Where To Start
A friend often asks me when I am going to blog again. I tell her I don't write unless I experience something out of the ordinary, significant or hilarious. Apparently, all of 2019 was uneventful. On the other hand, 2020 has been outright nuclear.
I have been wanting to blog about our new virus, My Corona, but have not wanted to make light when so many are sacrificing, suffering and dying. In addition, our society has become so divided, uncivil, disrespectful, and openly aggressive, that I am almost guaranteed to offend someone.
I have not taken sides on whether to shut down or stay open because I understand the arguments of both. I have tried to support local businesses yet not endanger others with my presence. We are all walking a tightrope in which there are snapping crocodiles on one side and quicksand on the other. If we fall on one side we will be eaten alive, the other and we will suffocate. What to do?
Pinball Wizard
After pondering my navel for the last 3 months under quarantine, I've come to the conclusion that we have become a pinball machine society that overreacts to everything, exacerbated by instantaneous, globally available information and video footage "proof."
For those of you who cannot picture a pinball machine, it's different from modern video games in that it was more mechanically operated. You launched your ball from a coiled plunger and kept the game going by flipping the ball back into action with right and left flippers. Once you had it going well, the ball could bounce off so many different bells and ringers you couldn't tell which one it hit first, or even second or third. It's an uncontrolled chain reaction, with each "hit" creating more noise and often gaining momentum.
Of course, pinball machines were not invented with artificial intelligence. They just react to the ball hitting the mechanism that causes a bounce or a bell or both, and then increases the score. We, as human beings, were created with real intelligence. We don't have to react to an object butting up against our senses. We don't have to aggressively thrust our opinion out there, causing more bounces and bells to go off.
As an example of overreacting, I have been disturbed by the calls to rewrite or even try to erase history, tear down statues, change names. I understand the anger at certain people who hurt certain groups (as well as understand that this statement itself is oversimplified). As a person of Jewish blood, I can write pages of unimaginable horrors committed against the Jews since the beginning of time. Yet, Auschwitz-Birkenau still stands. Buchenwald still stands. Why? As a reminder to never repeat the same sins. But, you may argue, these were never celebrated as good. Read on.
The fact is, everyone of us, including me and you, will do bad things, and everyone of us will do good things. That makes us human. The good does not erase the bad, and the bad does not erase the good. They just are. Interestingly, the heroes of the Bible were deeply flawed human beings. David, a man after God's own heart and the most celebrated king of Israel, committed adultery and murder. Abraham, the Patriarch of the Jews, sent his wife to live with the Egyptians, not once, but twice to save his own skin. Moses, the great shepherd of the Exodus and Ten Commandment messenger, murdered a man and was prohibited from entering the Promised Land because he disobeyed God and lost his temper. Aaron, Moses' bro and the first High Priest, helped the people construct and worship a golden calf. You get the picture.
The common thread is that they were forgiven for their sins. The sins did not define them. They also suffered natural consequences as a result of them. But God did not "cancel" them. Nor did their fellow community members. Their flaws were left in the Bible to encourage us to be merciful to others when they fall, and to pick ourselves up in our own tumbles. In the famous parable of the Good Samaritan, Jesus illustrated that EVERYONE is our neighbor, no matter how much we may disagree with them, and we are to love them as much as we love ourselves.
These are just ponderings of a quarantined woman whose navel has grown closer to her face after too many episodes of The Great British Baking Show and accompanied recipe imitations. They are not meant to insult, chastise, or otherwise offend. I would love to hear your opinion as long as you gently slide it over like a light pastry stuffed with creme patissiere and enrobed in chocolate ganache, rather than launch it like a silver pinball.
For your further entertainment, I have included the video of Elton John performing Pinball Wizard. This song is from the rock opera, Tommy, a disturbingly themed but brilliantly soundtracked movie.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=joxyFDmh_LY
Wednesday, July 8, 2020
Tuesday, October 23, 2018
Stranded at Costco
I had just come inside from doing chores when the house phone rang. Anticipating a political call urging me to vote for (fill in the blank), I hesitantly said, "Hello?" It was my husband who said, "You haven't checked the messages." Sure enough there were 6 messages from him on the phone. The poor guy had blown up a tire on the freeway and careened over to an offramp where he sat, waiting for me to answer the phone since only I have AAA service.
He tried to change the tire himself but the design for reaching the spare tire on a Chevy Silverado requires a degree from MIT, or at least parts that work together. I called AAA and quickly jumped in my car to rescue him. He had to go to practice so I stayed with the truck. And so the adventure begins.
I'm looking for a place to sit down on a concrete barrier to get out of the way of traffic when I realize he had pulled up right next to an ominous pile. Someone had pulled over to "toss their cookies." From the looks of it though, I would say it was a family-size combo pizza. Yeah, gross. Guess I'll just remain standing, thanks. The tow truck driver arrives promptly since our location isn't "safe," which is a nice change. He lacks aforementioned college degree also because he couldn't get the long stick thing to connect with the internal gadget thing to turn the windy thing. (You can tell that I have a college degree, can't you?)
The only thing to do is tow us to Costco where Bill had bought the tires. I guess the tire was too young to have blown because they only charge me $18 to replace it. Yay! But I would have to wait an hour. Boo! I rushed out of the house so quickly I didn't bring any reading material. Dang. What to do, what to do.
Hmm, nothing at the food court tempts me. It is so nice outside I decide to walk around the strip mall to see if there is a yogurt place or something interesting to look at. Tried Hobby Town. No, I don't need a premade paper mache horse set for $44.95, nor do I want to build a model car. I know, Pier 1 has fun things to look at. I trek on over to the store and step inside. I almost let out a blood-curdling scream! The horror of it all!! No, it isn't a mechanical Halloween monster. It is a store completely filled with...Christmas decor! I nearly vomit a combo pizza. I stumble back out the door and turn swiftly back to Costco.
By the time I get back I have really worked up an appetite. I see people chewing so I know there must be samples somewhere nearby. Yes! Stuffing Bread. Don't ask me what it's made of but it tastes like heaven. Brazilia Cheesy Bread. Ooh, baby. Prime Beef Roast in Gravy. Soo savory. Hot dogs in canned chili. Ick. Skip that one. I'm not that desperate.
So now that I've tracked down all the free food, what to do, what to do. Well I need a new cell phone. Let's see what they have to offer. On the way to the kiosk I notice a toilet with the lid open and thought, "Hope no one thinks THAT'S a demo." Hip cell phone dude is nice enough but not that interested in me because I am looking for the cheapo phone. Well that killed 5 minutes.
I know! I remember seeing some really comfy chairs recently. I can pick out an interesting book and curl up in a comfy chair for the rest of the time. Let's see, political book, political book, Geisha girl book, tattoo girl book, political book. Nothing looks appealing. Ooh, cookbooks - real possibility. Wait! Learn American Sign Language. Yes! I can learn, oh, probably 20 words in the time I have. I grab the book and head for the "lounge" section. Where are the comfy chairs? The stuffed couches? The backyard swings? Apparently since Christmas is imminently around the corner, all the furniture was replaced with toys and giant tacky lawn decorations. (Don't worry, I'm not talking about YOUR lawn decorations. I'm sure they are very tasteful and understated.)
There! There's a bench. Oh, it's a piano bench to an electric keyboard. Hey, it's on. What can I play? Virtually nothing without sheet music, and even then, my kids would probably pay me not to play. Well, I used to know The Peanuts theme song by heart. I plunk around for a few minutes before I realize I've even forgotten that. So much for my repertoire. Since it is the only seat I see in the whole store, I just set up the sign language book on the piano and study it. I am actually too embarrassed to practice the signs lest someone I know see me and wonder why I am sitting at a keyboard in Costco in the toy section waving my hands around my face. Okay, nailed it! I can sign "good, bad, movie, me, us, the letter K and 21." However, if actually put to the test I might accidentally say something like, "The tribe has spoken." Wouldn't that be embarrassing.
Now that I'm an accomplished signer I'm bored. I stand up to get a different book when I run into a friend. After a few minutes I can tell she's trying to get away but I'm grasping at things to ask so she won't leave me alone where Ebony and Ivory live together in perfect harmony side by side on my piano keyboard, oh Lord, why don't we? Sigh.
I meander back to the book section by way of Pendleton boots (ooh soft), and Calvin Klein denim shirt (so fashion). They had a large display of Jesus Calling books by Sarah Young, including Jesus Always and Jesus Today, daily devotional books. I open Jesus Today and look for today's date, October 22. This one, however, isn't set up that way. Instead, I randomly open to page 76 and catch my breath. The subject is "worry," the very thing that has kept me up nights for the last month. It says, "If you think about certain things at the wrong time - for example, when you're lying in bed - it's all too easy to start worrying about them. Instead...you can interrupt anxious thoughts and change the subject." Then it goes on to tell you to redirect your thoughts, and the best direction is toward God by expressing your trust in Him. Last Sunday I listened to a man speak about living day by day and being thankful for every one. This man is and has been undergoing unbelievable trials and yet is joyful. He said, "Live for today and leave the future to God."
While I'm still standing in front of the books mulling over these thoughts, my phone rings: the truck is ready. My adventure has come to a close. Though it wasn't how I planned to spend my afternoon, apparently I needed to read that page. So thank you, honey, for having a flat tire. I think I'll go practice the piano now...without sign language.
He tried to change the tire himself but the design for reaching the spare tire on a Chevy Silverado requires a degree from MIT, or at least parts that work together. I called AAA and quickly jumped in my car to rescue him. He had to go to practice so I stayed with the truck. And so the adventure begins.
I'm looking for a place to sit down on a concrete barrier to get out of the way of traffic when I realize he had pulled up right next to an ominous pile. Someone had pulled over to "toss their cookies." From the looks of it though, I would say it was a family-size combo pizza. Yeah, gross. Guess I'll just remain standing, thanks. The tow truck driver arrives promptly since our location isn't "safe," which is a nice change. He lacks aforementioned college degree also because he couldn't get the long stick thing to connect with the internal gadget thing to turn the windy thing. (You can tell that I have a college degree, can't you?)
The only thing to do is tow us to Costco where Bill had bought the tires. I guess the tire was too young to have blown because they only charge me $18 to replace it. Yay! But I would have to wait an hour. Boo! I rushed out of the house so quickly I didn't bring any reading material. Dang. What to do, what to do.
Hmm, nothing at the food court tempts me. It is so nice outside I decide to walk around the strip mall to see if there is a yogurt place or something interesting to look at. Tried Hobby Town. No, I don't need a premade paper mache horse set for $44.95, nor do I want to build a model car. I know, Pier 1 has fun things to look at. I trek on over to the store and step inside. I almost let out a blood-curdling scream! The horror of it all!! No, it isn't a mechanical Halloween monster. It is a store completely filled with...Christmas decor! I nearly vomit a combo pizza. I stumble back out the door and turn swiftly back to Costco.
By the time I get back I have really worked up an appetite. I see people chewing so I know there must be samples somewhere nearby. Yes! Stuffing Bread. Don't ask me what it's made of but it tastes like heaven. Brazilia Cheesy Bread. Ooh, baby. Prime Beef Roast in Gravy. Soo savory. Hot dogs in canned chili. Ick. Skip that one. I'm not that desperate.
So now that I've tracked down all the free food, what to do, what to do. Well I need a new cell phone. Let's see what they have to offer. On the way to the kiosk I notice a toilet with the lid open and thought, "Hope no one thinks THAT'S a demo." Hip cell phone dude is nice enough but not that interested in me because I am looking for the cheapo phone. Well that killed 5 minutes.
I know! I remember seeing some really comfy chairs recently. I can pick out an interesting book and curl up in a comfy chair for the rest of the time. Let's see, political book, political book, Geisha girl book, tattoo girl book, political book. Nothing looks appealing. Ooh, cookbooks - real possibility. Wait! Learn American Sign Language. Yes! I can learn, oh, probably 20 words in the time I have. I grab the book and head for the "lounge" section. Where are the comfy chairs? The stuffed couches? The backyard swings? Apparently since Christmas is imminently around the corner, all the furniture was replaced with toys and giant tacky lawn decorations. (Don't worry, I'm not talking about YOUR lawn decorations. I'm sure they are very tasteful and understated.)
There! There's a bench. Oh, it's a piano bench to an electric keyboard. Hey, it's on. What can I play? Virtually nothing without sheet music, and even then, my kids would probably pay me not to play. Well, I used to know The Peanuts theme song by heart. I plunk around for a few minutes before I realize I've even forgotten that. So much for my repertoire. Since it is the only seat I see in the whole store, I just set up the sign language book on the piano and study it. I am actually too embarrassed to practice the signs lest someone I know see me and wonder why I am sitting at a keyboard in Costco in the toy section waving my hands around my face. Okay, nailed it! I can sign "good, bad, movie, me, us, the letter K and 21." However, if actually put to the test I might accidentally say something like, "The tribe has spoken." Wouldn't that be embarrassing.
Now that I'm an accomplished signer I'm bored. I stand up to get a different book when I run into a friend. After a few minutes I can tell she's trying to get away but I'm grasping at things to ask so she won't leave me alone where Ebony and Ivory live together in perfect harmony side by side on my piano keyboard, oh Lord, why don't we? Sigh.
I meander back to the book section by way of Pendleton boots (ooh soft), and Calvin Klein denim shirt (so fashion). They had a large display of Jesus Calling books by Sarah Young, including Jesus Always and Jesus Today, daily devotional books. I open Jesus Today and look for today's date, October 22. This one, however, isn't set up that way. Instead, I randomly open to page 76 and catch my breath. The subject is "worry," the very thing that has kept me up nights for the last month. It says, "If you think about certain things at the wrong time - for example, when you're lying in bed - it's all too easy to start worrying about them. Instead...you can interrupt anxious thoughts and change the subject." Then it goes on to tell you to redirect your thoughts, and the best direction is toward God by expressing your trust in Him. Last Sunday I listened to a man speak about living day by day and being thankful for every one. This man is and has been undergoing unbelievable trials and yet is joyful. He said, "Live for today and leave the future to God."
While I'm still standing in front of the books mulling over these thoughts, my phone rings: the truck is ready. My adventure has come to a close. Though it wasn't how I planned to spend my afternoon, apparently I needed to read that page. So thank you, honey, for having a flat tire. I think I'll go practice the piano now...without sign language.
Friday, February 23, 2018
Why The Olympics Make Me Fat
My family would call me a TV snob. I generally feel that TV watching is not a productive use of one's time. I make an exception for my favorite show, Jeopardy, because I feel like it's informative and educational, and Wheel of Fortune, because I have to boost my ego back up after being trounced by 22-year-old prodigies. Other than that, I may watch the news while cooking dinner.
But oh, the Olympics. I am fascinated by these people who are so dedicated to their sport and training, and love to see the product of that determination. Of course, I'm not really impressed with all of them. You know what I'm talking about. As Jimmy Fallon gave the real descriptions of Olympic sports, curling is really just aggressive janitoring. I don't deny it takes skill, but if it takes athleticism, I'm an athletic mopper.
Most nights I make Bill tired just by watching my constant activity, but here I am, hour after hour, night after night, sitting on the couch watching TV. I have always been a stickler for eating dinner at the dining room table, but because many of the events happen during dinner time we have set up TV trays -- TV trays!!! -- in front of our little dual recliner love seat. I guess we are officially old fuddy duddies. Next thing you know we'll be ordering denture cream and adult diapers from Walmart by the caseload (nothing wrong with that, I just want to keep pretending I'm younger than I am).
Now because I'm not used to sitting for hours on end, I keep looking for reasons to get up and move, or something to do besides just sit here and use my eyeballs. I need to move more body parts than that. You'd think that calisthenics or something healthy would occur to me. Not so. Instead, my new Olympic sport is snacking! That uses my mouth, my hands, and my stomach, and takes good hand-eye coordination. I have to be VERY careful not to drop any crumbs on my new couch while keeping my eyes firmly set on the TV. That would be a penalty and I'd be sent to the penalty box (uncomfortable chair).
How many different snacks can I find and consume in 5 hours of spectating? Let me tell you, I've become a professional at Combine. I can power through newly discovered but forgotten Christmas peanut butter balls from the freezer and THEN slalom my way through Boom Chicka Pop kettle corn, knocking all those stray kernels off the couch. What about Ice Cream Cross? Don't cross me, buddy, or I'll send your scoop flying off the mountain, uh, bowl. Figure skating? My figure is fast becoming a Sally-cow with a family-sized bag of puffy Cheetos. I can get my HEART rate up by snarfing leftover Valentine chocolate while going for the Gold -- covered chocolate coins, that is. I wonder if other Olympians suffer from couch sores? I guess it's just all part of the training, and thankfully I have my trusty trainer sitting next to me.
Adding to all this Olympic-sized indulgence is the snow fall and chilly weather we have had all week. The roaring fire and cozy sweats have encouraged my sloth and scarf attitude. No figure-fitting spanx for me. Loose sweats and slippers are my uni and I wear it proud. Go USA!
But oh, the Olympics. I am fascinated by these people who are so dedicated to their sport and training, and love to see the product of that determination. Of course, I'm not really impressed with all of them. You know what I'm talking about. As Jimmy Fallon gave the real descriptions of Olympic sports, curling is really just aggressive janitoring. I don't deny it takes skill, but if it takes athleticism, I'm an athletic mopper.
Most nights I make Bill tired just by watching my constant activity, but here I am, hour after hour, night after night, sitting on the couch watching TV. I have always been a stickler for eating dinner at the dining room table, but because many of the events happen during dinner time we have set up TV trays -- TV trays!!! -- in front of our little dual recliner love seat. I guess we are officially old fuddy duddies. Next thing you know we'll be ordering denture cream and adult diapers from Walmart by the caseload (nothing wrong with that, I just want to keep pretending I'm younger than I am).
Now because I'm not used to sitting for hours on end, I keep looking for reasons to get up and move, or something to do besides just sit here and use my eyeballs. I need to move more body parts than that. You'd think that calisthenics or something healthy would occur to me. Not so. Instead, my new Olympic sport is snacking! That uses my mouth, my hands, and my stomach, and takes good hand-eye coordination. I have to be VERY careful not to drop any crumbs on my new couch while keeping my eyes firmly set on the TV. That would be a penalty and I'd be sent to the penalty box (uncomfortable chair).
How many different snacks can I find and consume in 5 hours of spectating? Let me tell you, I've become a professional at Combine. I can power through newly discovered but forgotten Christmas peanut butter balls from the freezer and THEN slalom my way through Boom Chicka Pop kettle corn, knocking all those stray kernels off the couch. What about Ice Cream Cross? Don't cross me, buddy, or I'll send your scoop flying off the mountain, uh, bowl. Figure skating? My figure is fast becoming a Sally-cow with a family-sized bag of puffy Cheetos. I can get my HEART rate up by snarfing leftover Valentine chocolate while going for the Gold -- covered chocolate coins, that is. I wonder if other Olympians suffer from couch sores? I guess it's just all part of the training, and thankfully I have my trusty trainer sitting next to me.
Adding to all this Olympic-sized indulgence is the snow fall and chilly weather we have had all week. The roaring fire and cozy sweats have encouraged my sloth and scarf attitude. No figure-fitting spanx for me. Loose sweats and slippers are my uni and I wear it proud. Go USA!
 |
| Olympic snacking in action |
Thursday, October 26, 2017
Obscenity in October
Clearing the Courts
I know it's not like me to use obscenities in my blog, so even the word - obscenity - seems kind of out of place. And that's the whole point. Out of place.
Today, October 24, I was in Penneys looking for the escalator when I encountered tables upon tables and racks upon racks of Nutcrackers, Christmas ornaments, snow globes, reindeer, and other similar trappings just across the aisle from Halloween costumes. I stopped short, balled my hands into fists, counted to 10 and moved on. On the inside, however, I was envisioning myself swiping my arms across whole display tables and sending the offending items flying with a throaty growl, upending racks of ornaments and watching them shatter into tiny red, green and gold shards with a self-righteous roar. "Just like Jesus turning over the money changers' tables in the temple courts," I thought. Hm, let's compare stories.
When it was almost time for the Jewish Passover, Jesus went up to Jerusalem. In the temple courts he found men selling cattle, sheep and doves, and others sitting at tables exchanging money. So he made a whip out of cords, and drove all from the temple area, both sheep and cattle; he scattered the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. To those who sold doves he said, "Get these out of here! How dare you turn my Father's house into a market!" John 2:13-16.
Okay, so other than the fact that they both had to do with holy days (holidays) and overturning tables, not really a good comparison. But the daydream was satisfying nevertheless. Not as much as actually carrying it out, of course, but then I would have been tased and arrested by Mall Cop, shoppers would be filming me and posting on social media, it would go viral, and my children's lives would be ruined. Still...what fun it would be.
Really, even more ridiculous than this was seeing fully lit up, 8' Christmas trees in Costco in August. I actually filled out complaint forms. Twice. But only because the checkers told me to.
I've had a rule in my house since the kids were old enough to ask that Christmas music or movies may NOT be played until after Thanksgiving dinner is done and dishes are washed. Violators will be subject to a time out room with Jingle Bells sung by Elmo playing on a loop. Of course no one dared violate it.
So even though I see red (no pun intended) when commercial Christmas is prematurely sprung in the stores, I will admit that I purchase gifts all year. I do have two absolutely solid excuses that save me from hypocrite-dom.
1. From November 24 to January 14 there are also 6 birthdays between our kids and spouse. If I didn't pace myself we would go broke.
2. When I see a bargain I have to buy it then and there. It's culturally required. Alright, now we're getting into tricky territory here, explaining why the Jewish girl is finding bargains on Christmas gifts. That's a story for another day. Maybe when I start seeing dreidels in the stores.
I know it's not like me to use obscenities in my blog, so even the word - obscenity - seems kind of out of place. And that's the whole point. Out of place.
Today, October 24, I was in Penneys looking for the escalator when I encountered tables upon tables and racks upon racks of Nutcrackers, Christmas ornaments, snow globes, reindeer, and other similar trappings just across the aisle from Halloween costumes. I stopped short, balled my hands into fists, counted to 10 and moved on. On the inside, however, I was envisioning myself swiping my arms across whole display tables and sending the offending items flying with a throaty growl, upending racks of ornaments and watching them shatter into tiny red, green and gold shards with a self-righteous roar. "Just like Jesus turning over the money changers' tables in the temple courts," I thought. Hm, let's compare stories.
When it was almost time for the Jewish Passover, Jesus went up to Jerusalem. In the temple courts he found men selling cattle, sheep and doves, and others sitting at tables exchanging money. So he made a whip out of cords, and drove all from the temple area, both sheep and cattle; he scattered the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. To those who sold doves he said, "Get these out of here! How dare you turn my Father's house into a market!" John 2:13-16.
Okay, so other than the fact that they both had to do with holy days (holidays) and overturning tables, not really a good comparison. But the daydream was satisfying nevertheless. Not as much as actually carrying it out, of course, but then I would have been tased and arrested by Mall Cop, shoppers would be filming me and posting on social media, it would go viral, and my children's lives would be ruined. Still...what fun it would be.
Really, even more ridiculous than this was seeing fully lit up, 8' Christmas trees in Costco in August. I actually filled out complaint forms. Twice. But only because the checkers told me to.
I've had a rule in my house since the kids were old enough to ask that Christmas music or movies may NOT be played until after Thanksgiving dinner is done and dishes are washed. Violators will be subject to a time out room with Jingle Bells sung by Elmo playing on a loop. Of course no one dared violate it.
So even though I see red (no pun intended) when commercial Christmas is prematurely sprung in the stores, I will admit that I purchase gifts all year. I do have two absolutely solid excuses that save me from hypocrite-dom.
1. From November 24 to January 14 there are also 6 birthdays between our kids and spouse. If I didn't pace myself we would go broke.
2. When I see a bargain I have to buy it then and there. It's culturally required. Alright, now we're getting into tricky territory here, explaining why the Jewish girl is finding bargains on Christmas gifts. That's a story for another day. Maybe when I start seeing dreidels in the stores.
Saturday, June 24, 2017
Closure
Memory Lane is Full of Potholes and Roses
I'm one of those people who, if I had a slide projector, would bore you to pieces with slides of my child's T-ball game, trip to Disneyland or latest surgically removed dermatologic flaw found upon my body. I LOVE looking at how things were, what we looked like, and what talented/fun/warty people we are.
I recall with embarrassment how I subjected my dad to videos of my infant child waving her limbs and cooing under her Sesame Street activity gym. Surely no other child had ever been so clever, limber and adorable. He had come all the way from California to visit us in person, for goodness sake, and I sat him down in front of the TV to watch the baby's fascinating conversation with plastic Big Bird, Bert and Ernie as a 3-month-old. Thankfully he quickly started nodding off and I got the hint.
I'm extremely sentimental. Unfortunately my sentimentality includes baggage: the inclination to tear up at Lassie shows, collecting, and the complete inability to throw anything away that dear [fill in the blank] gave me for my birthday, something that was passed down or something that "I might need someday." Let me reassure you that if you gave me something for my birthday or Christmas, I still have it. Well most likely. I've had to shed a few things or I would soon be featured on that hoarders show. But really, I truly cherish whatever you gave me. I did swear off garage sales when we moved the last time. I was so disgusted with the sheer volume of crap I had accumulated.
Now, however, we have just cleaned out my mother's and stepfather's house up in the Sierras. It was a simple but beautiful place, uniquely suited to their personalities and relationship. They were...eccentric, to put it nicely. Artists. I never knew growing up that most people did not have kitchen cupboards in 4 colors - turquoise, hot pink, orange and green. Or that other mothers didn't wear only 3 colors for decades at a time (black, red and white, then later green, blue and purple).
One room of the house was their art studio, and one was their dance studio. They loved to dance. This room had a lovely wood dance floor, mirrored doors, a disco ball and colored lights. I kid you not. They tried many different kinds of dance and I imagine danced the night away with great joy and abandon. Dang it! I'm tearing up again.
Moving on, it was in a gated community just outside of Yosemite on a lake. I have very sweet memories of spending time up there. Therefore, being there without my mom and her laughter just felt like eating the ice cream cone after the whole scoop fell on the ground. Have you ever seen a child burst into tears when that happens? That's me.
I wanted to cling to any scrap of memorabilia to bring home to pass down to my children, whether they wanted it or not.
*Here I will admit something extremely embarrassing from my junior high years so get ready. There was a hunky guy who lived near my best friends who was 3 years older than us. When they told me where he lived I made them walk by his house so I could stalk him. One time I grabbed leaves from his bushes in front of his house and actually kept them in my keepsake box. For years. I can even picture exactly what this "special hedge" looked like. Pitiful and...so strange. It's not like he touched those bushes or they were scented with his cologne. The young teen mind is a hormonally deranged thing.*
Okay, back to present day where I'm still clingy but not desperately creepy. It's a good thing that we had only a pickup truck and utility trailer to bring these items home. If I had brought everything I wanted home we would have needed the 40' U-haul. My stepsister had tried to arrange for someone to come in and do an estate sale. The seller declared the booty insufficient to be worth her while. I started calling local charities to see if one of them might come pick everything up. And when I say local, I mean within 50 miles. This is remote mining country. Remember the phrase, "There's gold in them thar hills!" Well them thar hills are hard to get to and not well-populated. I hit the jackpot on the third call with Mother Lode Christian School Thrift Store about 35 miles away. For you city folks, "Lode" is not a Catholic nun.
They quickly agreed to come the next morning and haul everything away, including what was nailed down! They were thrilled to get needed items for fundraising, and we were thrilled to have someone take it so we could go home. In any case, I'm glad that I don't have to visit the house again without my mom's presence. That was a huge blessing.
And then there was one more. The rock there is made up of colorful strata of reds, browns and grays and is shale-like in consistency. When we were leaving Bill took a few for our garden. I was also looking to see if I could see a nice one. Right by the bottom step to the front door I saw this rock that I had never noticed before and was very unlike the others.
The fish is not drawn on. It's a white vein through the rock. As I placed the rock in the car and climbed in the front seat I was reminded of Hebrews 13:5, "Never will I leave you. Never will I forsake you." And this time they were tears of joy.
P.S. I took that disco ball and colored lights and you can bet I'm going to shake my groove thang under them.
I'm one of those people who, if I had a slide projector, would bore you to pieces with slides of my child's T-ball game, trip to Disneyland or latest surgically removed dermatologic flaw found upon my body. I LOVE looking at how things were, what we looked like, and what talented/fun/warty people we are.
I recall with embarrassment how I subjected my dad to videos of my infant child waving her limbs and cooing under her Sesame Street activity gym. Surely no other child had ever been so clever, limber and adorable. He had come all the way from California to visit us in person, for goodness sake, and I sat him down in front of the TV to watch the baby's fascinating conversation with plastic Big Bird, Bert and Ernie as a 3-month-old. Thankfully he quickly started nodding off and I got the hint.
I'm extremely sentimental. Unfortunately my sentimentality includes baggage: the inclination to tear up at Lassie shows, collecting, and the complete inability to throw anything away that dear [fill in the blank] gave me for my birthday, something that was passed down or something that "I might need someday." Let me reassure you that if you gave me something for my birthday or Christmas, I still have it. Well most likely. I've had to shed a few things or I would soon be featured on that hoarders show. But really, I truly cherish whatever you gave me. I did swear off garage sales when we moved the last time. I was so disgusted with the sheer volume of crap I had accumulated.
Now, however, we have just cleaned out my mother's and stepfather's house up in the Sierras. It was a simple but beautiful place, uniquely suited to their personalities and relationship. They were...eccentric, to put it nicely. Artists. I never knew growing up that most people did not have kitchen cupboards in 4 colors - turquoise, hot pink, orange and green. Or that other mothers didn't wear only 3 colors for decades at a time (black, red and white, then later green, blue and purple).
One room of the house was their art studio, and one was their dance studio. They loved to dance. This room had a lovely wood dance floor, mirrored doors, a disco ball and colored lights. I kid you not. They tried many different kinds of dance and I imagine danced the night away with great joy and abandon. Dang it! I'm tearing up again.
Moving on, it was in a gated community just outside of Yosemite on a lake. I have very sweet memories of spending time up there. Therefore, being there without my mom and her laughter just felt like eating the ice cream cone after the whole scoop fell on the ground. Have you ever seen a child burst into tears when that happens? That's me.
I wanted to cling to any scrap of memorabilia to bring home to pass down to my children, whether they wanted it or not.
*Here I will admit something extremely embarrassing from my junior high years so get ready. There was a hunky guy who lived near my best friends who was 3 years older than us. When they told me where he lived I made them walk by his house so I could stalk him. One time I grabbed leaves from his bushes in front of his house and actually kept them in my keepsake box. For years. I can even picture exactly what this "special hedge" looked like. Pitiful and...so strange. It's not like he touched those bushes or they were scented with his cologne. The young teen mind is a hormonally deranged thing.*
Okay, back to present day where I'm still clingy but not desperately creepy. It's a good thing that we had only a pickup truck and utility trailer to bring these items home. If I had brought everything I wanted home we would have needed the 40' U-haul. My stepsister had tried to arrange for someone to come in and do an estate sale. The seller declared the booty insufficient to be worth her while. I started calling local charities to see if one of them might come pick everything up. And when I say local, I mean within 50 miles. This is remote mining country. Remember the phrase, "There's gold in them thar hills!" Well them thar hills are hard to get to and not well-populated. I hit the jackpot on the third call with Mother Lode Christian School Thrift Store about 35 miles away. For you city folks, "Lode" is not a Catholic nun.
They quickly agreed to come the next morning and haul everything away, including what was nailed down! They were thrilled to get needed items for fundraising, and we were thrilled to have someone take it so we could go home. In any case, I'm glad that I don't have to visit the house again without my mom's presence. That was a huge blessing.
And then there was one more. The rock there is made up of colorful strata of reds, browns and grays and is shale-like in consistency. When we were leaving Bill took a few for our garden. I was also looking to see if I could see a nice one. Right by the bottom step to the front door I saw this rock that I had never noticed before and was very unlike the others.
The fish is not drawn on. It's a white vein through the rock. As I placed the rock in the car and climbed in the front seat I was reminded of Hebrews 13:5, "Never will I leave you. Never will I forsake you." And this time they were tears of joy.
P.S. I took that disco ball and colored lights and you can bet I'm going to shake my groove thang under them.
Wednesday, May 17, 2017
Wherefore art thou, Sunnyo?
Is there a Spring in your step?
So far there is mostly a gush as I stomp through another puddle of mud to complete my farm chores. There's no springing back from that. One time I stepped one foot into the neighbor's field to retrieve a golf ball and almost didn't get my foot back. My boot was immediately sucked into the quagmire.
There have been little whispers of spring. A 65 degree day here, a 72 degree there in between days of drizzle and leaden skies and outright gales with sideways slashing rain. We even had thunderstorm warnings last week. They actually interrupted our regularly scheduled program (Jeopardy, no less, of all the nerve!) to give us a warning of thunderstorms in the area, complete with that annoying warning buzz. What was the warning supposed to do for us? Stop watching TV outside 'cause you might get struck by lightning? Clearly the weather warning dude has never been to Florida. Personally, I love a good thunderstorm, but Florida storms can make even the bravest person whimper.
Oregonians clearly can't handle anything other than warm and sunny or rainy. When it snows just the littlest of dusting all schools close down. And apparently when it thunders we are to batten down the hatches or periscope down or something that requires protecting ourselves from lightning.
What comes after two days of rain in Oregon? Monday.
Have you heard of the four seasons in Oregon? They are Almost Winter, Winter, Still Winter and Construction.
A tiny, lone yellow rose has blossomed on our miniature roses, but in a week we will have hundreds of blossoms in coral, red, pink and white. The strawberry plants are covered in white blossoms and little green cherries are filling out the cherry branches. As the mud starts to dry out and the grass fills in, I will stroll barefoot through our little piece of land going from plant to plant to admire its progress with a spring in my step.
So far there is mostly a gush as I stomp through another puddle of mud to complete my farm chores. There's no springing back from that. One time I stepped one foot into the neighbor's field to retrieve a golf ball and almost didn't get my foot back. My boot was immediately sucked into the quagmire.
There have been little whispers of spring. A 65 degree day here, a 72 degree there in between days of drizzle and leaden skies and outright gales with sideways slashing rain. We even had thunderstorm warnings last week. They actually interrupted our regularly scheduled program (Jeopardy, no less, of all the nerve!) to give us a warning of thunderstorms in the area, complete with that annoying warning buzz. What was the warning supposed to do for us? Stop watching TV outside 'cause you might get struck by lightning? Clearly the weather warning dude has never been to Florida. Personally, I love a good thunderstorm, but Florida storms can make even the bravest person whimper.
Oregonians clearly can't handle anything other than warm and sunny or rainy. When it snows just the littlest of dusting all schools close down. And apparently when it thunders we are to batten down the hatches or periscope down or something that requires protecting ourselves from lightning.
What comes after two days of rain in Oregon? Monday.
Have you heard of the four seasons in Oregon? They are Almost Winter, Winter, Still Winter and Construction.
Still...I love Oregon. I will take the green over brown any day, even though that includes green moss, green mold and green mildew. My sweet hubby could see I was growing moss in between my toes and whisked me off to Las Vegas for my very first time to find some sunshine. Find it we did and I was happy to absorb the rays by the pool, but what I found interesting were all the facades that the casinos created to try to look like real waterfalls and plants and animals. I thought, all I have to do is walk out my door or drive to the river or ocean or woods and I can see these things the way God created them, not the way Metro, Goldwyn or Mayer did.
 |
| An Oregon lake |
 |
| A Las Vegas "waterfall" |
Wednesday, December 21, 2016
The Flash Ain't No Superhero
Emergency Exit
I recently flew on an airplane in the emergency exit row and thought to myself, this is a dangerous place for a menopausal woman to be. Why, do you ask? Well gather round, children, while I tell you the story of the hormonally deranged mind that has developed in my Clairol honey-brown colored head.Now I don't claim to speak for all 50-something women, but let me describe to you the progression of my particular brand of hot flash. First I just notice I feel uncomfortable. So my first thought is, "I must be hungry!" A few seconds later heat starts to work its way to my face, neck, and feet. I then realize it's a hot flash. I determine how many items of clothing I can decently strip off knowing that the heat will work it's way to the rest of my body. This is, of course, determined by my surroundings. Church, grocery store or other public area: Coat and sweater. Friend's home with mixed company: Sweater and shoes. Good friend's home with all girls: Sweater, shoes, socks and outer shirt if I'm wearing a tank top. Home: Whatever is necessary. UPS man and door-to-door evangelists beware. Side note: I've taken to wearing zip-up sweatshirts almost exclusively to avoid the overhead disrobing muffin top reveal and hair mussing.
Moving on, the next necessary action after stripping off the most possible clothing is finding a fan to fan my neck area where I am sure I have spontaneously combusted. I keep an actual hand fan on my desk given to me by my thoughtful brother and sister-in-law, but any piece of paper will do. My church bulletin works nicely as do checkbooks, newspapers or as a last resort, fast food napkins. If at home I usually have a slow dance with the fridge door with my face pressed lovingly against the butter compartment door. Heavenly. Once while checking out at the grocery store I started flashing (heat, not trench coat creepiness) and held each cold item up to my cheek before placing it on the belt. After nuzzling each and every item I turned to see a young man behind me in line looking frightened at the kook in front of him. I lamely said, "I'm really hot."
If anyone touches me during this firestorm, woe to him for I become a fire-breathing dragon. The thought of someone else adding even a nanometric degree of heat just about sends me over the volcanic edge. My poor hubby has born the brunt of too many, "Don't touch me!" barks.
After 2 to 3 minutes the heat starts subsiding and my sanity slowly seeps back in. Even though I now know that I wasn't uncomfortable because of hunger, I've already sent the cows out to graze and there's no getting them back until the fat lady sings, uh, I mean until they come home.
There you have it. I experience those 4 to 12 times per day, 2 to 4 times per night, every day and every night for the last 2 3/4 years.*
Back to the emergency exit row. As I was sitting there and had one of my hot flashes, I looked longingly at the "Pull" lever and thought of the lovely cool air that would wash over my face when I pulled it. It was tempting, oh so tempting. Thankfully I still retain a little bit of sanity and besides, I didn't want to mess up my hair.
While I was writing this I had 2 hot flashes and ate chicken 'n' dumplings and Christmas cookies.
*When I injured my back I got a 3-week hiatus from hot flashes. They slowly returned until they were up to full speed ahead again.
Tuesday, December 20, 2016
Interlude
The Sound of Silence
I've been silent for 3 months because of the tragic death of a stellar young man and friend in our community. I couldn't bring myself to prattle superficially when words of profound comfort were needed. I also couldn't bring myself to write about the loss because it's not my pain to own. Mine is a stubbed toe compared to the avalanche of pain that has buried his family. I pray for them to reach a little closer to the surface every day.I'm Back
If you read my previous blog you may be wondering if my back is better. Healed? No. Functioning at a reduced capacity? Yes. I've returned to teaching 2 dance cardio classes a week and lifting 50 lb feed bags (though verrrry cautiously). I don't have constant pain, but I'm reminded of my injury every day with twinges and tightness.I'm reminded daily to find my satisfaction in God because I can't just do what I want when I want.
Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,
that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
for as many years as we have seen trouble. Psalm 90:14-15
Monday, August 8, 2016
Desperado
Ouch
I blame my pastor. Is that the opposite of saying, "The devil made me do it?" Okay, let me back up.
I woke up Sunday morning with a bit of a sore back, but nothing out of the ordinary for this quickly deteriorating body. However, after church I made a poor decision to dig out compost from the great pile 'o' poop in the goat pen Sunday afternoon. I came in very sore and suddenly unable to put my pants on. It was exacerbated throughout the day until I was a complete invalid, shrieking in pain at any movement that involved my spine. I have never experienced pain like this. Even the most basic of human needs, using the bathroom, became a journey of exquisite torture.
After 48 hours on my back in bed I was incrementally better - well enough to sit up on the couch. However, the littlest of movements still caused sharp pain, so not only did Bill have to help me with my activities of daily living (medical jargon for feeding, clothing and bathing oneself), but he also had to pick up all my chores. These included caring for goats, chickens and cat and all the tender plants we had just planted, plus picking ripening fruit. And don't forget my daily chore of nagging the son. I would've needed a megaphone to do that from my bed.
Since I have been unable to bend down for anything, I actually have gotten quite dexterous at using my toes. These are my newly acquired pedally-motored skills: sorting laundry, picking up clothes off the floor, petting the cat, pulling out the dishwasher rack, pulling weeds, and even texting!
So, back to my initial statement. I blame my pastor because of the sermon he gave that morning. It was innocently enough titled, "The Filling of the Holy Spirit 2." (I missed Holy Spirit 1 so I couldn't tell you what it was about, but if it was directed by J.J. Abrams I'm sure it was a blockbuster.) The premise was that receiving the Holy Spirit at the point of salvation was not the same as being filled with the Spirit. Then he gave the steps to being filled:
1. Repent in regard to Jesus (if you haven't already).
2. Repent in regard to sin: renounce your sin and indulgences. Turn away from them.
3. Be obedient - marked by surrender.
4. Desire more. We must be unsatisfied before God will satisfy us, and here's the kicker - we must be desperate before God can fill us.
It's that word, "desperate," I blame him for. I've never felt more desperate than I have lying on my back, totally helpless to even roll over without excruciating pain. Desperate to make the pain go away. Desperate to get up and take a hot shower. Desperate to take care of myself. Desperate to walk outside. Desperate to have my body functioning at the normal frantic pace I keep. Desperate to do what I want to do. That's the point, isn't it? Sometimes God needs to yank the rug out from under us to drag our attention away from ourselves. And I landed flat on my back.
One of my biggest frustrations with injuries is having to stop my usual exercise. Not only do I hate to have my muscles atrophy, but I was also teaching two dance cardio classes a week and about to start a third. I have to admit that I obsess about my body in an unhealthy way. I read these verses this morning:
"Have nothing to do with godless myths and old wives' tales; rather, train yourself to be godly. For physical training is of some value, but godliness has value for all things, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come." 1 Timothy 4:7-8
What? You mean focus on eternal things rather than superficial? But it's so much easier to focus on what is in front of me. Something we always say at our house is, "Better a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy." And going back to #4, there's that part about being unsatisfied so God can fill us. Remember that refrain that moms everywhere tell their kids? "Don't fill up on junk before dinner!" Why? Because we want them to be filled with the good stuff that will give them energy, help them grow and be healthy. We want them to come to the table unsatisfied so we can satisfy their hunger in a way that is best for them and their future.
Bear with me while I take this analogy a little further. Imagine mom (June) does not warn child (Dick) to wait for dinner. Dick eats two Ding Dongs and a bowl of Captain Crunch one hour before dinner. June sets a lovely dinner before Dick containing the 4 Food Groups (I was raised in the 70s, y'all), and he just picks at it and eats a little. Is Dick satisfied? Sure. But the sugary food will leave him short of what he needs to grow and be healthy, and increase their dental bill to boot. If he had waited until dinner time, he would have been desperate for food and eaten all he needed.
Eight Weeks Later...
It has been 8 weeks since the injury and I thought by now I would have some pat, clever and sagely witty ending to this story. Alas, I don't. I still sit here with mostly bearable twinges of pain, unsure how to progress physically, and awaiting a spiritual lightning bolt that would rouse choruses of Praise the Lord! Until then, my prayer will be this from Psalm 90:14-15:
Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,
that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
for as many years as we have seen trouble.
I blame my pastor. Is that the opposite of saying, "The devil made me do it?" Okay, let me back up.
I woke up Sunday morning with a bit of a sore back, but nothing out of the ordinary for this quickly deteriorating body. However, after church I made a poor decision to dig out compost from the great pile 'o' poop in the goat pen Sunday afternoon. I came in very sore and suddenly unable to put my pants on. It was exacerbated throughout the day until I was a complete invalid, shrieking in pain at any movement that involved my spine. I have never experienced pain like this. Even the most basic of human needs, using the bathroom, became a journey of exquisite torture.
After 48 hours on my back in bed I was incrementally better - well enough to sit up on the couch. However, the littlest of movements still caused sharp pain, so not only did Bill have to help me with my activities of daily living (medical jargon for feeding, clothing and bathing oneself), but he also had to pick up all my chores. These included caring for goats, chickens and cat and all the tender plants we had just planted, plus picking ripening fruit. And don't forget my daily chore of nagging the son. I would've needed a megaphone to do that from my bed.
Since I have been unable to bend down for anything, I actually have gotten quite dexterous at using my toes. These are my newly acquired pedally-motored skills: sorting laundry, picking up clothes off the floor, petting the cat, pulling out the dishwasher rack, pulling weeds, and even texting!
So, back to my initial statement. I blame my pastor because of the sermon he gave that morning. It was innocently enough titled, "The Filling of the Holy Spirit 2." (I missed Holy Spirit 1 so I couldn't tell you what it was about, but if it was directed by J.J. Abrams I'm sure it was a blockbuster.) The premise was that receiving the Holy Spirit at the point of salvation was not the same as being filled with the Spirit. Then he gave the steps to being filled:
1. Repent in regard to Jesus (if you haven't already).
2. Repent in regard to sin: renounce your sin and indulgences. Turn away from them.
3. Be obedient - marked by surrender.
4. Desire more. We must be unsatisfied before God will satisfy us, and here's the kicker - we must be desperate before God can fill us.
It's that word, "desperate," I blame him for. I've never felt more desperate than I have lying on my back, totally helpless to even roll over without excruciating pain. Desperate to make the pain go away. Desperate to get up and take a hot shower. Desperate to take care of myself. Desperate to walk outside. Desperate to have my body functioning at the normal frantic pace I keep. Desperate to do what I want to do. That's the point, isn't it? Sometimes God needs to yank the rug out from under us to drag our attention away from ourselves. And I landed flat on my back.
One of my biggest frustrations with injuries is having to stop my usual exercise. Not only do I hate to have my muscles atrophy, but I was also teaching two dance cardio classes a week and about to start a third. I have to admit that I obsess about my body in an unhealthy way. I read these verses this morning:
"Have nothing to do with godless myths and old wives' tales; rather, train yourself to be godly. For physical training is of some value, but godliness has value for all things, holding promise for both the present life and the life to come." 1 Timothy 4:7-8
What? You mean focus on eternal things rather than superficial? But it's so much easier to focus on what is in front of me. Something we always say at our house is, "Better a bottle in front of me than a frontal lobotomy." And going back to #4, there's that part about being unsatisfied so God can fill us. Remember that refrain that moms everywhere tell their kids? "Don't fill up on junk before dinner!" Why? Because we want them to be filled with the good stuff that will give them energy, help them grow and be healthy. We want them to come to the table unsatisfied so we can satisfy their hunger in a way that is best for them and their future.
Bear with me while I take this analogy a little further. Imagine mom (June) does not warn child (Dick) to wait for dinner. Dick eats two Ding Dongs and a bowl of Captain Crunch one hour before dinner. June sets a lovely dinner before Dick containing the 4 Food Groups (I was raised in the 70s, y'all), and he just picks at it and eats a little. Is Dick satisfied? Sure. But the sugary food will leave him short of what he needs to grow and be healthy, and increase their dental bill to boot. If he had waited until dinner time, he would have been desperate for food and eaten all he needed.
Eight Weeks Later...
It has been 8 weeks since the injury and I thought by now I would have some pat, clever and sagely witty ending to this story. Alas, I don't. I still sit here with mostly bearable twinges of pain, unsure how to progress physically, and awaiting a spiritual lightning bolt that would rouse choruses of Praise the Lord! Until then, my prayer will be this from Psalm 90:14-15:
Satisfy us in the morning with your unfailing love,
that we may sing for joy and be glad all our days.
Make us glad for as many days as you have afflicted us,
for as many years as we have seen trouble.
Monday, June 13, 2016
Call Me Old Fashioned
Ma Bell
Remember the good ol' days when there were operators sitting at a large console counting, "One ringy dingy, two ringy dingy?" Okay, I don't either, but I do remember dialing 7 numbers to call my friends, and it stunk if they had a lot of 9s and 0s in their numbers because if your finger slipped you had to start all over again. And in every teenage-infested American household could be heard some form of this plea: "Get off the phone!" (Many with an added expletive to emphasize their exasperation.) You see, young ones, only one person in each household could be on the phone at one time. I know, an impossible scenario to imagine but it's true. So if there were 3 or more girls per house, there would be some serious cat fighting for phone time. Nowadays you can insult your sister by text in the next room while sending cute pics of yourself to your boyfriend and scan your Likes on Facebook all at the same time. What progress!
These telephonic ponderings were brought on by a call to our phone/internet/cable carrier to try to lower our bill. Everything is "bundled" these days for a "lower price," so I was wondering what our cost would be if we eliminated our land line. I admit that I'm attached to it like an umbilical lifeline. I can't imagine my house without the phone hooked up to actual cables that attach to our house. I have many good reasons why we should keep it.
1. In case of emergency, we know it doesn't have to be charged so it will always be there.
2. We've had this number for 14 years so if someone we haven't seen in a long time decides to try to get ahold of us they have the same number.
3. If everyone got rid of their land lines then there could be no more thrillers in which the bad guy cuts the phone lines so the poor helpless inhabitant can freak out. And remember When A Stranger Calls? Only the best thriller ever. At least for those of us who ever babysat.
4. It gives the telemarketers someone to torture.
So despite my fear of progress, I posed the question. The young man -- I'll call him Melvin -- informed me I could cut $12 off my bill by going to a "basic" phone that allowed for free incoming calls and 5 cents a minute for all outgoing calls in Oregon.
Me: That sounds good. How much for calls outside of Oregon?
Mel: I don't know.
Me: Uh, that's not going to do it for me. I need to know how much I'll be charged to use my phone.
Mel: Uhhh...
Me: Can you perhaps ask someone?
Mel: Okay.
10 minutes later...
Mel: So it looks like all outgoing calls are 5 cents a minute, I think.
Me: You think?
Mel: Yeah.
Me: (Sigh), okay. Let's do it. But before that can you tell me why my bill went up to $121?
Mel: I show that the last bill you paid was $119.
Me: Okay, well I can't find that one. All I know is for February and March I was charged $121.
Mel: So you want to pay $2.00 more?
Me: No, I want to know why I was charged $2.00 more.
Mel: I don't know. I can only see your last bill.
Me: But surely you have the information somewhere. I mean, you are my telephone and internet company and you specialize in communication, right?
Mel: I'm sorry, ma'am but I can only see this one bill. But I don't understand, do you want to pay $2.00 more?
Me: Nevermind. Thanks.
See how far we've come!
Remember the good ol' days when there were operators sitting at a large console counting, "One ringy dingy, two ringy dingy?" Okay, I don't either, but I do remember dialing 7 numbers to call my friends, and it stunk if they had a lot of 9s and 0s in their numbers because if your finger slipped you had to start all over again. And in every teenage-infested American household could be heard some form of this plea: "Get off the phone!" (Many with an added expletive to emphasize their exasperation.) You see, young ones, only one person in each household could be on the phone at one time. I know, an impossible scenario to imagine but it's true. So if there were 3 or more girls per house, there would be some serious cat fighting for phone time. Nowadays you can insult your sister by text in the next room while sending cute pics of yourself to your boyfriend and scan your Likes on Facebook all at the same time. What progress!
These telephonic ponderings were brought on by a call to our phone/internet/cable carrier to try to lower our bill. Everything is "bundled" these days for a "lower price," so I was wondering what our cost would be if we eliminated our land line. I admit that I'm attached to it like an umbilical lifeline. I can't imagine my house without the phone hooked up to actual cables that attach to our house. I have many good reasons why we should keep it.
1. In case of emergency, we know it doesn't have to be charged so it will always be there.
2. We've had this number for 14 years so if someone we haven't seen in a long time decides to try to get ahold of us they have the same number.
3. If everyone got rid of their land lines then there could be no more thrillers in which the bad guy cuts the phone lines so the poor helpless inhabitant can freak out. And remember When A Stranger Calls? Only the best thriller ever. At least for those of us who ever babysat.
4. It gives the telemarketers someone to torture.
So despite my fear of progress, I posed the question. The young man -- I'll call him Melvin -- informed me I could cut $12 off my bill by going to a "basic" phone that allowed for free incoming calls and 5 cents a minute for all outgoing calls in Oregon.
Me: That sounds good. How much for calls outside of Oregon?
Mel: I don't know.
Me: Uh, that's not going to do it for me. I need to know how much I'll be charged to use my phone.
Mel: Uhhh...
Me: Can you perhaps ask someone?
Mel: Okay.
10 minutes later...
Mel: So it looks like all outgoing calls are 5 cents a minute, I think.
Me: You think?
Mel: Yeah.
Me: (Sigh), okay. Let's do it. But before that can you tell me why my bill went up to $121?
Mel: I show that the last bill you paid was $119.
Me: Okay, well I can't find that one. All I know is for February and March I was charged $121.
Mel: So you want to pay $2.00 more?
Me: No, I want to know why I was charged $2.00 more.
Mel: I don't know. I can only see your last bill.
Me: But surely you have the information somewhere. I mean, you are my telephone and internet company and you specialize in communication, right?
Mel: I'm sorry, ma'am but I can only see this one bill. But I don't understand, do you want to pay $2.00 more?
Me: Nevermind. Thanks.
See how far we've come!
Monday, May 30, 2016
Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
All My Chickens
After two months of nonreality, I'm back in my own reality show, Fake Farmer. Thankfully there are no actual cameras following me around. If so, they would catch me talking to my animals, singing hymns while I dig in the dirt, and stomping around in my black rubber boots and shorts so old and ugly, Bill would burn them in a second if he could. Top that off with a stretched out, stained tank top and a yellow headband, circa 1973, to hold my mop of hair out of my face. Woo-eee, what a babe. Of course, no one would watch anyway. The only dirt stirred up around here is in the garden. Well, there was the one scandalous time...no I couldn't...well, okay. You see, Maren the hen had a thing going with Richard the Rooster. They had a nice little love nest. However, when Maren was busy sitting on the eggs, Richard started ANOTHER love nest with Hueva. But Hueva actually had a love chick with the neighbor's rooster, Robert. The feathers really hit the fan in Cooperstown. And don't even get me started on Henny's evil twin, Penny.
The Curse
So as I was toiling outside in my foxy outfit, I started thinking about Genesis Chapter 3 in which God hands out the three curses after the big hoo-ha in the Garden of Eden (hoo-ha being original sin and the fall of man). First, the serpent loses his legs and has to eat the dust of the earth. Second, Eve is told, "I will greatly increase your pains in childbearing; with pain you will give birth to children." Gen 3:16. Third, Adam is told, "Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat of it all the days of your life. It will produce thorns and thistles for you and you will eat the plants of the field. By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food...." Gen. 3:17b-19a.
So I understand first-hand the women's curse, having had the privilege of delivering two babies. My husband will even tell you that I was cursing Eve while delivering my pumpkin-headed, barrel-chested boy. You get the picture. I'm really not being facetious when I say it was a privilege. If given the chance, I would do it again in a second, but it did hurt. Sooo, why then, when I garden do I have to deal with thorns, thistles, sweat on my brow, etc.? That was the man's curse. I mean you don't see men suffering while we deliver babies. Okay, I'll give you the preceding 9 months of crankiness, irrational tears and the oft-uttered question that husbands fear the most, "Do I look fat?", may inflict a little grief, but come on, that's not fair.
I have found that there's a pest and disease for everything I grow, and somehow it finds its way to my little plot of land. Even when I lived in the suburbs and had a tiny raised bed garden, green worms managed to find my little broccoli plant and camp out there and gross me out. Out of all the millions of broccoli plants in the world, why mine?
A current case in point. I had planted strawberries when we first moved here, but when I went to pick them, there was a bite out of 75% of them by either a slug or a rolly polly bug (these are not as cute and innocent as they seem). I finally gave up on them. So two years ago I asked Bill to build me a raised bed strawberry garden to help combat the slugs. I bought 100 fresh and new strawberry plants, ordered from a reputable garden company. It has worked. For slugs, anyway. However, the first season they developed a fungus which causes the leaves to turn brown and dry up. Even worse, the fruit becomes mummified. I have tried to combat it with hydrogen peroxide, and even copper this winter, but it hasn't worked. Besides the fungus, there are also ants building little condos underneath the plants so when they come up for air they have a nice little buffet spread out before them. They will nibble the bottom of any strawberry touching the dirt. This year, to add insult to injury, I also have to contend with bird attacks and spit bugs. What is a spit bug, you ask? Disgusting. That's what it is. They leave blobs of spit all over the plant. When I picked the first crop my arm was slimed all over.
And now the birds are not content with attacking my blueberries and cherries. They come in like stealth bombers and destroy previously lovely red berries, leaving a blood red path of destruction.
Yes, I do still get to enjoy many delicious berries, but it is certainly by painful back toil and the sweat of my brow (and the slime of my arm).
Proverbs 14:23 says, "In all toil there is profit, but mere talk tends only to poverty." I guess I better stop complaining and get to work, especially in light of Proverbs 21:19, "Better to live in a desert than with a quarrelsome and ill-tempered wife." Bill has been dreaming of Palm Springs an awful lot lately...
After two months of nonreality, I'm back in my own reality show, Fake Farmer. Thankfully there are no actual cameras following me around. If so, they would catch me talking to my animals, singing hymns while I dig in the dirt, and stomping around in my black rubber boots and shorts so old and ugly, Bill would burn them in a second if he could. Top that off with a stretched out, stained tank top and a yellow headband, circa 1973, to hold my mop of hair out of my face. Woo-eee, what a babe. Of course, no one would watch anyway. The only dirt stirred up around here is in the garden. Well, there was the one scandalous time...no I couldn't...well, okay. You see, Maren the hen had a thing going with Richard the Rooster. They had a nice little love nest. However, when Maren was busy sitting on the eggs, Richard started ANOTHER love nest with Hueva. But Hueva actually had a love chick with the neighbor's rooster, Robert. The feathers really hit the fan in Cooperstown. And don't even get me started on Henny's evil twin, Penny.
The Curse
So as I was toiling outside in my foxy outfit, I started thinking about Genesis Chapter 3 in which God hands out the three curses after the big hoo-ha in the Garden of Eden (hoo-ha being original sin and the fall of man). First, the serpent loses his legs and has to eat the dust of the earth. Second, Eve is told, "I will greatly increase your pains in childbearing; with pain you will give birth to children." Gen 3:16. Third, Adam is told, "Cursed is the ground because of you; through painful toil you will eat of it all the days of your life. It will produce thorns and thistles for you and you will eat the plants of the field. By the sweat of your brow you will eat your food...." Gen. 3:17b-19a.
So I understand first-hand the women's curse, having had the privilege of delivering two babies. My husband will even tell you that I was cursing Eve while delivering my pumpkin-headed, barrel-chested boy. You get the picture. I'm really not being facetious when I say it was a privilege. If given the chance, I would do it again in a second, but it did hurt. Sooo, why then, when I garden do I have to deal with thorns, thistles, sweat on my brow, etc.? That was the man's curse. I mean you don't see men suffering while we deliver babies. Okay, I'll give you the preceding 9 months of crankiness, irrational tears and the oft-uttered question that husbands fear the most, "Do I look fat?", may inflict a little grief, but come on, that's not fair.
I have found that there's a pest and disease for everything I grow, and somehow it finds its way to my little plot of land. Even when I lived in the suburbs and had a tiny raised bed garden, green worms managed to find my little broccoli plant and camp out there and gross me out. Out of all the millions of broccoli plants in the world, why mine?
A current case in point. I had planted strawberries when we first moved here, but when I went to pick them, there was a bite out of 75% of them by either a slug or a rolly polly bug (these are not as cute and innocent as they seem). I finally gave up on them. So two years ago I asked Bill to build me a raised bed strawberry garden to help combat the slugs. I bought 100 fresh and new strawberry plants, ordered from a reputable garden company. It has worked. For slugs, anyway. However, the first season they developed a fungus which causes the leaves to turn brown and dry up. Even worse, the fruit becomes mummified. I have tried to combat it with hydrogen peroxide, and even copper this winter, but it hasn't worked. Besides the fungus, there are also ants building little condos underneath the plants so when they come up for air they have a nice little buffet spread out before them. They will nibble the bottom of any strawberry touching the dirt. This year, to add insult to injury, I also have to contend with bird attacks and spit bugs. What is a spit bug, you ask? Disgusting. That's what it is. They leave blobs of spit all over the plant. When I picked the first crop my arm was slimed all over.
And now the birds are not content with attacking my blueberries and cherries. They come in like stealth bombers and destroy previously lovely red berries, leaving a blood red path of destruction.
Yes, I do still get to enjoy many delicious berries, but it is certainly by painful back toil and the sweat of my brow (and the slime of my arm).
Proverbs 14:23 says, "In all toil there is profit, but mere talk tends only to poverty." I guess I better stop complaining and get to work, especially in light of Proverbs 21:19, "Better to live in a desert than with a quarrelsome and ill-tempered wife." Bill has been dreaming of Palm Springs an awful lot lately...
Friday, May 13, 2016
Beach Bum
After 26 days on the road, we wisely planned a one month recovery period - at the beach. Balboa Island, Newport Beach specifically. We chose this spot for several reasons:
1. We love the beach.
2. It's our daughter's last track season and we could catch the last 3 meets of her career.
3. We love the beach.
4. Our youngest son is here also.
5. We love the beach.
6. We found a great place to stay on Balboa Island.
7. We have lots of friends and family in the area.
8. Did I mention we love the beach?
We decided this vacation would be a combination track-meet-watching, socializing, and early 25th anniversary trip. That's how we justified the cost, anyway. I first heard of Balboa Island last year when we were living in Fullerton and a group of women from church had a lunch outing here.
Fun Facts about Balboa Island: It has a perimeter of 2.6 miles, is 21 blocks long and 5 blocks wide. It's a man-made island that was dredged and filled right before World War I. The average dress size of the female island resident is 4. Okay, I didn't find that last fact in the museum, but it was arrived at by deductive reasoning. We go for a walk every day, and so do many of the residents. That's where the similarities end. These women all wear form-fitting leggings or yoga pants and tops. These are not the loose-fitting, spare-tire-hiding tops I've come to wear. There are no rolls to hide on their Pilate-perfect forms. And I'm not just talking about 20 to 30-somethings. I'm talking women in their 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, and I daresay 80s with perfect figures. The only cottage cheese on this island is in the grocery store. I don't know how they do it. Maybe there's a Stepford Wives thing going on here...
We rented the top floor of a cute little house that was plenty roomy for us. Things were a little outdated, however. For example, the microwave was probably made when thongs were something you wore with bellbottoms - on your feet.
Though we were on vacation, daily exercise was a must. Because you know, we're health nuts. And, um, it helped us to rationalize frequent consumption of Balboa Bars, a gorgeous concoction of a square of vanilla ice cream on a stick, enrobed in chocolate something-or-other and rolled in your choice of toppings. Chopped almonds and Heath Bar (not to be confused with health bar) for me, and peanuts and Choco-Jimmies for hubby. How anyone would prefer little plasticky sprinkle things over chopped up toffee and chocolate is beyond my comprehension. Oh, and there were also chocolate-dipped frozen bananas, also rolled in toppings. I could never work there because I'd be dipping my finger in chocolate and rolling it in all the possible topping combinations daily. You know, like a scientific study.
So here we are riding our bikes to Corona Del Mar. That was a fun ride until we got to the steep, steep hill that made my pedals freeze in mid-rotation so that I had to jump off and walk or fall over from lack of forward progression.
Other times we took our bikes on the ferry and rode up and down Newport Beach.
Then there was the walking. The unfortunate thing about walking around Balboa Island is you can't look out at the beauty of the harbor too much or you risk stepping in the residue of their most pampered residents. It was beautiful, but you had to constantly look down for land mines. Yes, they dutifully carried their plastic bags, but when the dog does the doo on the concrete, the doo goo leaves residue. Hey, that brings out the Dr. Seuss in me: It's true that I eschew the doo when the view is the hue of blue and there's a crew in a canoe on the Pacific stew. I knew that the residue of the doo leaves a booboo like glue in which few can stand the piu. Therefore, this Jew grew to pursue the steps without the curlicue of doo.
Okay, got that out of my system. Back to those pampered residents. I actually saw a dog riding in a basket with a purple dress and matching purple, flower-shaped sunglasses. I wonder if she picked out her own outfit using the helpful Garanimals tags.
One other form of exercise that we tried 3 times was paddleboarding. I've been wanting to try it for a while. The problem is, I have this irrational fear of water, especially large bodies of water. For instance, bigger than a kiddie pool and deeper than my height. Knee-trembling fear made my forays on the water more challenging, but I eventually calmed down enough to paddle around and have a good time. Of course, knowing my husband is an excellent swimmer and would save me if I fell in gave me more confidence too. Eat your heart out, David Hasselhoff.
So that was our wonderful, relaxing, fun-filled, chocolate-covered beach house vacation.
Blessings:
1. The landlords were super nice and invited us to stay for free when we come back for graduation, and even pick us up at the airport.
2. We were able to spend time with many friends and family members.
3. We had great weather.
4. We were able to be there for our son's premiere and our daughter's track finals (where she finished with a flourish).
5. My man.
1. We love the beach.
2. It's our daughter's last track season and we could catch the last 3 meets of her career.
3. We love the beach.
4. Our youngest son is here also.
5. We love the beach.
6. We found a great place to stay on Balboa Island.
7. We have lots of friends and family in the area.
8. Did I mention we love the beach?
We decided this vacation would be a combination track-meet-watching, socializing, and early 25th anniversary trip. That's how we justified the cost, anyway. I first heard of Balboa Island last year when we were living in Fullerton and a group of women from church had a lunch outing here.
Fun Facts about Balboa Island: It has a perimeter of 2.6 miles, is 21 blocks long and 5 blocks wide. It's a man-made island that was dredged and filled right before World War I. The average dress size of the female island resident is 4. Okay, I didn't find that last fact in the museum, but it was arrived at by deductive reasoning. We go for a walk every day, and so do many of the residents. That's where the similarities end. These women all wear form-fitting leggings or yoga pants and tops. These are not the loose-fitting, spare-tire-hiding tops I've come to wear. There are no rolls to hide on their Pilate-perfect forms. And I'm not just talking about 20 to 30-somethings. I'm talking women in their 40s, 50s, 60s, 70s, and I daresay 80s with perfect figures. The only cottage cheese on this island is in the grocery store. I don't know how they do it. Maybe there's a Stepford Wives thing going on here...
We rented the top floor of a cute little house that was plenty roomy for us. Things were a little outdated, however. For example, the microwave was probably made when thongs were something you wore with bellbottoms - on your feet.
 |
| We were welcomed with a nice hospitality gift |
So here we are riding our bikes to Corona Del Mar. That was a fun ride until we got to the steep, steep hill that made my pedals freeze in mid-rotation so that I had to jump off and walk or fall over from lack of forward progression.
 |
| 3 B days: Backpack chairs on bikes to beach |
Other times we took our bikes on the ferry and rode up and down Newport Beach.
 |
| Standing on the jetty on Corona Del Mar |
Okay, got that out of my system. Back to those pampered residents. I actually saw a dog riding in a basket with a purple dress and matching purple, flower-shaped sunglasses. I wonder if she picked out her own outfit using the helpful Garanimals tags.
 |
| My favorite man in front of one of my favorite houses |
 |
| We never tired of looking out at the harbor |
One other form of exercise that we tried 3 times was paddleboarding. I've been wanting to try it for a while. The problem is, I have this irrational fear of water, especially large bodies of water. For instance, bigger than a kiddie pool and deeper than my height. Knee-trembling fear made my forays on the water more challenging, but I eventually calmed down enough to paddle around and have a good time. Of course, knowing my husband is an excellent swimmer and would save me if I fell in gave me more confidence too. Eat your heart out, David Hasselhoff.
So that was our wonderful, relaxing, fun-filled, chocolate-covered beach house vacation.
Blessings:
1. The landlords were super nice and invited us to stay for free when we come back for graduation, and even pick us up at the airport.
2. We were able to spend time with many friends and family members.
3. We had great weather.
4. We were able to be there for our son's premiere and our daughter's track finals (where she finished with a flourish).
5. My man.
Saturday, April 23, 2016
Road Trip: Conclusion
The Professor and Mary Ann
As their popularity increased, their agents must have had enough leverage to get the Gilligan's Island theme song revised to finally include their characters rather than "and the rest." Likewise, I remembered a noteworthy stop in Georgia, a lovely state that I too quickly dismissed as just another state to traverse as expeditiously as possible. Bill, being a golf nut, had to stop in Augusta to peek at the Masters golf course. And peek was all he got. We drove entirely around the golf course before figuring out there was one tiny little opening that was not hidden, gated or barb-wired. He parked the car across the street and walked over with dad-in-law to get the chance to tiptoe on hallowed ground and capture this sojourn on film.There was a security guard in plain site in his booth right at the opening who cheerfully greeted my husband. Bill stared awestruck at Magnolia Lane. Dad-in-law wanted to get a better picture for Bill by walking down Magnolia Lane and taking a picture from the other end. After taking about 3 steps past the guard shack and unable to hear warnings, an unseen police officer sprinted out from the golf version of NORAD and almost tackled this 85-year-old saboteur to quell the threat. Augusta National Golf Club raises exclusive to a new level.
After zipping through GA and AL, we stopped in Vicksburg, MS because Bill is a Civil War buff. I was sobered by this huge park dedicated to the memory and history of the siege that turned the war to the Union army's advantage. Almost 20,000 Americans were killed or wounded during the campaign and 47 day siege.
From Mississippi we sashayed through the corner of Louisiana and returned to Arkansas to see a long lost nephew of Bill's. The reunion was sweet.
These Boots are Made for Walking
We then returned to Ft. Worth to kick our heels up, pull ourselves up by the bootstraps, wait till the cows come home, and all that cowboy stuff. I spent another great evening with my Cohen cuz and her family, then got up early to ride my longhorn to the Justin boot factory. |
| Just ignore those steps. I really leapt onto it. |
 |
There was nuth-ing in sight. No people, no cows, no sheep, no armadillos - dead or alive (which, by the way, I was very disappointed not to see). I thought it might be a candid camera gag. Or bored residents who would get a good laugh out of watching people stop at a red light in the middle of miles and miles of nothingness. We sat there. Cars started piling up behind us. Suddenly a big dirt hauling truck barreled past us blatantly ignoring the red light. We sat there. Another dirt truck barreled by. We sat there. Another dirt truck drove past, and then a few people behind us who were tired of this twisted joke. But like good law-abiding citizens, we sat there. Finally after about 20 minutes a small pilot truck was seen in the distance kicking up dust. He led a long line of cars toward us and then finally we got to follow him out of no-man's land time out. I never did see the light turn green, though.
I guess they were repaving the road because when we arrived at our hotel, our entire car, including the bikes on the back were repaved too. It looked like crazed monkeys had flung beige mashed potatoes all over and under our car.
The Stats
Over 8000 miles traveled.13 different states.
4 relatives reunited.
2 boat tours.
2 ostentatious house tours.
1 sweet experience
Blessings:
- We thought we had a good plan. God had a better plan.
- Our truck broke down the first day of the trip and we were able to regroup.
- We avoided almost all the bad weather.
- Our hotel angel made our lodging very affordable and very comfortable.
- Visits with loved ones spread far and wide.
- In-laws that I like and love and who put up with me.
- Husband that I love even more.
"Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, to him be glory in the church and in Christ Jesus throughout all generations, for ever and ever! Amen." Ephesians 3:20-21
Friday, April 8, 2016
Road Trip: Chapter VI
Charleston, y'all
Ever since I saw Gone With The Wind when I was about 11 I've wanted to see a plantation. I also wished I had a charming accent so I could make one syllable words into two. "Oh Ray-ett, I do declay-uh!" We did visit Boone Hall plantation in Mt. Pleasant, but I was disappointed because it didn't look exactly like Tara, although the tree-lined drive was perfect.
Of course the sad part of plantations is that their very existence thrived and depended on the whipped backs of slaves. We spent a good deal of time going through slave row as well.
Bimbo Bisque
Part of our travel experience always involves sampling local specialties. Our tour book said we MUST try she-crab soup, shrimp and grits (gree-its) and Huguenot torte. So try we must! We scored all three with a good recommendation to Fleet Landing right on the water in Charleston. The shrimp and grits were good, but the she-crab soup and Huguenot torte were amazing. The torte wasn't really a torte, nor was it Huguenot, but when you're stuffing warm apples and pecans and sugar and rich vanilla ice cream into your mouth, who really cares? Now if I were to have a soup that comes from girl crabs only, I would name it Bimbo Bisque just so I could have a good laugh every time someone ordered it. Go ahead, try it and keep a straight face.
And the rest...
We took another boat tour, this time of the Charleston Harbor, including Fort Sumter. Don't know why, but they love to brag that they started the war. Speaking of tours, remember when the Gilligan's Island theme song totally dissed the Professor and Mary Ann by saying, "And the rest"? Well I'm not trying to dis Georgia or Alabama, but we just drove through them too quickly to glean anything noteworthy about those fine states. Besides, I didn't see any machinery made entirely out of bamboo and coconuts.
Blessings:
Good food with good company.
Beautiful weather in Charleston.
We came back from our "3 hour tour."
Ever since I saw Gone With The Wind when I was about 11 I've wanted to see a plantation. I also wished I had a charming accent so I could make one syllable words into two. "Oh Ray-ett, I do declay-uh!" We did visit Boone Hall plantation in Mt. Pleasant, but I was disappointed because it didn't look exactly like Tara, although the tree-lined drive was perfect.
If you haven't seen the movie you have to watch it. Then watch Carol Burnett in her spoof, "Went With The Wind." One of my favorite sketches.
Bimbo Bisque
Part of our travel experience always involves sampling local specialties. Our tour book said we MUST try she-crab soup, shrimp and grits (gree-its) and Huguenot torte. So try we must! We scored all three with a good recommendation to Fleet Landing right on the water in Charleston. The shrimp and grits were good, but the she-crab soup and Huguenot torte were amazing. The torte wasn't really a torte, nor was it Huguenot, but when you're stuffing warm apples and pecans and sugar and rich vanilla ice cream into your mouth, who really cares? Now if I were to have a soup that comes from girl crabs only, I would name it Bimbo Bisque just so I could have a good laugh every time someone ordered it. Go ahead, try it and keep a straight face.
And the rest...
We took another boat tour, this time of the Charleston Harbor, including Fort Sumter. Don't know why, but they love to brag that they started the war. Speaking of tours, remember when the Gilligan's Island theme song totally dissed the Professor and Mary Ann by saying, "And the rest"? Well I'm not trying to dis Georgia or Alabama, but we just drove through them too quickly to glean anything noteworthy about those fine states. Besides, I didn't see any machinery made entirely out of bamboo and coconuts.
Blessings:
Good food with good company.
Beautiful weather in Charleston.
We came back from our "3 hour tour."
Monday, March 28, 2016
Road Trip: Chapter V
Beautiful Babies
If there were a climax to our trip, it was our stop in Maryland to see children and grandchildren. It was also the turn-around point. Bill's parents had not yet met the youngest one and hadn't seen the other one since she was a wee bairn. She's still just a tater tot but with more personality and expression than a Disney sitcom and a whole lot cuter. You'll have to take my word for it or look on my Facebook page. I've graduated from "Grandpa Jo" to "Grandma Jo" since we last saw them. Besides good company and good food, we also enjoyed a snow fall from the comfort of their house. It was a brisk morning but clear roads on our way out of town.
The Next Ville
So as I was walking into a truck stop "super" store for the umpteenth time for a pit stop, I was trying to remember which state it was that I saw the silliest sign I've ever seen in a bathroom stall. There was a hook on the door, as women expect, but with a plaque underneath that said, "Hang purse here." I was thinking, "What on earth else would you do with a hook on the back of a bathroom stall?" Hang your baby by his overalls? That would keep him from peeking under the stall at others or touching things on the floor too scary to describe! Genius! Honestly, I don't think they give Arkansas women enough credit.
Back to the car: From North Potomac, MD we made a bee line (well a drunken bee line because there was no straight shot over the mountains) for Asheville. There we spent a very enjoyable evening with a cousin from the Potter side of my family. I've always considered myself very Cohen-y looking so I was quite surprised when I looked at this picture and saw how Potter-y I look. What do you think?
Asheville's main attraction is an 8000 acre estate built by George Vanderbilt in 1895. Since the weather was not conducive to strolling through downtown or hiking, this was about our only choice. It's not that I didn't want to see it, but the entrance fee was outrageous. Bill and I forked over not just an arm and a leg but some vital organs too for the privilege. It was beautiful and impressive. The most fun we had was imagining life through the eyes of Downton Abbey fans - us. The house was set up similarly to Highclere Castle and the lifestyle seemed to fit the same era.
Blessings:
Healthy children and grandchildren.
Reuniting with my Potter cousin and family.
Purse/baby hangers in bathrooms.
If there were a climax to our trip, it was our stop in Maryland to see children and grandchildren. It was also the turn-around point. Bill's parents had not yet met the youngest one and hadn't seen the other one since she was a wee bairn. She's still just a tater tot but with more personality and expression than a Disney sitcom and a whole lot cuter. You'll have to take my word for it or look on my Facebook page. I've graduated from "Grandpa Jo" to "Grandma Jo" since we last saw them. Besides good company and good food, we also enjoyed a snow fall from the comfort of their house. It was a brisk morning but clear roads on our way out of town.
The Next Ville
So as I was walking into a truck stop "super" store for the umpteenth time for a pit stop, I was trying to remember which state it was that I saw the silliest sign I've ever seen in a bathroom stall. There was a hook on the door, as women expect, but with a plaque underneath that said, "Hang purse here." I was thinking, "What on earth else would you do with a hook on the back of a bathroom stall?" Hang your baby by his overalls? That would keep him from peeking under the stall at others or touching things on the floor too scary to describe! Genius! Honestly, I don't think they give Arkansas women enough credit.
Back to the car: From North Potomac, MD we made a bee line (well a drunken bee line because there was no straight shot over the mountains) for Asheville. There we spent a very enjoyable evening with a cousin from the Potter side of my family. I've always considered myself very Cohen-y looking so I was quite surprised when I looked at this picture and saw how Potter-y I look. What do you think?
 |
| Biltmore Estate |
Blessings:
Healthy children and grandchildren.
Reuniting with my Potter cousin and family.
Purse/baby hangers in bathrooms.
Wednesday, March 23, 2016
Road Trip: Chapter IV
The Star of Texas
“If I owned Texas and Hell, I would rent out Texas and live in Hell”
― Philip Henry Sheridan, Union General
Don't get me wrong, I love Texas and Texans, but after driving 600 miles through west Texas, I can picture condos popping up on Lucifer Lane. Notably, every little town we passed, no matter how small, boasted a Dairy Queen and a Walmart. There's a contrast between heaven and hell for me right there. Who knew the spiritual battles going on between El Paso and Ft. Worth?
The highlight of our brief stay in Ft. Worth was reuniting with one of my 3 Cohen cousins after 44 years. I know precious little about my Cohen genealogy because my dad parceled out words more stingily than Trump doles out tact.
I hope to see her again and more of Ft. Worth on the way back.
Elvis is in the House
Even though I only remember Elvis as a bedazzled polyester, onesie-wearing entertainer, I've always wanted to see Graceland. That was my priority for Memphis. We all enjoyed a history-narrated river cruise on the "Miz-sippi" and a stroll down blues central Beale Street. Since I was the only one willing to shell out for the tour I was going to go alone while the others chilled in the hotel, but my sweet husband felt sorry for me and tagged along. He was very glad he did because it was very impressive and fun, and even ran into an Elvis impersonator who made the yearly pilgrimage to Graceland with pious dedication.
The highlights for Nashville were BBQ, music and accents, y'all. The driver of the free golf cart taxi asked me "Do y'all have a dogue?" A what? "A dogue." Then whips out his phone while driving and scrolls through his pictures to show me his dogue. A white terrier. Our regular taxi ride ended up costing more than we planned since my phone fell out of my purse when I got out and had to pay another fare for him to bring it back. My phone has now taken a plane ride and taxi ride by itself. I will need to guard it closely on my next cruise as I refuse to send my phone on the Love Boat by itself.
Blessings:
Seeing my cousin.
I got my phone back within the hour.
I don't own Texas OR hell.
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Road Trip: Chapter III
Possibilities
Peyton Manning said: "I’m totally convinced that the end of my football career is just the beginning of something I haven’t even discovered yet. Life is not shrinking for me, it’s morphing into a whole new world of possibilities." I realize that retiring a travel trailer is not as significant as retiring a career, but for my in-laws, it is the end of a camping era in their lives, which spills over into our lives, as well, not only on this trip but in the future. I believe I speak for their 8 children, spouses, 21 grandchildren, and 13 great-grandchildren that we have spent many happy days sitting around the campfire, playing cards, hiking and just generally enjoying their company and generosity. May this new chapter in their lives bring possibilities and not shrinkage.
But I didn't Inhale
Enough sap. Since we had to part with the truck and trailer, titles had to be found and obtained in order to part with them legally and financially. Due to wonderful neighbors, the pink slips were found and dutifully shipped through UPS at an exorbitant price in order to arrive by 10:30 the next morning. We were driving 8 hours to Carlsbad, New Mexico and had to leave at a decent hour. We carefully instructed the sender to put mother-in-law's name and our specific camping space number on the package, as well as the address of the resort, who assured us they would accept packages for us.
Around 10:30 the menfolk went to the office to see if the package had arrived. The silly girl posing as a helpful employee informed them the package had arrived not 10 minutes ago but she refused it because father-in-law's name wasn't on it. Understand that when we checked in they carefully recorded all four of our names in the computer, as well as wrote out name badges that we were required to wear at all times (we didn't need no stinkin' badges, but they didn't listen). Since Bill had a brief stint as a man in brown, he knew UPS protocol was to attempt delivery at the space first, then the office if no one was there. Plus, he also knew that the desk clerk could call the driver back since he wouldn't be far away. She promised she would and would give the driver Bill's phone number. The driver never called.
Through many phone calls in which I had to put on my bossy pants voice to get them to understand how important it was that we get it NOW and not in 4 more hours as they offered, we finally arranged to meet the driver "very close to where we were," which turned out to be 15 miles away in the wrong direction of where we were going. Bill and the driver stepped into the Walgreen's parking lot with fingers itching to draw. They assumed the stance, eyed each other, then Bill took the first shot.
Bill: I worked for UPS before and I know the protocol is to deliver to the site first.
Driver (with a rude attitude): There wasn't a site number on it.
Bill: It says 3-155 on it.
Driver (Calling his assistant in for back-up and butt coverage): Bring me the package. (Looks at package). Oh, it is on there. Well we had a bad morning.
Kablam!
No apology, no admittance of guilt. That reminds me of a famous line from Bill Clinton:
"When I was in England, I experimented with marijuana a time or two, and I didn't like it. I didn't inhale and never tried it again." –TWO times, but didn't inhale. When we later asked for a refund of our express package fee, the driver told his superiors that there was no site number on it, therefore we didn't qualify. Didn't these people watch Little Rascals? Don't they know that lies always come back to bite you?
Moving On
Guess where we are now? Texas is too big to be the end of a blog. Next installment: Elvis is in the house.
Blessings:
A little angel is helping us with affordable hoteling.
Still have not gotten rained on despite thunderstorms and flooding around us.
Chalupa-free beds.
Peyton Manning said: "I’m totally convinced that the end of my football career is just the beginning of something I haven’t even discovered yet. Life is not shrinking for me, it’s morphing into a whole new world of possibilities." I realize that retiring a travel trailer is not as significant as retiring a career, but for my in-laws, it is the end of a camping era in their lives, which spills over into our lives, as well, not only on this trip but in the future. I believe I speak for their 8 children, spouses, 21 grandchildren, and 13 great-grandchildren that we have spent many happy days sitting around the campfire, playing cards, hiking and just generally enjoying their company and generosity. May this new chapter in their lives bring possibilities and not shrinkage.
But I didn't Inhale
Enough sap. Since we had to part with the truck and trailer, titles had to be found and obtained in order to part with them legally and financially. Due to wonderful neighbors, the pink slips were found and dutifully shipped through UPS at an exorbitant price in order to arrive by 10:30 the next morning. We were driving 8 hours to Carlsbad, New Mexico and had to leave at a decent hour. We carefully instructed the sender to put mother-in-law's name and our specific camping space number on the package, as well as the address of the resort, who assured us they would accept packages for us.
Around 10:30 the menfolk went to the office to see if the package had arrived. The silly girl posing as a helpful employee informed them the package had arrived not 10 minutes ago but she refused it because father-in-law's name wasn't on it. Understand that when we checked in they carefully recorded all four of our names in the computer, as well as wrote out name badges that we were required to wear at all times (we didn't need no stinkin' badges, but they didn't listen). Since Bill had a brief stint as a man in brown, he knew UPS protocol was to attempt delivery at the space first, then the office if no one was there. Plus, he also knew that the desk clerk could call the driver back since he wouldn't be far away. She promised she would and would give the driver Bill's phone number. The driver never called.
Through many phone calls in which I had to put on my bossy pants voice to get them to understand how important it was that we get it NOW and not in 4 more hours as they offered, we finally arranged to meet the driver "very close to where we were," which turned out to be 15 miles away in the wrong direction of where we were going. Bill and the driver stepped into the Walgreen's parking lot with fingers itching to draw. They assumed the stance, eyed each other, then Bill took the first shot.
Bill: I worked for UPS before and I know the protocol is to deliver to the site first.
Driver (with a rude attitude): There wasn't a site number on it.
Bill: It says 3-155 on it.
Driver (Calling his assistant in for back-up and butt coverage): Bring me the package. (Looks at package). Oh, it is on there. Well we had a bad morning.
Kablam!
No apology, no admittance of guilt. That reminds me of a famous line from Bill Clinton:
"When I was in England, I experimented with marijuana a time or two, and I didn't like it. I didn't inhale and never tried it again." –TWO times, but didn't inhale. When we later asked for a refund of our express package fee, the driver told his superiors that there was no site number on it, therefore we didn't qualify. Didn't these people watch Little Rascals? Don't they know that lies always come back to bite you?
Moving On
Guess where we are now? Texas is too big to be the end of a blog. Next installment: Elvis is in the house.
Blessings:
A little angel is helping us with affordable hoteling.
Still have not gotten rained on despite thunderstorms and flooding around us.
Chalupa-free beds.
Saturday, March 12, 2016
Road Trip: Chapter II
Plan B
Of all the things I thought could go wrong with this trip, I never envisioned leaving our little traveling home behind. In the words of eloquent poets everywhere, "Whodathunk?" I guess "wrong" isn't the correct word. More like involuntary revision. Kind of like when you write a paper that you think is absolutely amazing, A+ worthy even, and the teacher slashes it in cruel, red ink. It wasn't my plan, but it's a better plan.
How do I know? Well first of all, I just heard that storms have ravaged Texas, Louisiana and Arkansas, the very states we would have journeyed through had we not broken down inside of Arizona. Not just rain, but tornadoes, flooding and torrential rain. I consider what a merciful God we have to have saved us from that situation.
Second, even when a wrench is thrown into my plans and I pout and shuffle my feet and hold a pity party (complete with chocolate cake or Ho-Hos or anything else I feel I "deserve"), I know that God has something better for me.
Now, so much has happened in the last week I believe I will have to break this up into two chapters, rather than give you the whole Megillah. I left you with a cliff hanger...over the Grand Canyon. As all who have seen it can testify, it is breathtaking. The weather, again, praise you Lord, was perfect. It had snowed an hour before we arrived, but when we got up the next morning it was sunny and lovely, and no wind storm as some had predicted.
Of all the things I thought could go wrong with this trip, I never envisioned leaving our little traveling home behind. In the words of eloquent poets everywhere, "Whodathunk?" I guess "wrong" isn't the correct word. More like involuntary revision. Kind of like when you write a paper that you think is absolutely amazing, A+ worthy even, and the teacher slashes it in cruel, red ink. It wasn't my plan, but it's a better plan.
How do I know? Well first of all, I just heard that storms have ravaged Texas, Louisiana and Arkansas, the very states we would have journeyed through had we not broken down inside of Arizona. Not just rain, but tornadoes, flooding and torrential rain. I consider what a merciful God we have to have saved us from that situation.
Second, even when a wrench is thrown into my plans and I pout and shuffle my feet and hold a pity party (complete with chocolate cake or Ho-Hos or anything else I feel I "deserve"), I know that God has something better for me.
Now, so much has happened in the last week I believe I will have to break this up into two chapters, rather than give you the whole Megillah. I left you with a cliff hanger...over the Grand Canyon. As all who have seen it can testify, it is breathtaking. The weather, again, praise you Lord, was perfect. It had snowed an hour before we arrived, but when we got up the next morning it was sunny and lovely, and no wind storm as some had predicted.
 |
| Sunset at Hopi Point |
As mentioned before, we stayed in Williams. It should have been obvious, but the signage was sketchy and we couldn't figure out which way to the Grand Canyon. Some local yokels right out of a John Grisham novel, complete with long stringy hair and a pickup truck saw us studying our maps. I guess the cows had already been tipped, because it was apparently hilarious to back up their truck, rev it, drive right at us, then tip back their heads in guffaws. Back up, repeat. They did this until we decided to drive off. These were not teenagers, people. We then pulled over in a hillbilly-free zone and a nice man pointed the way.
The Fate of the Vehicles
Unfortunately, the truck had to go to the bone yard. At least the very nice man at Ford found us a salvage buyer and my father-in-law eked a few dollars out of it. We had some happenstance encounters with other people at the RV park that we thought would turn into a decent sale price for the 5th wheel, but they didn't come to fruition. In the end, the Ford man hooked us up with the RV man and he took it off our hands, although for half what it was worth. Still, he towed it for us and is generously holding it on consignment.
We will all miss the 5th wheel. It was very nice to have everything within reach and unpacked. However, I will not miss the sleeping arrangements. The first night Bill and I slept on a deflating air mattress on top of a thin sofabed mattress, on top of a stretched out canvas frame. It was like sleeping in a hammock. I had to claw my way up to my side of the bed. We were kind of like a people taco. Except that we're not as skinny as a taco so we were more like a chalupa. What's that new one? A Quesalupa. That was us: hot, fat, sticky chalupa. The next night we brought out a bigger air mattress and put it on the floor. It was more like a tostada - much more comfortable.
I will have to finish the rest of this later, but just know that we celebrated when we left the State of Arizona. In the next chapter...UPS driver from H-E double toothpicks.
Blessings:
Good, even perfect weather.
Helpful and honest car salesman (really!)
We don't live in Williams.
Monday, March 7, 2016
Road Trip: Chapter I
What's All That Smoke?
I promised to try to chronicle my 6,000 mile, 25-day trip from Chandler, AZ to North Potomac, MD and back with the caveat of writing only "if something interesting happens." In the lingo of Emeril Lagasse: "Bam!" First the basics:
Vehicle of transport: One 2002 White Ford 250 pickup truck.
Traveling home: 32' Hitch Hiker II fifth wheel.
Passengers: Me, husband Bill, mother-in-law and father-in-law.
The weather was perfect as my family picked me up from a weekend with high school friends in Chandler, Arizona. Bill had driven our truck down to Palm Springs to play golf with a friend, and the in-laws had driven the 5th wheel to Arizona where they all met up in Williams, left Bill's truck and drove to pick me up. We had driven only about 120 miles on our adventure when the engine suddenly quit and white smoke started pouring out of the exhaust. Thankfully it died just before a freeway exit that boasted a campground. We were 40 miles east of Tucson, the last big city, but thought we might find some help in this little hamlet. The name of said town shall remain nameless to protect the toothless. That's right, the residents we encountered were very nice and somewhat helpful, but just dentally challenged. Because it was a Sunday afternoon, the car repair shops were all closed, and strangely enough there were 3 of them right together. There was some dirt and gravel with "RV Park" posted on it that charged $18 a night.
When we first drove into town we thought we might try to stay at the RV Gravel Park so we limped into the lot, bellowing increasingly black smoke, dripping a black substance, and emitting a burning stench. We realized too late that we had pulled into the wrong lot and were trapped. We called AAA to tow us to the lot next door. After calling them and noting that there were more dogs in town than people, we thought we'd be better off getting towed all the way back to Tucson. My father-in-law was especially wary of having some Jethro work on his truck.
AAA sent Little Doug* of Big Doug's towing. He was a very nice guy and really went out of his way for us. He towed the truck to the Ford dealer in Tucson and said Big Doug would come with a hitch for the 5th wheel. Big Doug showed up after an hour or so and struggled to fit a square peg into a round hole for an hour before he declared he had the wrong kind of hitch and would go get another one. Three hours had passed by then and we were hungry so we ate dinner in our trailer while we waited for Big Doug to return. He didn't. Finally we get a call from Little Doug stating that Big Doug didn't have the right hitch and he would come back with a different truck and tow our camper to Tucson also. He even offered to have his wife drive us in her car so we wouldn't have to ride in the camper while it was being towed. We declined his kind offer.
So me, mom and husband got situated in the camper. Mom sitting at the table, me lying on the couch (with a tummy ache) and Bill sitting at the end of the couch. It was kind of like those cartoons when somebody makes a loud noise and the character lifts off the chair. We fully lifted off the couch several times and dropped back down again. Mom had to put a pillow on the table to pad her descent back to the table.
Five and a half hours after our first call to AAA we were settled into an RV Park back in Tucson. The repair shop is apparently so busy they couldn't even look at our truck today to diagnose the problem, so we decided to upend our trip and go visit the Grand Canyon now instead of at the end of our travels as planned. We rented a car and are poised to visit that big old crack tomorrow, in the snow even!
We spent months and months planning this trip, but as my father-in-law says about planning ahead, "I don't even buy green bananas."
Blessings:
We were safe when the engine died.
The weather was nice.
We know a great place for dentists looking for new patients.
*Name changed
I promised to try to chronicle my 6,000 mile, 25-day trip from Chandler, AZ to North Potomac, MD and back with the caveat of writing only "if something interesting happens." In the lingo of Emeril Lagasse: "Bam!" First the basics:
Vehicle of transport: One 2002 White Ford 250 pickup truck.
Traveling home: 32' Hitch Hiker II fifth wheel.
Passengers: Me, husband Bill, mother-in-law and father-in-law.
The weather was perfect as my family picked me up from a weekend with high school friends in Chandler, Arizona. Bill had driven our truck down to Palm Springs to play golf with a friend, and the in-laws had driven the 5th wheel to Arizona where they all met up in Williams, left Bill's truck and drove to pick me up. We had driven only about 120 miles on our adventure when the engine suddenly quit and white smoke started pouring out of the exhaust. Thankfully it died just before a freeway exit that boasted a campground. We were 40 miles east of Tucson, the last big city, but thought we might find some help in this little hamlet. The name of said town shall remain nameless to protect the toothless. That's right, the residents we encountered were very nice and somewhat helpful, but just dentally challenged. Because it was a Sunday afternoon, the car repair shops were all closed, and strangely enough there were 3 of them right together. There was some dirt and gravel with "RV Park" posted on it that charged $18 a night.
When we first drove into town we thought we might try to stay at the RV Gravel Park so we limped into the lot, bellowing increasingly black smoke, dripping a black substance, and emitting a burning stench. We realized too late that we had pulled into the wrong lot and were trapped. We called AAA to tow us to the lot next door. After calling them and noting that there were more dogs in town than people, we thought we'd be better off getting towed all the way back to Tucson. My father-in-law was especially wary of having some Jethro work on his truck.
AAA sent Little Doug* of Big Doug's towing. He was a very nice guy and really went out of his way for us. He towed the truck to the Ford dealer in Tucson and said Big Doug would come with a hitch for the 5th wheel. Big Doug showed up after an hour or so and struggled to fit a square peg into a round hole for an hour before he declared he had the wrong kind of hitch and would go get another one. Three hours had passed by then and we were hungry so we ate dinner in our trailer while we waited for Big Doug to return. He didn't. Finally we get a call from Little Doug stating that Big Doug didn't have the right hitch and he would come back with a different truck and tow our camper to Tucson also. He even offered to have his wife drive us in her car so we wouldn't have to ride in the camper while it was being towed. We declined his kind offer.
So me, mom and husband got situated in the camper. Mom sitting at the table, me lying on the couch (with a tummy ache) and Bill sitting at the end of the couch. It was kind of like those cartoons when somebody makes a loud noise and the character lifts off the chair. We fully lifted off the couch several times and dropped back down again. Mom had to put a pillow on the table to pad her descent back to the table.
Five and a half hours after our first call to AAA we were settled into an RV Park back in Tucson. The repair shop is apparently so busy they couldn't even look at our truck today to diagnose the problem, so we decided to upend our trip and go visit the Grand Canyon now instead of at the end of our travels as planned. We rented a car and are poised to visit that big old crack tomorrow, in the snow even!
We spent months and months planning this trip, but as my father-in-law says about planning ahead, "I don't even buy green bananas."
Blessings:
We were safe when the engine died.
The weather was nice.
We know a great place for dentists looking for new patients.
*Name changed
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