess and set them both free.
I once snipped Zoey's toenail too closely and the poor dog was gushing blood. She only squeaked. Literally. One squeak. Had I not noticed the copious quantities of blood soaking my shirt, my pants, two towels, and the car seat during the car ride to the vet, I would never have known she was hurt.
The vet once told me that my pup's knees were so badly arthritic that he didn't know how she could walk, yet aside from a little bit of favoring of one leg or another every now and then, the problem would never have been noticed. Sometimes I could hear those little joints popping, and at that point she would bend the leg, hop on the other three, until the knee stopped hurting, but she never wanted to stop moving, to see everything she could.
And water! That baby was born part water dog. Even in mid-January, snow on the ground, she jumped into the community pool, leash attached, and swam to the other side while I fumbled around trying to get to her and still stay dry. I had to grab the leash and drag her across the water, which I was sure wanted to freeze over, in order to get her out. She shook it off and never had a single sniffle.
Then we moved to a home with a koi pond and every single time that dog went outside I heard a splash as her butt went under -- the poor fish, they didn't last a month. Weak hearts, I guess.
Nine short short years later, she developed diabetes and I could not face the reality of it. If it hadn't been for the strength of my parents, she might have suffered needlessly because I was frozen with the fear of losing my beautiful Zoby-girl.
Thankfully, though, parents know what to do. They helped her when I could not. And I swear sometimes that little girl is still in this house. I have said her name a hundred times, calling to her when I intended to say a different name. I think I shall do that for many years.
Three is the New Two
Then he turned three.
Ah, the fateful third birthday cast a pall upon my world.
I'm sure I'm not the only mother who has felt betrayed by my son's newly found sense of independence. I have been the main caregiver each and every day of his unfettered life, and now I want only to bind him in something sticky and sturdy until the day he shall turn four.
We try to go shopping...where is that kid?
We try to go to the car ... hello? Son? Are you anywhere in the tri-state area?
We try to go ... anywhere ... and I discover that I am the only one of the pair of us who is actually trying to accomplish anything aside from running, full on, high speed, headlong running.
I believe he is part shark. He never stops moving. He would even sleep in a constant state of motion if simple gravity would allow it.
But alas, blessed Inertia strikes when he least expects it, and I bid her a fond hello every time she appears. She, Inertia, is my friend.
Sadly, though, Sleepy and Irritable and Plain Old Exhausted are always behind Inertia to take me to my own slumber just when the little man is finally down and out. It just doesn't seem fair.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
The One Buck Store Dilemma
I admit freely that I have fought the dollar store craze for as long as they have been in existence, until recently.
I have a wonderful friend who swears by anything with the word "dollar" in the marquee, as she suggests it is the best place on the globe for deals.
I have always just seen the plastic this or that for a dollar, and it will break/crack/crumble into lego pieces within moments of purchase.
BUT.
I had been into Dollar Tree -- not my best choice, but they had these great little plastic poop bags, originally intended for pet waste disposal, that fit around my son's diapers just perfectly. What is it they say about mothers and inventions, or something...
Family Dollar -- a bit crowded, a bit messy, not so clean in my perusal. Good for paper products, though, such as wrapping paper or those cute little bags to stuff the gifts into. Handy and non-messy, as you know.
Then I visited a Dollar General and the chorus of angels began to sing with the opening note of the doorbell as I walked into the store. Name brands everywhere, for almost every product, as well as the generic choices. But this was stuff I'd heard of! And a little cheaper than the other variety stores. Bonus!
My son, three years old, found a bargain aisle of summer products marked even less than a dollar! That is a parental coup if every I've heard of one. He was happy amongst the kid chotchka and I was thrilled that he was happy and a cheap date!!
We walked out of that store with enough cleaning supplies to last at least a month (maybe less if I have spaghetti for supper anytime soon) and an orange plastic rake! (Don't ask.) And my son is ecstatic.
Good store. Sit, stay, and we'll be back!
I have a wonderful friend who swears by anything with the word "dollar" in the marquee, as she suggests it is the best place on the globe for deals.
I have always just seen the plastic this or that for a dollar, and it will break/crack/crumble into lego pieces within moments of purchase.
BUT.
I had been into Dollar Tree -- not my best choice, but they had these great little plastic poop bags, originally intended for pet waste disposal, that fit around my son's diapers just perfectly. What is it they say about mothers and inventions, or something...
Family Dollar -- a bit crowded, a bit messy, not so clean in my perusal. Good for paper products, though, such as wrapping paper or those cute little bags to stuff the gifts into. Handy and non-messy, as you know.
Then I visited a Dollar General and the chorus of angels began to sing with the opening note of the doorbell as I walked into the store. Name brands everywhere, for almost every product, as well as the generic choices. But this was stuff I'd heard of! And a little cheaper than the other variety stores. Bonus!
My son, three years old, found a bargain aisle of summer products marked even less than a dollar! That is a parental coup if every I've heard of one. He was happy amongst the kid chotchka and I was thrilled that he was happy and a cheap date!!
We walked out of that store with enough cleaning supplies to last at least a month (maybe less if I have spaghetti for supper anytime soon) and an orange plastic rake! (Don't ask.) And my son is ecstatic.
Good store. Sit, stay, and we'll be back!
Skin Matching Makeup
I tried one of those new liquid foundations yesterday on my face. It is supposed to go onto your skin white, and then magically figure out your skin tone and match it perfectly, leaving you with flawless, poreless, impossibly beautiful skin -- according to the commercials anyway. I want that! I'll take it!
I think of my skin as a light color, a bit mottled, but overall not too bad. It's not Nicole Kidman porcelain in reality -- not by a long shot -- but that's the skin I would love to have and mentally, I do. Hey, it's my delusion, I'm allowed! (I'd have to douse myself with white paint every morning to do it, to hide the sun spots, the freckles, et cetera, but if I stay away from mirrors forever, the dream is still in tact.)
I dotted the concealor onto my under eye skin, just like the instructions commanded, and waited for the magic to begin. While I'm blending thoughtfully with my fourth finger, the weakest of the fingers according to beauty experts so as not to stretch the delicate skin, I see a bit of tone evolving.
Here it comes! My skin, only better!!
And I open my eyes to see...
Well, how interesting. Miss Maybelline or whomever suggests not so subtly that I am jaundiced.
If Curious George were here, he would feel right at home. But not only would I have the yellow suit, I would have a yellow face to match. I am a banana.
I have to go find a bilirubin light as quickly as possible before I blend into the fruit bowl.
I think of my skin as a light color, a bit mottled, but overall not too bad. It's not Nicole Kidman porcelain in reality -- not by a long shot -- but that's the skin I would love to have and mentally, I do. Hey, it's my delusion, I'm allowed! (I'd have to douse myself with white paint every morning to do it, to hide the sun spots, the freckles, et cetera, but if I stay away from mirrors forever, the dream is still in tact.)
I dotted the concealor onto my under eye skin, just like the instructions commanded, and waited for the magic to begin. While I'm blending thoughtfully with my fourth finger, the weakest of the fingers according to beauty experts so as not to stretch the delicate skin, I see a bit of tone evolving.
Here it comes! My skin, only better!!
And I open my eyes to see...
Well, how interesting. Miss Maybelline or whomever suggests not so subtly that I am jaundiced.
If Curious George were here, he would feel right at home. But not only would I have the yellow suit, I would have a yellow face to match. I am a banana.
I have to go find a bilirubin light as quickly as possible before I blend into the fruit bowl.
Thursday, September 24, 2009
Potty Party!!
Never in my mind did I think I would blog about this!
Never did I think I would be this thrilled at such a seemingly mundane activity!
But I almost ran across the patio to tell the neighbors! And I don't even know them! We moved in, they never brought me a single cookie, but I was still willing to share this momentous occasion with them! I've lost my ever-lovin' mind.
I won't go into detail about the mind-numbingly long ordeal we endured this morning -- "my bottom hurts," tears (mine and his) and the near cave-in of my stubborn will to not grab a diaper and be done with the whole situation, at least for today -- because it was all worth it! We see light at the end of the incredibly long potty-training tunnel!!
It cost me a sucker, too. Not just some stupid Dum-Dum-eaten-in-a-second-and-a-half sucker, either, but a Tootsie Roll Pop, the good stuff, the oak-barrel aged scotch of toddler cuisine.
And you know what? I'd give him the rest of the friggin' bag if he'll just keep up the good work!
You'll notice he is wearing his big boy pants on his head? It's fine, as long as the nether regions are covered in the same attire, thus protecting me and my world from surprise showers, or otherwise!
Where's the car key? Mama needs a Starbucks Frappuccino, she has earned it!!
My Own Little Goof Troop
He's sweet and funny and handsome and an excellent provider, and seemingly every word out of his mouth is a malaprop.
I have notebooks and pens scattered about in which to collect his wisdom when he speaks particularly non-fluently. I believe he is creating a language all his own, perhaps because of too much Star Trek in his childhood. Maybe he thinks Vulcan can be tweaked and made into a user-friendly version of his own. Of course, he did read all of Tolkien's hobbit books and that was a multitude of newly minted languages.
Hmm, perhaps my hubby is not goofy...perhaps he's a linguist!!!
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Let's Talk about Sex and Towels
Now that I have your attention, I mean sex as in gender.
Let's talk about men and towels.
I love my husband, make no mistake, but he has certain annoying behaviors that I feel surely are not restricted to him alone, and I'll bet you can help me with this quandary.
It's about towels. Specifically bath towels, be they body or hand.
Here's the question: are men allergic to towel rods? Usually, after a shower, my husband disposes of the wet rag either by throwing it on the floor or into the clothes hamper. According to him, anytime he puts something in a hamper should be a time for a treat and a pat on the head. Granted, but not wet towels, and invariably that seems to be the only thing for which he is willing to walk all two steps to the hamper. All other articles of clothing are but detritus on the linoleum, which are dodged and scooted until his morning ritual is complete. Then, of course, they are forgotten altogether and magically appear the next day, folded/hung/mended in the closet/dresser/rag bag as though fairies live amongst the clothes hangers to do his bidding. Someday he'll realize that in this house, if you see a critter without a collar, it is not Disney animation, it needs to be killed or shooed or at the very least, yelled at to go away.
Hand towels. They are a different genus all together. Once my husband uses the hand towel (always for something other than water removal; it's astounding how many hair products and lotions and powders this man can use in a day, all wiped off of the offending hands and onto my poor sad little towels) it is stuffed, there is just no other word for it, into the towel rack. Sixteen inches of cloth shoved into a one inch space between rack and wall. Not to mention the countless diseases lurking in the moist folds because they are strangled within a cold metal bar.
I have pictures.
And I hope you sense the bitterness with which I write, because I feel someone needs to take a stand for terry cloth. Few towels are left, and no one else can save them.
Let's talk about men and towels.
I love my husband, make no mistake, but he has certain annoying behaviors that I feel surely are not restricted to him alone, and I'll bet you can help me with this quandary.
It's about towels. Specifically bath towels, be they body or hand.
Here's the question: are men allergic to towel rods? Usually, after a shower, my husband disposes of the wet rag either by throwing it on the floor or into the clothes hamper. According to him, anytime he puts something in a hamper should be a time for a treat and a pat on the head. Granted, but not wet towels, and invariably that seems to be the only thing for which he is willing to walk all two steps to the hamper. All other articles of clothing are but detritus on the linoleum, which are dodged and scooted until his morning ritual is complete. Then, of course, they are forgotten altogether and magically appear the next day, folded/hung/mended in the closet/dresser/rag bag as though fairies live amongst the clothes hangers to do his bidding. Someday he'll realize that in this house, if you see a critter without a collar, it is not Disney animation, it needs to be killed or shooed or at the very least, yelled at to go away.
Hand towels. They are a different genus all together. Once my husband uses the hand towel (always for something other than water removal; it's astounding how many hair products and lotions and powders this man can use in a day, all wiped off of the offending hands and onto my poor sad little towels) it is stuffed, there is just no other word for it, into the towel rack. Sixteen inches of cloth shoved into a one inch space between rack and wall. Not to mention the countless diseases lurking in the moist folds because they are strangled within a cold metal bar.
I have pictures.
And I hope you sense the bitterness with which I write, because I feel someone needs to take a stand for terry cloth. Few towels are left, and no one else can save them.
Saturday, September 12, 2009
It's Raining, It's Pouring, Inside is so Boring!!
But alas, it has been raining, since April it seems. Here it is the middle of September and garden plants have not had enough sustained sunshine to fruit, but by golly, whatever hellacious brand of allergens in the world have found this weather apt and fitting for torturing everyone in their wafted path. I think even the spring bloomers have had a second go at me and my snoot. Kleenex is sending me free boxes for every twelve that I purchase. (Okay, maybe not, but they should!)
And it is scheduled to rain throughout the weekend and possibly into early Tuesday morning, leaving me in a precarious position: what to do with a small child for, oh dear Lord, three days!!
Naps can fill about an hour a day.
Eating requires around twelve minutes per day, start to finish, all three meals figured in. Apparently he is not my child, as he has no interest in eating while I think eating is divine.
He'll sleep through the night, generally around 8, maybe 9 on a good day, hours.
Bathtime, tooth brushing, nightwear, story time -- about an hour a night, I'll say.
Five, six trips to the bathroom each day for a total of what, five, six minutes each day?
Totalled: eleven hours, eighteen minutes on the optimistic side.
Leaving a remainder of twelve hours, forty-two minutes each day for the two of us to stare longingly out the window and pray that the weatherman is wrong.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
Foot Fetish Realized
In the past I always thought feet were weird. Human feet, that is. Dogs, cats, whatever, didn't have strange feet, but people did. As a rule they're just these long things on the ends of our legs, with toes that can be utilitarian and cling to small things we've dropped, like the occasional pencil, but not really serving much more of a daily purpose. Well, okay, there is the walking and running part...
But they're funny looking! Toes are not proportional to the remainder of foot, pinky toe nails are so small as to look like something out of a Cubist painting, heel skin gets so rough and scaly it's almost iguana-like. (Okay, so maybe I need a pedicure.)
And I was always on the quest for "pretty feet." In my mind, these were the stereotypical model prototypes that existed on commercials and in print ads but never in real life. They must have been airbrushed to hide corns and ragged toenails, right? Seldom, seldom, did I ever see what I thought were aesthetically pleasing paws.
I've noticed that sometime within the last three years, I have developed a fetish, an absolute love for feet, provided that the feet are little. Baby-size, if you will. Never mind that my son was born three years ago, I'm certain there is no connection. I have only matured, realized that utility is a pleasing quality, and since feet are so unique in their purpose, they are thus even more attractive. In small sizes.
And when I was scrolling through my digital camera picture cache the other day, I saw that my little boy has developed the same intrigue as I with the flaps on our lower appendages. See below (and please pardon the pun):
But they're funny looking! Toes are not proportional to the remainder of foot, pinky toe nails are so small as to look like something out of a Cubist painting, heel skin gets so rough and scaly it's almost iguana-like. (Okay, so maybe I need a pedicure.)
And I was always on the quest for "pretty feet." In my mind, these were the stereotypical model prototypes that existed on commercials and in print ads but never in real life. They must have been airbrushed to hide corns and ragged toenails, right? Seldom, seldom, did I ever see what I thought were aesthetically pleasing paws.
I've noticed that sometime within the last three years, I have developed a fetish, an absolute love for feet, provided that the feet are little. Baby-size, if you will. Never mind that my son was born three years ago, I'm certain there is no connection. I have only matured, realized that utility is a pleasing quality, and since feet are so unique in their purpose, they are thus even more attractive. In small sizes.
And when I was scrolling through my digital camera picture cache the other day, I saw that my little boy has developed the same intrigue as I with the flaps on our lower appendages. See below (and please pardon the pun):
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Loved Once, but No More
What is it about old barns that is fascinating? I can't pinpoint whether I like the aesthetic or not, as much as I like the history. This is probably a hundred years old, settling down into the earth on a plot next to a rather modern looking home. Until fairly recently the owner kept his Cadillac in this barn until strategic pieces of beam started to fall downward, endangering the beloved car.
This old silo is cool too. It's just down the road from the barn pictured above, but it's on a busier street next to a house that hasn't weathered well at all. See next image...
I've no idea how old this structure is. It sits on highway 177 outside of Stillwater, Oklahoma. The flowers come back year after year, but the property is locked up tighter than a drum, so the blooms have no audience except the one in cars driving by at 70mph, inattentive to any sort of decoration, only worried about getting wherever they're going.
But this tree is happy. Notice the smiling face near the bottom of the trunk. It is a happy face for passers-by who slow up a bit and enjoy the scenery.Saturday, August 29, 2009
Kids Are Good
This really needs to be presented to you as a video. It came to me that way and I hope to be able to show it to you also, but not today.
Today, I just need to tell the world that kids of all ages can be good, creative and caring. I am taking the term kids to its extended limit because I am referring to college "kids" in this story. We seem to hear only about the drugs, the rapes, the car wrecks, the frat/sorority parties gone wrong, the fixation with clothes carrying certain labels or the drinking. These are realities, but do not pertain to all.
I just spent two weeks on a state university about 30 minutes from my home. One week was to prepare for the second week. The crowds from previous years were discribed, the tension caused by the high costs of the textbooks and the other teaching materials required, the anxiety of the students beginning a new semester and the 9 to 12 hour days required to handle all of that.
I worked in a textbook store where most of the texts are sold for the university's ever-increasing number of students both pre and post graduate. There may have been more strain this semester because of the economy. Many of these students came from homes both average and affluent where sacrifices had to be made for education. The cost of a backpack inspired creativity in book toting and I saw some clever renovations of purses and book bags and camping packs. No matter, the student is the important element.
This university's student union is the largest in the nation and will begin renovations very soon which will improve and update an already effective structure. It is big....really big. Students had trouble finding the right rooms or service areas or the post office or computer study areas. They did not, it seemed, have trouble finding the food areas. They asked for instructions to locate every conceivable room in that huge building, but there was never a questions, not one, about where to find food.
The energy level reached an almost visible point about mid-day each day. The students were excited and nervous and some were scared. They had expectations which allowed no time for negatives. They had a schedule and everything had to be made available to them so that schedule would be met. Please don't tell them that a book is unavailable or a class closed. Whatever their motives, they were ready to go and knew where they were going.
There was also an amazing lack of presence in their surroundings. They were on their phones either talking or texting; they were plugged into their pods; they were entering data into their notebooks and laptops. They needed to be brought into the physical world on occasion and looked surprised when their name was called or a request was made for ID or credit cards.
I thought some students were going to pass out when the register totalled their charges, some seemed about to cry, some looked at the parent with them to determine the parent's reaction before releasing their own and some were almost giddy with relief when the total was less than expected. However, not one student was rude, snotty, crude, flip, uncontrolled, etc. They were great! Each one was courteous, pleasant and helpful. They signed and checked whatever and whenever required. They walked away with bags equalling 25% of their own weight without complaint. They stood for 30 minutes or more without aggravation being noticeable. They smiled and made jokes and offered help to others and were patient almost without exception. Parents would have been very proud.
I came home the last day of campus work to see a video on NPR reflecting the same kindness and concern for others that I had just seen on our local campus. The video was from UCLA and involved an unknown number of students as only three played an active role.
The subjects were a mother squirrel and her adolescent-size child. She casually jumped a 4' solid concrete wall which was in their path. The child squirrel sat by the wall for a while seeming to estimate his chances of having the same success. He seemed to think they were....not so good. He tried, however. The wall gave him no way to get traction and no spot for taking a hold on anything. He tried again and slammed into the wall again. The mother jumped down and began coaxing quietly. She was obviously agitated, but refused to leave her offspring. He tried yet again and again. The mom jumped back up and called encouragement from the top of the wall. All of this was to no avail.
A tall male figure appeared from the edge of the video, slowly placed a backpack again the wall and then backed away off screen. It was an obvious effort at steps. The squirrel immediately began to evaluate its use and made an effort by running up the pack. The pack was, unfortunately, just short of the needed height so the young squirrel couldn't quite make the jump.
Another figure moved slowly toward the wall with a gigantic backpack which seemed to almost touch the top of the wall. The little squirrel needed no encouragement, took a run and scaled the pack straight to his mom. I didn't hear them, but I feel certain that there was applause and yelling from the unseen students.
We may be leaving this world in the hands of a generation of thoughtful, creative and caring people. They just may do a better job than we have.
Today, I just need to tell the world that kids of all ages can be good, creative and caring. I am taking the term kids to its extended limit because I am referring to college "kids" in this story. We seem to hear only about the drugs, the rapes, the car wrecks, the frat/sorority parties gone wrong, the fixation with clothes carrying certain labels or the drinking. These are realities, but do not pertain to all.
I just spent two weeks on a state university about 30 minutes from my home. One week was to prepare for the second week. The crowds from previous years were discribed, the tension caused by the high costs of the textbooks and the other teaching materials required, the anxiety of the students beginning a new semester and the 9 to 12 hour days required to handle all of that.
I worked in a textbook store where most of the texts are sold for the university's ever-increasing number of students both pre and post graduate. There may have been more strain this semester because of the economy. Many of these students came from homes both average and affluent where sacrifices had to be made for education. The cost of a backpack inspired creativity in book toting and I saw some clever renovations of purses and book bags and camping packs. No matter, the student is the important element.
This university's student union is the largest in the nation and will begin renovations very soon which will improve and update an already effective structure. It is big....really big. Students had trouble finding the right rooms or service areas or the post office or computer study areas. They did not, it seemed, have trouble finding the food areas. They asked for instructions to locate every conceivable room in that huge building, but there was never a questions, not one, about where to find food.
The energy level reached an almost visible point about mid-day each day. The students were excited and nervous and some were scared. They had expectations which allowed no time for negatives. They had a schedule and everything had to be made available to them so that schedule would be met. Please don't tell them that a book is unavailable or a class closed. Whatever their motives, they were ready to go and knew where they were going.
There was also an amazing lack of presence in their surroundings. They were on their phones either talking or texting; they were plugged into their pods; they were entering data into their notebooks and laptops. They needed to be brought into the physical world on occasion and looked surprised when their name was called or a request was made for ID or credit cards.
I thought some students were going to pass out when the register totalled their charges, some seemed about to cry, some looked at the parent with them to determine the parent's reaction before releasing their own and some were almost giddy with relief when the total was less than expected. However, not one student was rude, snotty, crude, flip, uncontrolled, etc. They were great! Each one was courteous, pleasant and helpful. They signed and checked whatever and whenever required. They walked away with bags equalling 25% of their own weight without complaint. They stood for 30 minutes or more without aggravation being noticeable. They smiled and made jokes and offered help to others and were patient almost without exception. Parents would have been very proud.
I came home the last day of campus work to see a video on NPR reflecting the same kindness and concern for others that I had just seen on our local campus. The video was from UCLA and involved an unknown number of students as only three played an active role.
The subjects were a mother squirrel and her adolescent-size child. She casually jumped a 4' solid concrete wall which was in their path. The child squirrel sat by the wall for a while seeming to estimate his chances of having the same success. He seemed to think they were....not so good. He tried, however. The wall gave him no way to get traction and no spot for taking a hold on anything. He tried again and slammed into the wall again. The mother jumped down and began coaxing quietly. She was obviously agitated, but refused to leave her offspring. He tried yet again and again. The mom jumped back up and called encouragement from the top of the wall. All of this was to no avail.
A tall male figure appeared from the edge of the video, slowly placed a backpack again the wall and then backed away off screen. It was an obvious effort at steps. The squirrel immediately began to evaluate its use and made an effort by running up the pack. The pack was, unfortunately, just short of the needed height so the young squirrel couldn't quite make the jump.
Another figure moved slowly toward the wall with a gigantic backpack which seemed to almost touch the top of the wall. The little squirrel needed no encouragement, took a run and scaled the pack straight to his mom. I didn't hear them, but I feel certain that there was applause and yelling from the unseen students.
We may be leaving this world in the hands of a generation of thoughtful, creative and caring people. They just may do a better job than we have.
Grandparents
Are you a grandparent yet? Have you only just become a parent so give you some time? Are you a parent who is so exhausted and stressed that you cannot believe you will live long enough to ever be a grandparent? Well, if you are already a grandparent, I cannot tell you anything because you already know how wonderful it is.....at least most of the time. If you are not yet, the best will just get better.
Grandparenting was always more of an age category than an experience to be anticipated when I was younger. To think of myself as being called a grandmother was just not reality to me. I had but one child and she waited until after 30 for children so most of my life "grandmother" was not a considered definition for me. I just didn't believe that I could fill the shoes of my grandmothers....not that I would ever wear the shoes my grandmothers wore.
First of all, my grandmothers were the old-fashioned stereotype grandmothers. They were not very tall, had hugely developed mammary glands, carried at least 50 pounds of extra weight and cooked so well and so often that the weight was understandable. They also dressed rather grandmotherly. They wore those Dexter-type shoes that tied, never wore jeans or pants of any type and you could smell them about 10 minutes before they arrived. It wasn't a bad smell, but just a strong essence. One grandmother would put sugar in her mashed potatoes and the other grandmother would let us eat peaches until our teeth hurt. She would make the world's best cobblers from whatever peaches remained. I loved my grandmothers dearly.
They spoiled us in every way possible, but there were unquestionable rules of behavior. We must do the Captain Kangaroo please and thank you without reminders, we used "inside" voices inside anything including park pavilions, beach umbrellas, stadiums (most of the time) or outdoor concert shelters. They did not participate in corporal punishment child control, but they could make your legs fold with their eyes. All and all I had only pleasant experiences of grandparents, but I was in no hurry to actually be one.
Remember, for me, it was an age category.
My sister became a grandmother first and warmed to it like a kitten to a dish of milk. She is a natural. It is difficult for her as a grandmother because her 4(four) grandchildren live about 5 states away from her. She makes geography less of an obstacle by constant use of the cell phone and texting. Fed-EX and UPS must have declared a dividend when she began her constant present shipping. She lives in Las Vegas where you can find anything so her shopping list is always rather long. She is a great role model as a grandmother and I planned to follow her lead......but there was no hurry.
My kids (daughter and son-in-law) had substitute grandkids for me to spoil in the form of 3 little dogs. They are bichon frissee which roughly translated are white, curly haired, little animals with tongues. They show affection by licking with special target being the face. They are well-trained and will respond to my requests without too much complaint or delay. In general, they are delightful and I have watched them grow up with pleasure. These were my grandchildren. There was no hurry for others.
You know what is coming, don't you? Well, almost. I have two grandsons, but, as his dad says, one is a lot quieter than the other. The only way to live with the physical loss of a grandson has been to accept that there is a reason for everything that happens in our lives. I would really appreciate being privy to the bigger picture. I have needed to know reasons. Pain becomes almost unbearable when in the eyes of your child.
My grandson was born 3 years and has been in perpetual motion most of that time. He had been pretty comfortable before birth and the outside world was a bit of an aggravation to him for a few months. His parents became aware of terms such as sleep deprivation and stress in an entirely new context. The entire world could be held in one receiving blanket. His early difficulties are far behind us and the present child is more than could have been imagined. OK, here goes the grandmother, but I speak only truth. He IS the smartest and most beautiful baby boy in this or any world. He counts almost to 20, knows his alphabet, can sing many little songs and plays air guitar. His energy level is so high he could power jets and his inquisitive mind makes everyone stay alert and, hopefully, prepared. He is SO beautiful. His lashes shade his cheeks and his smile makes the worst day a delight. We are so very grateful for him.
Is grandmothering still an age thing? Probably, but who cares.
.
My son-in-law calls grandparents " big old wrinkled bags of love." Guess you need to know my son-in-law, but that is intended to be an expression of great love. He was very close to his grandparents and still has his grandmothers for whom he has great love and appreciation. My daughter has grandfathers who think she is almost perfect as well as her husband's grandmothers who have always been very loving and accepting of her.
Guess I am one of those bags now. Well, I choose to emphasize the love part and overlook the big, old, wrinkled and bag parts. I have things todo to get ready for my grandson's next visit.
Grandparenting was always more of an age category than an experience to be anticipated when I was younger. To think of myself as being called a grandmother was just not reality to me. I had but one child and she waited until after 30 for children so most of my life "grandmother" was not a considered definition for me. I just didn't believe that I could fill the shoes of my grandmothers....not that I would ever wear the shoes my grandmothers wore.
First of all, my grandmothers were the old-fashioned stereotype grandmothers. They were not very tall, had hugely developed mammary glands, carried at least 50 pounds of extra weight and cooked so well and so often that the weight was understandable. They also dressed rather grandmotherly. They wore those Dexter-type shoes that tied, never wore jeans or pants of any type and you could smell them about 10 minutes before they arrived. It wasn't a bad smell, but just a strong essence. One grandmother would put sugar in her mashed potatoes and the other grandmother would let us eat peaches until our teeth hurt. She would make the world's best cobblers from whatever peaches remained. I loved my grandmothers dearly.
They spoiled us in every way possible, but there were unquestionable rules of behavior. We must do the Captain Kangaroo please and thank you without reminders, we used "inside" voices inside anything including park pavilions, beach umbrellas, stadiums (most of the time) or outdoor concert shelters. They did not participate in corporal punishment child control, but they could make your legs fold with their eyes. All and all I had only pleasant experiences of grandparents, but I was in no hurry to actually be one.
Remember, for me, it was an age category.
My sister became a grandmother first and warmed to it like a kitten to a dish of milk. She is a natural. It is difficult for her as a grandmother because her 4(four) grandchildren live about 5 states away from her. She makes geography less of an obstacle by constant use of the cell phone and texting. Fed-EX and UPS must have declared a dividend when she began her constant present shipping. She lives in Las Vegas where you can find anything so her shopping list is always rather long. She is a great role model as a grandmother and I planned to follow her lead......but there was no hurry.
My kids (daughter and son-in-law) had substitute grandkids for me to spoil in the form of 3 little dogs. They are bichon frissee which roughly translated are white, curly haired, little animals with tongues. They show affection by licking with special target being the face. They are well-trained and will respond to my requests without too much complaint or delay. In general, they are delightful and I have watched them grow up with pleasure. These were my grandchildren. There was no hurry for others.
You know what is coming, don't you? Well, almost. I have two grandsons, but, as his dad says, one is a lot quieter than the other. The only way to live with the physical loss of a grandson has been to accept that there is a reason for everything that happens in our lives. I would really appreciate being privy to the bigger picture. I have needed to know reasons. Pain becomes almost unbearable when in the eyes of your child.
My grandson was born 3 years and has been in perpetual motion most of that time. He had been pretty comfortable before birth and the outside world was a bit of an aggravation to him for a few months. His parents became aware of terms such as sleep deprivation and stress in an entirely new context. The entire world could be held in one receiving blanket. His early difficulties are far behind us and the present child is more than could have been imagined. OK, here goes the grandmother, but I speak only truth. He IS the smartest and most beautiful baby boy in this or any world. He counts almost to 20, knows his alphabet, can sing many little songs and plays air guitar. His energy level is so high he could power jets and his inquisitive mind makes everyone stay alert and, hopefully, prepared. He is SO beautiful. His lashes shade his cheeks and his smile makes the worst day a delight. We are so very grateful for him.
Is grandmothering still an age thing? Probably, but who cares.
.
My son-in-law calls grandparents " big old wrinkled bags of love." Guess you need to know my son-in-law, but that is intended to be an expression of great love. He was very close to his grandparents and still has his grandmothers for whom he has great love and appreciation. My daughter has grandfathers who think she is almost perfect as well as her husband's grandmothers who have always been very loving and accepting of her.
Guess I am one of those bags now. Well, I choose to emphasize the love part and overlook the big, old, wrinkled and bag parts. I have things todo to get ready for my grandson's next visit.
Position/Order
Does it really matter what birth position you hold? Were you an only child, firstborn, middle, or youngest? Does it matter? Does it influence the person you become as an adult?
I had always thought it did. I was firstborn and felt that position held responsibility which caused a person to grow-up faster. I considered myself an adult at age 12. That was also the year that I became a real member of my church and that seemed to me an adult behavior. I had a lot of psychology in college and there were strong views expressed that birth order was an indisputed influence. Our family heads, parents, both worked outside the home and my two sisters and I had a series of housekeepers or nannies or sitters or whatevers which was OK with all of us.
My just younger sister, however, felt that, as the middle child, she was fighting for a voice most of the time. Even experts seem to all feel that, if birth order does mean anything, it means the most to the middle child.
My sister grew into an extremely successful teacher with a great mind for facts and an ability to interact with just about anyone.
The youngest of us may be the most likely to prove the birth order influence. She was extremely opposed to authority when very young and continued to question authority throughout her life. She lives a unique life, but appears to be very satisfied with it.
I look back on the last few paragraphs and see that I do believe in the birth order influence. Isn't it interesting that just "talking" with you clarifies so much? Well, I suggest that you consider experts rather than my opinions. I have two with opposing views which, I hope, will help you to reach your own decision.
Mr. Frank Sulloway feels that your birth order influences as much as your gender. He wrote "Born to Rebel: Birth Order, Family Dynamics and Creative Lives". He briefly outlines the traits of the basic positions as: first born identifies with parents and are more conformist as adults. The younger are prone to challenge authority as a ploy to gain attention and this continues into adulthood.
The other side of this question is Mr. Dalton Conley who wrote "The Pecking Order" and says "birth order makes about as much sense as astrology, which is almost none." He feels that other factors such as a death in the family, financial difficulties, gender expectations, family roles and other random events are much more influential.
Ok, we have two authority figures if we want to go into a research situation. There are Many researchers available for both views, but, here are general traits of each birth position. You can decide for yourself.
The following are my summary of the generally accepted traits of each position.
Only children: Great deal like the first born, but on turbo. They are extremely responsible and like to do everything perfectly. They usually get along with people who are older. Some names we know who were only children are Robert de Niro, Elton John and Robin Williams.
First Born: These are goal setters, usually the most successful of the siblings, perfectionists and worriers. Some presidents were first born Truman, Johnson, Carter and George W. Bush. Several news anchors Walter Cronkite, Peter Jennings, Dan Rather and Ted Koppel.
Middle Children: Tend to rebel, be competitive, are flexible, peacemakers and highly social. We will recognize two rather prominent and successful middle children in David Letterman and Donald Trump.
Youngest: Feel they can do no wrong because they are usually spoiled by family, are risk takers , love attention, they are creative and usually have a good sense of humor. They can also be manipulative, persistent and frequently have problems with substance abuse and psychiatric disorders. Some well-known last borns are Ross Perot, Goldie Hawn, Jim Carrey, Jay Leno and Steve Martin.
The people who strongly feel birth order is key to personality analysis have some caveats they feel will alter order rules:
If there are several years between siblings, the birth order starts over.
A difference in gender causes the 1st born of the next gender to have traits of first born
Deaths of siblings, adoptions, step-siblings and divorce which causes siblings to live separately will influence order traits.
I cannot give much experience-driven information. I had one child and the attempt to help her grow with as few traits of the "only" is the hardest and most wonderful work I have ever done. It is work to raise a child.
It is exhausting, stressful, uncertain, thrilling and frequently indescribably frightening, but the rewards last a life time. Please enjoy your life....every day. It is what you make it!
I had always thought it did. I was firstborn and felt that position held responsibility which caused a person to grow-up faster. I considered myself an adult at age 12. That was also the year that I became a real member of my church and that seemed to me an adult behavior. I had a lot of psychology in college and there were strong views expressed that birth order was an indisputed influence. Our family heads, parents, both worked outside the home and my two sisters and I had a series of housekeepers or nannies or sitters or whatevers which was OK with all of us.
My just younger sister, however, felt that, as the middle child, she was fighting for a voice most of the time. Even experts seem to all feel that, if birth order does mean anything, it means the most to the middle child.
My sister grew into an extremely successful teacher with a great mind for facts and an ability to interact with just about anyone.
The youngest of us may be the most likely to prove the birth order influence. She was extremely opposed to authority when very young and continued to question authority throughout her life. She lives a unique life, but appears to be very satisfied with it.
I look back on the last few paragraphs and see that I do believe in the birth order influence. Isn't it interesting that just "talking" with you clarifies so much? Well, I suggest that you consider experts rather than my opinions. I have two with opposing views which, I hope, will help you to reach your own decision.
Mr. Frank Sulloway feels that your birth order influences as much as your gender. He wrote "Born to Rebel: Birth Order, Family Dynamics and Creative Lives". He briefly outlines the traits of the basic positions as: first born identifies with parents and are more conformist as adults. The younger are prone to challenge authority as a ploy to gain attention and this continues into adulthood.
The other side of this question is Mr. Dalton Conley who wrote "The Pecking Order" and says "birth order makes about as much sense as astrology, which is almost none." He feels that other factors such as a death in the family, financial difficulties, gender expectations, family roles and other random events are much more influential.
Ok, we have two authority figures if we want to go into a research situation. There are Many researchers available for both views, but, here are general traits of each birth position. You can decide for yourself.
The following are my summary of the generally accepted traits of each position.
Only children: Great deal like the first born, but on turbo. They are extremely responsible and like to do everything perfectly. They usually get along with people who are older. Some names we know who were only children are Robert de Niro, Elton John and Robin Williams.
First Born: These are goal setters, usually the most successful of the siblings, perfectionists and worriers. Some presidents were first born Truman, Johnson, Carter and George W. Bush. Several news anchors Walter Cronkite, Peter Jennings, Dan Rather and Ted Koppel.
Middle Children: Tend to rebel, be competitive, are flexible, peacemakers and highly social. We will recognize two rather prominent and successful middle children in David Letterman and Donald Trump.
Youngest: Feel they can do no wrong because they are usually spoiled by family, are risk takers , love attention, they are creative and usually have a good sense of humor. They can also be manipulative, persistent and frequently have problems with substance abuse and psychiatric disorders. Some well-known last borns are Ross Perot, Goldie Hawn, Jim Carrey, Jay Leno and Steve Martin.
The people who strongly feel birth order is key to personality analysis have some caveats they feel will alter order rules:
If there are several years between siblings, the birth order starts over.
A difference in gender causes the 1st born of the next gender to have traits of first born
Deaths of siblings, adoptions, step-siblings and divorce which causes siblings to live separately will influence order traits.
I cannot give much experience-driven information. I had one child and the attempt to help her grow with as few traits of the "only" is the hardest and most wonderful work I have ever done. It is work to raise a child.
It is exhausting, stressful, uncertain, thrilling and frequently indescribably frightening, but the rewards last a life time. Please enjoy your life....every day. It is what you make it!
Friday, August 28, 2009
An Optimistic Mind, Big Nerdy Heart
My husband is a goof. He's beautiful and adorable and smart and goofy. Often he creates words, he exaggerates at every opportunity, and he has a dream world in that cranium of his that sounds glorious and highly improbably.
Lately we have been looking at properties, so that we can escape the city and get a bit rural, get a little dirty and see how it feels. I just hope I don't see a snake, but that's an entirely different topic.
Anyway, when I've searched for homes with the realtors while my husband is working I must consider carefully if I could see myself living in the home. Is it really worthy of a return trip with my hubby, Oliver, to show him the place? Because if it isn't, I'm in trouble.
Oliver sees a home and envisions himself living there within the time it takes the realtor to walk to the lockbox on the door. My dear sweet Oliver is inspecting the landscape and mentally building a new brick mailbox before he steps over the threshold.
I think he could be at home in an igloo if it could just have a fireplace inside. A mud hut would be as attractive to him as a mansion because no matter the situation, in his mind everything is doable. Oh, a hole in the ceiling from a previous rainstorm? That's what tarps are for. Soft floors underneath the carpet? Fine. He doesn't like carpet, and isn't the dirt under the subfloor much less maintenance? I mean, it's dirt! Entirely liveable because he doesn't even know if we own a vacuum cleaner, much less in which closet it could be kept.
The last piece of acreage that we inspected we visited initially together. This is a dangerous proposition because if it is entirely horrible I have to think of ways for him to see that. Subtlety always works best with men of course. And in this case I was right to be nervous.
We couldn't go inside, as the owner was out of town, and needed to "straighten up" the place. Which left us the option of leaving or window shopping. We chose the latter.
The home was infested with animals who had been left to their own devices -- feces everywhere, the smell of cat urine floating out through the glass of the windows -- and we're terribly allergic to animals. The bathroom plumbing runs to a lagoon, which is a big puddle of crap, to put it bluntly. (And here we had thought, "Oh, what a pretty little pond!! (Long pause as smiles fade) Hmm. Do you smell something?") The kitchen was indescribable, literally, because every horizontal space was covered over with something moldy or gooey, probably permanently adhered.
But then I walked in the back yard, and saw the view from the hill. I'll take it!
And the kicker: Oliver loved everything about the place, pustules and all, except the color of the rotting hardi-board. "I can't live in a pink house. I'll paint it first thing."
He's never painted in his life.
And I feel tired.
Lately we have been looking at properties, so that we can escape the city and get a bit rural, get a little dirty and see how it feels. I just hope I don't see a snake, but that's an entirely different topic.
Anyway, when I've searched for homes with the realtors while my husband is working I must consider carefully if I could see myself living in the home. Is it really worthy of a return trip with my hubby, Oliver, to show him the place? Because if it isn't, I'm in trouble.
Oliver sees a home and envisions himself living there within the time it takes the realtor to walk to the lockbox on the door. My dear sweet Oliver is inspecting the landscape and mentally building a new brick mailbox before he steps over the threshold.
I think he could be at home in an igloo if it could just have a fireplace inside. A mud hut would be as attractive to him as a mansion because no matter the situation, in his mind everything is doable. Oh, a hole in the ceiling from a previous rainstorm? That's what tarps are for. Soft floors underneath the carpet? Fine. He doesn't like carpet, and isn't the dirt under the subfloor much less maintenance? I mean, it's dirt! Entirely liveable because he doesn't even know if we own a vacuum cleaner, much less in which closet it could be kept.
The last piece of acreage that we inspected we visited initially together. This is a dangerous proposition because if it is entirely horrible I have to think of ways for him to see that. Subtlety always works best with men of course. And in this case I was right to be nervous.
We couldn't go inside, as the owner was out of town, and needed to "straighten up" the place. Which left us the option of leaving or window shopping. We chose the latter.
The home was infested with animals who had been left to their own devices -- feces everywhere, the smell of cat urine floating out through the glass of the windows -- and we're terribly allergic to animals. The bathroom plumbing runs to a lagoon, which is a big puddle of crap, to put it bluntly. (And here we had thought, "Oh, what a pretty little pond!! (Long pause as smiles fade) Hmm. Do you smell something?") The kitchen was indescribable, literally, because every horizontal space was covered over with something moldy or gooey, probably permanently adhered.
But then I walked in the back yard, and saw the view from the hill. I'll take it!
And the kicker: Oliver loved everything about the place, pustules and all, except the color of the rotting hardi-board. "I can't live in a pink house. I'll paint it first thing."
He's never painted in his life.
And I feel tired.
A Treatise on a Woman's Wings
It's been joked about so often that people don't listen anymore: upper arm fat on women. It appears seemingly overnight. One day you're tight as a drum and the next day you're brushing your hair and think you may be having a sudden epileptic seizure because your arm won't stop moving.
My arms jiggle more than the first waterbed, the one created before they decided to include a baffle to squelch the waves.
I often think of my triceps as sails, beautiful billowing sails, aloft in the slightest breeze. Then reality comes back and I want to wash the sail with a soft cloth and fabric cleaner and tack that bad boy back to the boom. I've thought Velcro would work, just attach the fuzzy end to the lower flap and the sticky end up around the deltoid somewhere -- if I flip both of my arms forward at once I think I can create enough velocity that the skin will swing up and automatically reattach. Kind of like loading up my weapons, a new kind of "gun show!" It's that ripping sound that seems most disturbing, so I probably wouldn't take them down and let them air out often enough.
I briefly thought of a hook-and-eye contraption, but attaching the actual "eye" would require stitches of some sort and I'm desperately afraid of needles. Besides, it might rust should I perspire or get caught in a rain storm. (If my arms are securely positioned I might reconsider sleeveless tops and therefore be caught out in any sudden moisture. Gotta think of every angle, you see.)
Then there is the button and buttonhole thought, and I could even change the buttons to match latest trends! A simple pearl button for evenings out or a little wooden number for casual picnics with the family. But the buttonhole, the buttonhole is the catch, pardon the pun. A hole in my arm? That just sounds so unsightly.
When I'm at the newsracks I read all the latest magazines attesting to the idea that they have finally figured out the cure for bat flaps, but every single one of the exercises seems to boil down to tricep kick-backs and dips. (Check any of the latest women's fitness issues if you don't have the visual of these exercises. Trust me, they're printed in there somewhere.)
I've wrenched both elbows and broken the legs of two chairs trying those little exercise wonders. I'm done now. My furniture can't hack it any more.
I need to sign off now. I keep my elbows pinned to my sides whenever I write, type, drive, virtually anything, and sweat is starting to roll. It's not ideal, but at least with my arms pinned down I'm not going to flap myself off of the chair. Be glad you're not here, it's ugly.
My arms jiggle more than the first waterbed, the one created before they decided to include a baffle to squelch the waves.
I often think of my triceps as sails, beautiful billowing sails, aloft in the slightest breeze. Then reality comes back and I want to wash the sail with a soft cloth and fabric cleaner and tack that bad boy back to the boom. I've thought Velcro would work, just attach the fuzzy end to the lower flap and the sticky end up around the deltoid somewhere -- if I flip both of my arms forward at once I think I can create enough velocity that the skin will swing up and automatically reattach. Kind of like loading up my weapons, a new kind of "gun show!" It's that ripping sound that seems most disturbing, so I probably wouldn't take them down and let them air out often enough.
I briefly thought of a hook-and-eye contraption, but attaching the actual "eye" would require stitches of some sort and I'm desperately afraid of needles. Besides, it might rust should I perspire or get caught in a rain storm. (If my arms are securely positioned I might reconsider sleeveless tops and therefore be caught out in any sudden moisture. Gotta think of every angle, you see.)
Then there is the button and buttonhole thought, and I could even change the buttons to match latest trends! A simple pearl button for evenings out or a little wooden number for casual picnics with the family. But the buttonhole, the buttonhole is the catch, pardon the pun. A hole in my arm? That just sounds so unsightly.
When I'm at the newsracks I read all the latest magazines attesting to the idea that they have finally figured out the cure for bat flaps, but every single one of the exercises seems to boil down to tricep kick-backs and dips. (Check any of the latest women's fitness issues if you don't have the visual of these exercises. Trust me, they're printed in there somewhere.)
I've wrenched both elbows and broken the legs of two chairs trying those little exercise wonders. I'm done now. My furniture can't hack it any more.
I need to sign off now. I keep my elbows pinned to my sides whenever I write, type, drive, virtually anything, and sweat is starting to roll. It's not ideal, but at least with my arms pinned down I'm not going to flap myself off of the chair. Be glad you're not here, it's ugly.
Goodbye "Rainbow"
We assume that all things have a "life" expectancy; ourselves, our loved ones, our pets, our flowers...everything. It is often most difficult to say goodbye when we had not seriously considered the loss or the life time of something valuable to us. We were told today that a "goodbye" is necessary to the NPR program "Reading Rainbow". It has been a popular childrens' show for 26 years, hosted by LeVar Burton, famous for this gig as well as the role of Jordy in "Star Trek, The Next Generation." (I believe that's the proper Star Trek format, I need to refer to my geeky husband for confirmation.)
Facebook carried the NPR story about 1:00 CST today. In less than an hour 936 comments of protest appeared on the site. Each comment related the value of the show to their childhood and to their accomplishments as adults. A good point was made by many of those who were upset by the loss of this program. They felt that anyone can do or learn just about anything if there is a real drive or desire created for it, and Rainbow gave them that urge to learn.
The key to learning is creating the desire to learn. There are already hundreds of instruction sites, schools, videos, books, tutors, et cetera to teach a child to read, but all those learning sources will be limited in success if the student doesn't really want to read.
LeVar Burton and Reading Rainbow made children want to learn to read. He made them see how they could use reading to be a part of the world, to travel anywhere they want at any time with just a book, to escape whatever is negative at that moment and make that moment one of discovery and fun. NPR is cancelling the show because they want shows that teach kids to read rather than shows that teach kids to want to read.
This sounds like a cyclical logic concocted to rid themselves of a program they no longer find relevant, no matter the public opinion. Someone wants funds to go elsewhere, and this is a quick fix. Otherwise, this move makes no sense. My son literally runs into the living room when he hears Burton's voice. He's even gone so far as to respond when he hears Burton playing Jordy as my husband flips the television channels searching for something decent to watch. Burton has created an excitement in my son -- he's shown my kid new worlds, new societies, new adventures every day. He has spoken of genealogy, Indian culture, oceanic life, as well as desert secrets in the Saguaro cactus.
I have gone to the library and deliberately found many of the books that Burton and the kids on the show introduce to viewers, and we've enjoyed every one. My son remembers the pictures on the covers of the books as the ones LeVar showed him.
This is a shame. It is reminiscent of the effort to make Dora the Explorer a Tweener. Whether canceling a show or suddenly changing it up, neither one is the right thing to do.
Facebook carried the NPR story about 1:00 CST today. In less than an hour 936 comments of protest appeared on the site. Each comment related the value of the show to their childhood and to their accomplishments as adults. A good point was made by many of those who were upset by the loss of this program. They felt that anyone can do or learn just about anything if there is a real drive or desire created for it, and Rainbow gave them that urge to learn.
The key to learning is creating the desire to learn. There are already hundreds of instruction sites, schools, videos, books, tutors, et cetera to teach a child to read, but all those learning sources will be limited in success if the student doesn't really want to read.
LeVar Burton and Reading Rainbow made children want to learn to read. He made them see how they could use reading to be a part of the world, to travel anywhere they want at any time with just a book, to escape whatever is negative at that moment and make that moment one of discovery and fun. NPR is cancelling the show because they want shows that teach kids to read rather than shows that teach kids to want to read.
This sounds like a cyclical logic concocted to rid themselves of a program they no longer find relevant, no matter the public opinion. Someone wants funds to go elsewhere, and this is a quick fix. Otherwise, this move makes no sense. My son literally runs into the living room when he hears Burton's voice. He's even gone so far as to respond when he hears Burton playing Jordy as my husband flips the television channels searching for something decent to watch. Burton has created an excitement in my son -- he's shown my kid new worlds, new societies, new adventures every day. He has spoken of genealogy, Indian culture, oceanic life, as well as desert secrets in the Saguaro cactus.
I have gone to the library and deliberately found many of the books that Burton and the kids on the show introduce to viewers, and we've enjoyed every one. My son remembers the pictures on the covers of the books as the ones LeVar showed him.
This is a shame. It is reminiscent of the effort to make Dora the Explorer a Tweener. Whether canceling a show or suddenly changing it up, neither one is the right thing to do.
Canning is more than being fired
I find it serendipitous that the very same week I go to my cousin Fern's house to learn the fine art of pickling my favorite blog on the net features a story about canning strawberry jam (www.thepioneerwoman.com ) with complete descriptions and beautiful photography. She even referenced the same Ball book of canning that I had used only days ago.
This Ball book must be a jillion years old, more or less. Who knows how many printings this manuscript has undergone? It seems to be in every farm kitchen on the planet, replete with its own photos of the Olden Tymes. (My mother will reel when she sees that reference!!) I would have sworn I saw a few cows moseying into a few frames of film, a delightful backdrop to the steaming jars and studious, gingham-kerchiefed farm woman faces. Cows "moseyed" back then, you know, because they could go where they wanted without cars hitting them. It was a covered wagon fiesta! (Again, just kidding, Mom!)
The copy Fern uses is worn, tattered, splattered, and different shades of weathered oatmeal, handed down from her aunt. Actually Fern isn't sure that the book was a gift, or was it a loan, but she has assumed custody until something is said... And this crazy old book is still relevant! It is its own Bible of information about how to get started with preserving food, which foods may be put into jars and steamed or pressurized into the long wait for consumption, the concepts behind the procedures, why it's so important for every element of the process to be sterile and dust-free, and even how many years food can stay safely tucked into its own Mason jar. My mother-in-law seemed to think the shelf life was more than 25 years for some jars of peaches she had "preserved" in high school. She had to actually tell me that those nasty gelatinous blobs were peaches. Eew.
I'm sure one of my grandparents somewhere has their own copy. I should ask. I want to see just how "loved" -- I use that term facetiously, because of course canning wasn't about fun and trend, it was the way of life -- and worn their copy is. That would tell me volumes about how they lived their nutritional lives, and it would tell me a bit about their childhoods. I'm sure that the storing of food was not done solely by the matriarch of the family. That's what kids are for! Free labor. I'm sure some Saturday morning the children were lazily, stubbornly dragging their unwilling butts into the kitchen, dreading the day of hot steamy kitchen air rather than the numerous other glorious wide-open places kids would rather be. And if my grandparent tells it right, they'll give me lots of descriptors to really make me feel that heat and steam and anger and despair that lingered around the kids' heads...it'll be a great story.
This Ball book must be a jillion years old, more or less. Who knows how many printings this manuscript has undergone? It seems to be in every farm kitchen on the planet, replete with its own photos of the Olden Tymes. (My mother will reel when she sees that reference!!) I would have sworn I saw a few cows moseying into a few frames of film, a delightful backdrop to the steaming jars and studious, gingham-kerchiefed farm woman faces. Cows "moseyed" back then, you know, because they could go where they wanted without cars hitting them. It was a covered wagon fiesta! (Again, just kidding, Mom!)
The copy Fern uses is worn, tattered, splattered, and different shades of weathered oatmeal, handed down from her aunt. Actually Fern isn't sure that the book was a gift, or was it a loan, but she has assumed custody until something is said... And this crazy old book is still relevant! It is its own Bible of information about how to get started with preserving food, which foods may be put into jars and steamed or pressurized into the long wait for consumption, the concepts behind the procedures, why it's so important for every element of the process to be sterile and dust-free, and even how many years food can stay safely tucked into its own Mason jar. My mother-in-law seemed to think the shelf life was more than 25 years for some jars of peaches she had "preserved" in high school. She had to actually tell me that those nasty gelatinous blobs were peaches. Eew.
I'm sure one of my grandparents somewhere has their own copy. I should ask. I want to see just how "loved" -- I use that term facetiously, because of course canning wasn't about fun and trend, it was the way of life -- and worn their copy is. That would tell me volumes about how they lived their nutritional lives, and it would tell me a bit about their childhoods. I'm sure that the storing of food was not done solely by the matriarch of the family. That's what kids are for! Free labor. I'm sure some Saturday morning the children were lazily, stubbornly dragging their unwilling butts into the kitchen, dreading the day of hot steamy kitchen air rather than the numerous other glorious wide-open places kids would rather be. And if my grandparent tells it right, they'll give me lots of descriptors to really make me feel that heat and steam and anger and despair that lingered around the kids' heads...it'll be a great story.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Ice Cream is Evil
Today he had orange sherbet ice cream on a sugar cone, the kind with the dangerously pointy end. Usually my kiddo bites the crunchy point allowing passage for melted sugary milk to drip onto everything nearby. Today I was especially proud because he did not opt to destroy the cone first! He was properly consuming the ice cream from top to bottom. What a glorious day for homemakers everywhere, but not so much for the paper towel companies who are routinely utilized for the heavy cleaning duties.
I asked for a bite, took one, and was quickly reproached with, "No, Mommy, tongue." He then proceeded to show me the proper method for ice cream consumption -- to lick, not to bite.
He licked that ice cream from only one side, the stack of dessert leaning dangerously toward the opposite edge of the cone. I would methodically push the mess upright every so often, hoping he would occasionally turn the cone, pivot it to reach the other side and even things up a little.
All too soon he grew tired of the typical licking method, ran to the kichen drawer and found a kid-sized spoon. With it, he ate one bite; tiny, barely denting the food. So the next scoop was aggressive, going for mass, and the forceful plunge ran under the ice cream and into the tender gridwork of cone, splintering it. Orange ooze gushed under the weight of creamy glob and down onto the carpet.
"Son!" I said, perhaps forcefully, in my most feared maternal voice as I grabbed for the nearest roll of aforementioned paper towels.
Looking straight into my eyes, one hand hidden under pumpkin colored rivulets of liquid, the other hand gripping that wet messy spoon, he opened the hand holding the cone. It fell to the floor as my beautiful, delightful son continued to hold eye contact with me.
He was finished with his snack.
All that I can guess is that that ice cream was filled with high fructose corn syrup, the ingredient which makes people fat without ever feeling full, thus they consume it in great quantities because it tastes so good. And inside of the sugary goodness, someone had squirted some evil, probably in a liquid form but perhaps inside crystallized sugar of orange hue. Right? I mean that is the only way my perfect child could have done something so rotten.
Mothers can justify anything.
Let It ALL Hang Out
Every Saturday morning, up at 7:00 (I seriously felt this was child labor but could find no adult who would support my view) and the search began. We had to go through the house to pickup all clothes, bedding, kitchen towels, bathroom stuff, etc. and put them in a huge (there were 5 of us) pile in the kitchen. Then, the sorting began: this was not an exact science and became more casual as the day wore on and on and on. The next decision was to bleach or not to bleach. This may seem obvious, but, not so in my childhood home. That major separation complete, we went into the act of getting the stuff wet. This was a timed operation because there was no pre-determined cycle....it washed until mother determined it had been long enough. The next step was wringing from wash to rinse. This part was actually fun unless you were sleepy and let a finger get into the wringer.....that really woke a person quickly! The wringer was electric, but had to be fed each item by hand. Here is yet another decision: some items went into the rinse tub containing blueing while the others went into clear water (the blueing was a gentler form of bleach). The clothes were manually "agitated" until soap was removed and then fed into the wringer again. Are you exhausted yet?
The next step is what started me on this laundry tirade in the first place: hanging it on the clothesline.
We took the wet laundry up an incline to a plateau just the right size to direct all attention to our clothesline.
I need to mention here that I was living in a very small town and our house was on the only road to school.
My technique was to hang the underwear on the back line which offered the smallest viewing area. My mother; however, always hung it on the front line because "it dried faster there." Sure.....
I will spare you the rest of the story because the "new" thing I have learned regarding laundry is that it is now considered a green option to hang laundry instead of using the dryer. It probably does save a little tiny bit of electricity so here are the instructions I was given for creating a line-drying laundry operation:
2 Heavy posts, preferably steel, pounded 3' into the earth with concrete poured around bases
Place posts 30' apart
2 Cross-pieces screwed in place horizontally on the posts
Drill 4 evenly spaced holes in cross pieces to accommodate the knots in the clothesline
4 30' long lines of cotton-covered nylon clothesline
Additional equipment needed is a clothespin bag and spring-loaded clothespins.
There is obviously an art to hanging items on the line which must take into consideration the wind, the specific piece of laundry, the temperament of your dog and the purpose of the item in relation to your skin.
I felt that classes were needed to hone my simple abilities into such an intricate skill. However, I did not completely lose interest until the instructor admitted that she used an electric dryer to dry her socks.
She really lost me then and I have not called Home Depot for those heavy posts or clothespins.
The next step is what started me on this laundry tirade in the first place: hanging it on the clothesline.
We took the wet laundry up an incline to a plateau just the right size to direct all attention to our clothesline.
I need to mention here that I was living in a very small town and our house was on the only road to school.
My technique was to hang the underwear on the back line which offered the smallest viewing area. My mother; however, always hung it on the front line because "it dried faster there." Sure.....
I will spare you the rest of the story because the "new" thing I have learned regarding laundry is that it is now considered a green option to hang laundry instead of using the dryer. It probably does save a little tiny bit of electricity so here are the instructions I was given for creating a line-drying laundry operation:
2 Heavy posts, preferably steel, pounded 3' into the earth with concrete poured around bases
Place posts 30' apart
2 Cross-pieces screwed in place horizontally on the posts
Drill 4 evenly spaced holes in cross pieces to accommodate the knots in the clothesline
4 30' long lines of cotton-covered nylon clothesline
Additional equipment needed is a clothespin bag and spring-loaded clothespins.
There is obviously an art to hanging items on the line which must take into consideration the wind, the specific piece of laundry, the temperament of your dog and the purpose of the item in relation to your skin.
I felt that classes were needed to hone my simple abilities into such an intricate skill. However, I did not completely lose interest until the instructor admitted that she used an electric dryer to dry her socks.
She really lost me then and I have not called Home Depot for those heavy posts or clothespins.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
13 and Going Strong
13 years ago I remember tiny balls of fluff: one yellow and the other silver. They played constantly with anything that moved. They chased their own shadows or sunshine coming through the patio doors or leaves moving outside. They were fascinated by the squirrels and dogs also outside but ready to play. They were adorable and we couldn't bring ourselves to give them away even to family.
Today, what a deal I would make you on those cats!! Free!! Not only free, but, with every cat item you can imagine ever needing. They have every shot the vet knows for cats. They have brushes, combs, nail clippers, toothbrushes, a scratching log, climbing walls, self-watering and self-feeding dishes, and toys (lots of toys). They have carriers as comfortable as First Class in any 747. They have beds with bedding Martha Stewart would approve. They have window seats to allow them a view while still being in air conditioning.
They don't have fleas, ticks, matted coats or any other negative features. They also don't have ...... An Exit Strategy. Why should they?
The vet tells us they could easily live another 10 years as they are in perfect health. Of course they are in perfect health! They are almost hermetically sealed in our house under temperature control at all times with a constant supply of easily accessed food and cool water. They sleep on our Queen size pillow topped mattress and 600 ct. Egyptian cotton sheets. They sleep there almost all day. They would sleep there at night also, but we run a fan whose breeze they cannot tolerate.
You might think that these domestic pets would be grateful. We thought they would at least be appreciative enough to let us do our things in what was once our home. We were wrong.....very, very wrong.
They express displeasure when we are gone to work or off for a weekend by urinating at the front door. What a joy it is... welcomed home by such an odor. We immediately forget about dinner or unpacking and start frantically searching for anything to clear the air. We clean the parquet with a special product, we spray the air with yet another product and we search the house for solid tokens of their displeasure.
Should we ever be so stupid as to bring members of another species into their house, we suffer similar treatments on an hourly presentation.
Why, you ask, do you put up with this? Why don't you just open the door and show them out .... right now? Are you crazy? I would never tolerate such creatures...not even for a few minutes.
Well, yes, we must be crazy. We still remember those sweet tiny fur balls. We loved them then and we still love them as adults. We love that Lumpy is more like a dog than a cat. He responds to a whistle and "begs" for food at the table. We love that Pepa wants to get her water from the bathtub faucet after the water runs long enough to be cool to her taste. We appreciate the rare, but thoroughly trashed, mouse whose tail may appear in the carpet or even on bed or couch. We appreciate that they are independent and don't need to be taken to kennels or require cat sitters.
Looking back on this, I am more certain than ever that we are crazy. We will be even crazier when we cry and are saddened by their deaths.......if We live that long.
Today, what a deal I would make you on those cats!! Free!! Not only free, but, with every cat item you can imagine ever needing. They have every shot the vet knows for cats. They have brushes, combs, nail clippers, toothbrushes, a scratching log, climbing walls, self-watering and self-feeding dishes, and toys (lots of toys). They have carriers as comfortable as First Class in any 747. They have beds with bedding Martha Stewart would approve. They have window seats to allow them a view while still being in air conditioning.
They don't have fleas, ticks, matted coats or any other negative features. They also don't have ...... An Exit Strategy. Why should they?
The vet tells us they could easily live another 10 years as they are in perfect health. Of course they are in perfect health! They are almost hermetically sealed in our house under temperature control at all times with a constant supply of easily accessed food and cool water. They sleep on our Queen size pillow topped mattress and 600 ct. Egyptian cotton sheets. They sleep there almost all day. They would sleep there at night also, but we run a fan whose breeze they cannot tolerate.
You might think that these domestic pets would be grateful. We thought they would at least be appreciative enough to let us do our things in what was once our home. We were wrong.....very, very wrong.
They express displeasure when we are gone to work or off for a weekend by urinating at the front door. What a joy it is... welcomed home by such an odor. We immediately forget about dinner or unpacking and start frantically searching for anything to clear the air. We clean the parquet with a special product, we spray the air with yet another product and we search the house for solid tokens of their displeasure.
Should we ever be so stupid as to bring members of another species into their house, we suffer similar treatments on an hourly presentation.
Why, you ask, do you put up with this? Why don't you just open the door and show them out .... right now? Are you crazy? I would never tolerate such creatures...not even for a few minutes.
Well, yes, we must be crazy. We still remember those sweet tiny fur balls. We loved them then and we still love them as adults. We love that Lumpy is more like a dog than a cat. He responds to a whistle and "begs" for food at the table. We love that Pepa wants to get her water from the bathtub faucet after the water runs long enough to be cool to her taste. We appreciate the rare, but thoroughly trashed, mouse whose tail may appear in the carpet or even on bed or couch. We appreciate that they are independent and don't need to be taken to kennels or require cat sitters.
Looking back on this, I am more certain than ever that we are crazy. We will be even crazier when we cry and are saddened by their deaths.......if We live that long.
A Pickling Pickle
In my ongoing quest to move to the country and take on the lifestyle of ancestors before remote control televisions and world wide web, I need to take lessons on how to do this. Today my lesson was in pickling.
That's right, no trip down the grocery store aisle for me, I'm ignoring the Vlasic -- either whole dill or relish -- and venturing into doing it on my own! So I enlisted the help of my cousin who does this pickling thing on a regular basis. A regular basis! While I'm struggling to move one load of laundry from the washer to, gasp, a foot away where the electric dryer stands, she is strapping her six-month-old baby to her chest and heaving a bucket of wet clothes outside to the clothesline! And I complain about my one foot of movement -- I even gasp and wheeze in an effort to pull sympathy from my hubby and child. (No, it doesn't work.)
I thought for sure that this pickling thing was easy. I thought I would make a pictorial study of the process, record every step, glisten occasionally with effort, and emerge at the end with a sweet batch of quart after quart of hearty pickles to enjoy this evening! Ha!! Ignorance IS bliss!
We had four children between us, scattered throughout the house, all upset and needing attention, an enormous farm dog named Daisy who was literally constantly sticking her nose into our business, and three burners of the stove going on a ninety-plus degree day.
First lesson: there are special cucumbers called "pickling cucumbers." Several varieties in fact. Had no idea.
Second lesson: every aspect of the process involves hot things -- hot water, hot steam, hot jars, hot jar lids, hot people doing the canning. I might have reconsidered if I'd known I would be sweating. (It's ugly. I'm a woman who goes from frozen to sweating-like-a-racehorse quicker than a racehorse can break into a sweat.)
Third lesson: patience and humility.
I escaped with one quart of pickles, an exhausted child, a couple of steam burns, no pictures, swollen eyes from an allergy to the farm dog, and an hour-and-a-half drive to get home. Once I got home I took a picture of the pickles, nothing artistic like I had planned, just a frickin' picture to show that I actually did the thing. It's a minimalistic journalistic approach that I prefer when I am exhausted and need only a shower and a long, long nap.
Oh, and the most beautiful part: I can't eat the pickles for three months. They have to pickle or something.
I think I'll get pickled myself. Anybody have any vodka? Beer? Where's the rest of that pickling brine, that'll work...
That's right, no trip down the grocery store aisle for me, I'm ignoring the Vlasic -- either whole dill or relish -- and venturing into doing it on my own! So I enlisted the help of my cousin who does this pickling thing on a regular basis. A regular basis! While I'm struggling to move one load of laundry from the washer to, gasp, a foot away where the electric dryer stands, she is strapping her six-month-old baby to her chest and heaving a bucket of wet clothes outside to the clothesline! And I complain about my one foot of movement -- I even gasp and wheeze in an effort to pull sympathy from my hubby and child. (No, it doesn't work.)
I thought for sure that this pickling thing was easy. I thought I would make a pictorial study of the process, record every step, glisten occasionally with effort, and emerge at the end with a sweet batch of quart after quart of hearty pickles to enjoy this evening! Ha!! Ignorance IS bliss!
We had four children between us, scattered throughout the house, all upset and needing attention, an enormous farm dog named Daisy who was literally constantly sticking her nose into our business, and three burners of the stove going on a ninety-plus degree day.
First lesson: there are special cucumbers called "pickling cucumbers." Several varieties in fact. Had no idea.
Second lesson: every aspect of the process involves hot things -- hot water, hot steam, hot jars, hot jar lids, hot people doing the canning. I might have reconsidered if I'd known I would be sweating. (It's ugly. I'm a woman who goes from frozen to sweating-like-a-racehorse quicker than a racehorse can break into a sweat.)
Third lesson: patience and humility.
I escaped with one quart of pickles, an exhausted child, a couple of steam burns, no pictures, swollen eyes from an allergy to the farm dog, and an hour-and-a-half drive to get home. Once I got home I took a picture of the pickles, nothing artistic like I had planned, just a frickin' picture to show that I actually did the thing. It's a minimalistic journalistic approach that I prefer when I am exhausted and need only a shower and a long, long nap.
Oh, and the most beautiful part: I can't eat the pickles for three months. They have to pickle or something.
Monday, August 24, 2009
Ah, the Age Gap
The other day I got a big ol' taste of the generational gap between my mother and I.
We were at a gas station, around 10 o'clock on a Saturday night. That is probably not the best time to refuel, I suppose, and in addition I had parked under a dim light to refuel. Mom got out of the car with me as added protection. I'm not sure what we would have retaliated with, should the situation have become dicey, but hey, it's always nice to have your mom along.
While I was pumping the gas, a car of young, raucous teenage boys drove by and made whistling sounds, in appreciation of the sight of two ladies --dimly lit --alone in the dark. I was thrilled. It had been a thousand years, roughly, since I had become the object of a catcall. It felt good, like I still had it, if I ever had, and I could still be attractive to a teenager who was probably slightly drunk with the glory of teenagers-in-a-group, a heady flavor only acquired while in adolescence or with a newly gained driver's license. (Or if a really great song is on the radio and you're going just a bit too fast, maybe down a hill, and hey, there's a green light at the bottom, do I feel it turning yellow? So you gun it. You know the feeling.)
I blissfully turn to my mother to share this lovely glow and see that she is staring after the car, eyes glowering, arms crossed, lips pursed. She says, in staccato fashion, "Little punks. They shouldn't be out this late...where are their parents?"
She looks at me and a heavy silence falls between us as we stare at each other. We both blink at least twice. Then I giggle, and she laughs in return, realizing that she sounded like an octogenarian on the front porch of her home ranting after a mysterious and horrible smell arose suddenly.
We opened the car doors, got back into our seats, and turned to look at the three-year-old little guy sitting in his car seat behind us. I caught a glimpse of him in thirteen years, staring at chicks under a street light somewhere. I'll make sure he has adequate eye correction before he leaves the house.
We were at a gas station, around 10 o'clock on a Saturday night. That is probably not the best time to refuel, I suppose, and in addition I had parked under a dim light to refuel. Mom got out of the car with me as added protection. I'm not sure what we would have retaliated with, should the situation have become dicey, but hey, it's always nice to have your mom along.
While I was pumping the gas, a car of young, raucous teenage boys drove by and made whistling sounds, in appreciation of the sight of two ladies --dimly lit --alone in the dark. I was thrilled. It had been a thousand years, roughly, since I had become the object of a catcall. It felt good, like I still had it, if I ever had, and I could still be attractive to a teenager who was probably slightly drunk with the glory of teenagers-in-a-group, a heady flavor only acquired while in adolescence or with a newly gained driver's license. (Or if a really great song is on the radio and you're going just a bit too fast, maybe down a hill, and hey, there's a green light at the bottom, do I feel it turning yellow? So you gun it. You know the feeling.)
I blissfully turn to my mother to share this lovely glow and see that she is staring after the car, eyes glowering, arms crossed, lips pursed. She says, in staccato fashion, "Little punks. They shouldn't be out this late...where are their parents?"
She looks at me and a heavy silence falls between us as we stare at each other. We both blink at least twice. Then I giggle, and she laughs in return, realizing that she sounded like an octogenarian on the front porch of her home ranting after a mysterious and horrible smell arose suddenly.
We opened the car doors, got back into our seats, and turned to look at the three-year-old little guy sitting in his car seat behind us. I caught a glimpse of him in thirteen years, staring at chicks under a street light somewhere. I'll make sure he has adequate eye correction before he leaves the house.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Puppies
We adopt pets and fall in love with them because they’re cute and cuddly and wriggly and then they grow up and turn out to be pains in the butt. They pee on everything, they poop at will, they love to steal dirty laundry (read this as “underwear”) and run with it waving in the wind, invariably in front of guests. They dig holes in the yard that could engulf a full grown man with one wrong step while simultaneously causing chaos in the neighborhood, inciting other dogs to bark and growl and spit in answer to your pet’s question: “Have you seen my chew toy?”
Pets get fleas and ticks and diseases, they eat too much and work too little. Vet bills are astronomical and groomers put ugly bows on the pet’s ears. Pet food stinks, chewy treats crumble and stick in the carpet, squeaky woobies are chewed until they resemble the insides of a pillow and the parts are strewn from the front door through the house and out the back door and back inside again. Aargh!
Sigh.
And we love them forever.
Pets get fleas and ticks and diseases, they eat too much and work too little. Vet bills are astronomical and groomers put ugly bows on the pet’s ears. Pet food stinks, chewy treats crumble and stick in the carpet, squeaky woobies are chewed until they resemble the insides of a pillow and the parts are strewn from the front door through the house and out the back door and back inside again. Aargh!
Sigh.
And we love them forever.
Prozac and Me
Since my child was born three years ago, I hear a strange inner voice. It sounds like a high-pitched whine, and then I realize that’s not me talking and squealing and making fire engine noises, that’s my kid. Where is my own voice?
Stress and child rearing have created a vacuum in my soul. I plod through the days doing the rote maneuvers I’ve developed to get things done. It’s no fun, and I’ve decided to reclaim whatever is left of my own childlike qualities! (Insert super-hero theme music at this point, let it play like an undercurrent while you read the rest of my story.) I’m going to get back to doing what I like to do, whatever that passion is! (I have to find that too.)
I once considered myself witty and cynical and sarcastic, and you know what happened to that? Prozac. Ahhhh, it’s such an elixir in pill form. Takes the edge off of the stress and the boredom and makes pretty haloes around the faces of people I love, or don’t. Doesn’t really matter who they are. (The haloes are imagined, and only illustrative of the pretty coma-like state that chemistry induces, of course, but it’s such a pretty picture I haven’t tried to adjust the vertical just yet.) I exaggerate, as well. I haven’t lost that ability.
With wit and comedy comes doubt. Cynics are the best comics. They see the sharp edge of every contour and use it to their advantage. Things may still be ugly, but now they are distorted into such funny shapes that we can laugh at them. Of course, it’s a fine, almost invisible line between humor and cruelty. Turning something negative into a positive is fine, but not at anyone’s expense. That’s where I lost interest.
I’ll bet comics aren’t on Prozac.
But in order to get my own edge back, I would need to lay off the anti-depressants and follow the vortex back down into that swirling soup of stress, anxiety, fatigue, insomnia, and hair loss. Ain’t gonna do it. I shall be dull! and find sweetness in baby poo and runny noses! But alas, the world will miss my great comedic adventures. It’s a huge loss, trust me.
End theme music, if it was still playing in your head. I know mine won’t turn off…
Stress and child rearing have created a vacuum in my soul. I plod through the days doing the rote maneuvers I’ve developed to get things done. It’s no fun, and I’ve decided to reclaim whatever is left of my own childlike qualities! (Insert super-hero theme music at this point, let it play like an undercurrent while you read the rest of my story.) I’m going to get back to doing what I like to do, whatever that passion is! (I have to find that too.)
I once considered myself witty and cynical and sarcastic, and you know what happened to that? Prozac. Ahhhh, it’s such an elixir in pill form. Takes the edge off of the stress and the boredom and makes pretty haloes around the faces of people I love, or don’t. Doesn’t really matter who they are. (The haloes are imagined, and only illustrative of the pretty coma-like state that chemistry induces, of course, but it’s such a pretty picture I haven’t tried to adjust the vertical just yet.) I exaggerate, as well. I haven’t lost that ability.
With wit and comedy comes doubt. Cynics are the best comics. They see the sharp edge of every contour and use it to their advantage. Things may still be ugly, but now they are distorted into such funny shapes that we can laugh at them. Of course, it’s a fine, almost invisible line between humor and cruelty. Turning something negative into a positive is fine, but not at anyone’s expense. That’s where I lost interest.
I’ll bet comics aren’t on Prozac.
But in order to get my own edge back, I would need to lay off the anti-depressants and follow the vortex back down into that swirling soup of stress, anxiety, fatigue, insomnia, and hair loss. Ain’t gonna do it. I shall be dull! and find sweetness in baby poo and runny noses! But alas, the world will miss my great comedic adventures. It’s a huge loss, trust me.
End theme music, if it was still playing in your head. I know mine won’t turn off…
So This is How It's Done!
Have you ever been on the phone with your daughter and been told that there is an emergency at her home? The word “emergency” does not bring on pleasant thoughts of flowers blooming or butterflies crawling into the sunlight. It can, however, bring screams of hysterical laughter when the “emergency” is clarified.
In the most recent case, the laughter was mine and only mine. My daughter did not appreciate the humor of the situation and suggested that my distance allowed considerably more amusement than her proximity offered. She gave me a simple and quite literal translation of the situation as a “turd emergency”.
Her little son is learning the delicate controls of potty training. I’m guessing that today was not his most successful effort.
In the most recent case, the laughter was mine and only mine. My daughter did not appreciate the humor of the situation and suggested that my distance allowed considerably more amusement than her proximity offered. She gave me a simple and quite literal translation of the situation as a “turd emergency”.
Her little son is learning the delicate controls of potty training. I’m guessing that today was not his most successful effort.
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