Distracted by Something Not So Shiny

WOOD CHUCKING TO THE THEME FROM SANFORD AND SON

2013-06-15T19:10:00.001-07:00

Why is it that when I am not near a computer I begin to have my most creative moments...just out and about and bam! I want to write. It's been way too long since I last posted, and I'm feeling loads of pent up creative pressure.

Okay, this is not "our" pile, but it looks so similar.
Though, you must add the stacked firewood to the side...

After nearly 20 years of marriage, I have to face the truth. Himself could be a (drumroll) borderline hoarder. (Oh the horror)

Today I tried to clean up the backyard. Himself has accumulated quite a wood pile. Some of it is firewood, cut and stacked (or at least a semblance of a stack), but not all or even half. The other tumbling wood mass is odds and ends from various house projects. Saved for other house projects - sometime in the future (when the moon is blue). These pending projects are obvious anywhere you look around our home, but all require time. And apparently, and unfortunately, time is not something you can hoard. Wow, what a concept...time hoarding. Hmm, I like the idea of that...

Anyway, back to the pile. Our backyard is only one pile of "junk" away from a scene from the old tv show Sanford and Son. Today, I found myself humming the show's tune - it is very catchy - as I tried to re-stack the odds and ends mindful of spiders. To say it was overwhelming is an understatement. And with that mess there is, and never will be, an understatement.

Problem with trying to sort out the "good" wood pieces from the "junk" pieces brings up what may be the bigger problem. Or at least a plausible excuse for the wood pile in the first place. What do you do with odds and ends of wood that can't be used for anything? Throw them out? Burn them?

Himself doesn't think burning painted wood is a good idea, and I agree. So, what do you do with all those bits and odd-sized pieces of painted wood? Throw them away in the trash can so they can be buried at the dump? Is that the best environmental end for that painted piece of odd wood? Trying to be a good steward of our environment, and feeling the guilt of adding to the ever-growing mound of human-generated trash on our earth, leads me to few options.

Why is it others think nothing of chucking out old wood (okay, how much wood can a woodchuck chuck, if a woodchuck could chuck wood?), along with other still useable items, into the trash can every week? Do they feel no guilt? No shame? Damn their lack of environmental insensitivity...damn their ability to just not care...damn their neat and tidy homes and yards!

I once watched a great video dealing with issues similar to this. By not tossing these unuseable odds and ends of wood into the trash, I am, or rather Himself is, still "throwing it out" but instead into our backyard "dump". When put in those terms and since it has to go somewhere, either in the landfill or stay in my backyard "dump", it makes it so much less painful to my environmental ethics (what they are) to just put them in the trash can and have the wood hauled away. Away where I will never view it again, or fret over it, or trip over it, or be embarassed by it...

Ah, but that leads to the next problem. Now that I have gotten to the point where I can let the old painted wood "go", I really can't...yet...all at one time. Wood weighs alot. And if I overload the trash cans they (the trash guys) won't take it. So, that means I have to parcel out the old wood, bit by bit, week by week, until it is gone. Meaning, I am still using my yard as a temporary dump. Grrr.

Wish me luck in my endeavors. I may have to hide the "to go" pile so Himself doesn't pull out any pieces that "he can still do something with". Which begs the question: "Do what exactly?"

FREEDOM SEEKING BATTERIES?

2012-10-02T11:06:00.004-07:00

The bounty from my latest battery sweep

This photo is of the latest “battery sweep” I conducted at my house. I continue to find loose batteries everywhere. No rhyme or reason for this since after testing all these batteries about one-third of them tested “good”. So why aren’t they still in their slots? They can’t all be falling out of TV, dvd, and Wii remotes, or toys. The 9 volt is an even bigger mystery since the only item I can think of that uses them in our home is the smoke detectors. Are these batteries now starting to fall from the sky?

I know I am not removing and leaving batteries around the house. Teenager doesn’t have time to remove her clothing off the floor or bed, so I don’t see her giving this activity much of her energy. Himself, he seems as bewildered as I am, though he thinks it is humorous (note he is not picking them up). So, process of elimination leaves me...Last Son as the culprit. When asked why there are loose batteries all over the house he responds, “I don’t know.” Hmm, let me rephrase the question, “Why did you take the batteries out of their devices?” “I don’t know.” “Are the batteries dead?” “I don't know? Do you want me to test them?” (Note, he enjoys testing batteries, which is why he is #1 on my list of suspects.)

This isn’t the first, or second, or whatever, time I have made a battery sweep in this house. Luckily, we don’t have any crawling infants in the house, though that does remind me that we have had problems with batteries in the past, but not appearing, but rather mysteriously leaving their proper location in TV remotes. Years ago, when Teenager was around a year old, she was fascinated with the battery cover on the TV remote. I never noticed her messing with the batteries themselves so didn’t think much of her “take the cover off, put the cover back on” activity. Until that New Year’s Day, when I tried to use the remote to turn the TV on. Nothing. The cover was on. I checked the batteries (maybe they were dead?) No batteries. I looked around the living room. No batteries on the floor, in the couch, in the chair... and our living room was small back then, with hardwood floors and no hiding places. And there were no loose batteries in sight.

With the remote in my hand, and pointing to the empty battery slot, I asked our toddler where the batteries were. She wasn’t speaking much then, but she did point to her mouth. “You put them in your mouth?” I asked her, quickly assessing what a battery in the mouth of a small child could do. “Where are the batteries?” I asked again, hoping she would walk somewhere and pull them out. Again she pointed to her mouth. Egads. I immediately found Himself and told him, “I think she might have swallowed a battery or two.” Himself’s calm response, “I don’t think she could have swallowed a battery, they’re too big.”

I located our supply of new batteries and picked out a AA. Okay, it did look a bit big to go down her throat, but what if she choked it down? Where was she and how long did it take for her to do this? Our house was tiny back then and I feel pretty certain I would have heard her choking on something.

Again, I asked my daughter, this time holding the new battery and pointing to the remote, “Where are the batteries for this?” And again, she pointed to her mouth.

Time to call Poison Control. Was I embarrassed? Well, yeah, but I would rather be a stupid parent than be an idiot (fine degree of difference) parent who did nothing and perhaps fatally injured her child. The Poison Control person told me that swallowing a AA battery, while difficult for a small child, is not impossible. And if she did manage it, it is extremely dangerous and life-threatening as her stomach acid will eat through the battery wall exposing the battery acid which could kill her. Right, okay, glad I called.

Himself and I spent the next several hours at the Emergency Room where they x-rayed our one-year old and ascertained that she did not, in fact, swallow any batteries. One of our more memorable New Year’s Day events for many years - it is not a great feeling telling Emergency Room personnel that your child may have swallowed a battery. There is always “the look”. The strange thing is that we never found the missing batteries to the remote - anywhere. It’s like they just disappeared - poof.

Fast-forward to today, and I find that instead of being plagued by missing batteries, I now have “extra” batteries on the floor, under the table, under the couch, on the bookcase, in a closet, etc. It’s like a battery exodus. Do they manage to pop out and roll to freedom at night? Would rechargeable batteries appear on the floor just as easily? Or is it really just another unsolved mystery in my house...like the mystery of who used up the last of the toilet paper without replacing the roll?

DEER WARS or WHY THE MOVIE "BAMBI" NO LONGER MAKES ME CRY.

2012-09-04T13:49:00.000-07:00

Is this what happens to those deterrent-loving deer!
http://www.computertroublesolver.com/Fun-Pictures.html

Even though I live a few short blocks to the beach, I also live on the fringe of open land which makes my yard a convenient restaurant for deer and gophers. Stupidly, I planted roses when we first bought this house. I saw the roses bloom heavily for the first two years. I also planted tomatoes, green beans, snap peas, etc. A real producing garden. The bamboo teepee was densely covered with bean vines, tendrils wrapping themselves neatly over the wire structure. Ah, lush and fragrant.

One day I was lovingly watering and admiring the bean teepee, eyeing the very young beans growing in the warm sun. The next day, those same bean vines looked like someone took hedge clippers to them in the middle of the night. And then two days later, the bean vines are pulled off the teepee helter-skelter and there isn’t a flower to be seen or any tender young beans. The tomato plants looked like the same hedge clipper-wielding maniac took to them as well. Garden vandals? No, and those of you who live around deer know what I am describing. My innocent, naive garden plantings were an exercise in how to spend money and time for nothing. The deer damage isn't just to my expensive plants. Nope, even the old unreinforced rock wall (it came with the house) has, over the years, slumped and fallen in places under the weight of those well-fed deer with their sharp hooves gashing into the soil surrounding my delicious roses and vegetables.

After wet winters (in California this is not the norm), the deer will come down a little later, more towards June, going back to the hills when the rains start up. But with a dry winter, beginning as early as April, my yard hasn’t got a chance until it starts to rain the next winter. And when do roses bloom and veggies start sprouting? Yep, April.

Over the many, many years since my first realization that my garden is a legend with the local deer population, and because I was still determined to save my roses, sweet peas, gladioluses, veggies, etc. (again, I was naive and thought it was possible), the following is a list of deterrents which I have tried in my numerous attempts to fend off the deer:

Garlic oil-infused clip-on capsules: Yes, these expensive little items smell very garlicky. And apparently, I have some deer that actually preferred those “Italian” plants with the garlic clips. Didn't work.

Cayenne Pepper Spray: Hmm, absolutely evil and dangerous if applied on a breezy day and without gloves or sunglasses. And, like the other scented deterrents, you can smell the pepper. I sprayed the rose buds, the sweet pea buds, the tomatoes, etc. Problem? Well, if you enjoy bringing the cut rose blossoms into your house, you can’t without smelling the cayenne spray. Another problem for me was "my deer" actually sought out the “Tex Mex” sprayed plants, leaving behind the unsprayed ones. Odd, but true.

Rotten egg spray: While this is effective as a deer deterrent, it is also especially effective as a deterrent for anyone with a nose from wanting to get close to your garden. Nasty stuff. And while my sprayed sweet peas did bloom freely, and openly, unafraid of being munched by Bambi and his mom, their delightful signature fragrance was overmasked by the smell of rotten eggs. They lived long in the yard that year as they sure as hell weren't coming into my house smelling like that. And since I grow them to bring in the cut flowers, this doesn't spray doesn't work with any plants you want to enjoy as either cut flowers or for eating.

Combo sprays of rotten egg, garlic and cayenne: This combo is long-lasting and smells so bad, I don't even care that it works. Still can't enjoy my fragrant flowers.

Dryer sheets: Scented. Hmm, the smell of roses or the smell of dryer sheets? They weren’t effective, and no, they look nothing like Tibetan prayer flags hanging here and there.

Hair Bags: You take old nylons (any color), cut them into small tube “bags”, stuff them with human hair, tie them up and either hang them in the deer-enticing plants or just lay them on the ground nearby. Well, because of my “thing” with hair, this deterrent was very difficult for me. It requires cleaning out brushes and hand-stuffing the hair into the “bags”. I had some help from a neighbor who had just given birth and her hair was doing that thing where your “extra” hair starts falling out so she had plenty to spare. While this method actually seemed to work, it is so gross I just can’t keep it up.

Irish Spring: Sounds political (like Arab Spring?), but it actually involves tying up small pieces of Irish Spring bar soap and dangling the bits amongst the rose bushes. The soap hangs there until rain or watering methods erodes them. Again, the smell of Irish Spring is strong and isn’t what I want to smell out in my garden. And, I’m not convinced it worked that well anyway.

Shiny objects: Hanging old cds or bits of reflective material only works if you have a light source and a fence. Again, not an especially great look in a home garden, unless you enjoy the “vineyard look”. And since I am easily distracted myself, all I see are discs of bad music in my yard.

Motion sensors: Water is too expensive around here to have motion sensor sprinklers go off if a deer “trips” through the garden. Sound sensors? Well the deer are quite accustomed to the next door neighbor’s dog that barks every night on the other side of their chain link fence, so this one won’t work for me.

Panther Piss or Predator Pee: I can’t help but visualize just how this product is collected before it’s bottled. My online research of this repellent, and the other “predator pee” products leads me to believe that since cats are territorial, and I already have deer coming in, perhaps I would be inviting the local mountain lions to check out my “deer selection” (see note on photo caption below). While the deer may hightail it, the chance of bringing in a mountain lion that finds my children's cats a tasty treat make this option less attractive. But, if I was going for this deterrent, that are many types of predator pee out there. Check out his website for what's on tap: https://www.thepeemart.com/peestore/

What's in Zoo Doo?

Zoo Doo contains Cheyenne Mountain Zoo tiger,
leopard and African lion feces.
Mountain lion feces is not used to prevent
attracting mountain lions to your yard.
http://www.cmzoo.org/conservation/action/ZooDoo.asp

Tiger or African Lion feces: Exotic and possibly easy to get if you live near a zoo. This is on my short list, if only to say I tried it!

Human Pee: Okay, peeing around the perimeter of my yard is probably not going to be “my thing”, but I do have two males here in the house that may find it fun to try (can I be positive they only do it at night, when the neighbors aren’t out?). I guess being able to pee out in your own yard is a right, or is that a privilege? Reminds me of an episode of Duck Dynasty (yes I just love that show). Again, online research suggests human urine may bring bigger inquisitive animals in to investigate the smell. Hmm, while it may work, the consequence is not worth it.

“Fence the damn yard lady!” Yes, deer fencing does work, but living at the beach, in a “small lot” neighborhood, having a yard surrounded by a 7 foot high fence gives off a strong unneighborly feeling. And having a 7 foot high fence along the front street parking is most likely not to code. At a local grower’s nursery, where I bought some “hopefully more deer proof plants”, the grower suggested stringing heavy test fishing line between stakes around the yard perimeter. Note: He also suggested setting a snare trap. When I asked what I was supposed to do with a trapped deer he just looked at me and said, “Eat it.” Okay, not an option...yet.

So, back to the fishing line “no see um fence”. Apparently the deer don’t see it and when they run into it it freaks them out. Best to have the line strung at neck/chest level, and one lower down for the little ones. So now, freaking out deer is on my list of things to do this weekend. I’m not sure of the safety issue of having clear fishing line strung around my property. If I attach some small streamers to warn children will that tip the deer off that there is a barrier? Do freaked out deer do more damage than meandering deer? Can I convince Himself that he has to put a lot of time in this weekend into stringing up an invisible fence around our yard?

I shall report my findings as soon as the invisible fence is put up. If I still have plants to protect by the time it gets done.

WHY DO SLEEPERS NEED WINDOW SEATS?

2012-05-22T13:06:00.000-07:00

Hmm, all window seat, all the time.
Problem solved!
(http://www.northwesternflipside.com
/2011/01/10/2011-where-are-the-flying-cars/)

On a recent flight to and from New York City I had the middle seat (going) and the aisle seat (returning). On both flights, the passenger (both ways it was a guy) sitting in the window seat immediately, upon takeoff, pulled the shade down on the window and went to sleep. For the entire flight the shade was down and I could not see outside. I have no idea what the terrain we were flying over looked like. I have never traveled or flown to the East Coast before and I would have loved to look out the window and down on parts of our country that I have yet to see up close. Not that I have a great yearning to personally visit wheat fields, but it would have been nice to see the Rocky Mountains, the Mississippi River, or the Great Lakes, from above.

But not on this trip, my first flight over our country. Why is it people who ask for window seats do so to sleep the flight away. I have been told that it is more comfortable to put your head up against the interior wall, that way you didn’t fall onto your seat mate. Okay, if this was a red-eye flight that would make sense, but this was a flight that took off from San Francisco at 8:30 a.m. and landed in New York at 5:00 p.m. All daylight hours. So why must a person sleep during these hours? And is it really quality sleep? I have yet to hear anyone say they had a good "days" sleep on their flight.

On my return flight home, the same thing happened. Again, we took off from NYC at 5:00 p.m. and landed in San Francisco at 8:30 p.m. Is this really “nap time” for some people? I could have been in a plane anywhere, even sitting on the tarmac, and the sights would have been the same. And then I had to hear a few passengers on the other side of the plane, who were awake, orally pointing out what they were seeing as we flew over the Great Lakes. This just added to my disappointment.

I have flown to Hawaii several times. Unlike flying cross-country, when you fly to Hawaii there is really just miles and miles of Pacific Ocean down there, and but even then, unless the movie is worth watching, most passengers still keep their shades up. Maybe because these passengers know they are heading somewhere beautiful and they are excited, too excited to sleep? I have only returned from the islands on red-eye flights. Nothing to see here folks, but sleeping was near impossible too.

Flying into San Jose, Costa Rica, five years ago, there was an exciting display of lightening as we were coming in. I’m pretty sure most people had their shades up watching it...some probably fearing the plane would be hit. The idea did cross my mind, but since more lightening hits Costa Rica than most other places, I hoped that the airlines had figured out a way to make flying in that kind of weather safe.

And when I flew to Alaska, everyone had their shades up as they viewed Denali (Mt. McKinley) rising up through the clouds. For many visitors to Alaska, this is their only view of the top since it is clouded over most of the time.

So why is it that on a flight, during daylight hours, that is flying over our country with all of its diverse terrain do passengers close the shade, and sleep. Do they have exclusive rights over the window shade because they are closest? Is that window view exclusive to them as well? They don't pay more to sit in a window seat than their flight mates next to them. So why do passengers in the window seat feel they can eliminate the natural light and view for the rest of us? Are they selfish? Do they know how annoying they are? The windows are on a plane for a reason, to see out and give natural light. If a passenger finds these natural attributes of windows disagreeable, there are eyeshades and neck pillows specifically made and marketed to those airline passengers who need to sleep during a flight...you know the red-eye flights where everyone is trying to get some semblance of shut-eye. These products can surely produce a “shade down” experience for the daytime flight sleeper, and everyone else in their row can enjoy the views.

And this is just one view a "sleeper" would miss:

This is one of 100 amazing photos taken throughout the world through windows of an airplane - obviously not by a "sleeper". http://www.buzzfeed.com/mjs538/100-incredible-views-out-of-airplane-windows

Daytime flight sleepers should invest in these products if sleeping during the day is their habit. Or maybe the airlines should offer “sleeper seats”, somewhere towards the back of the plane. They can make it dark and cozy for the sleepers. Then those of us who like to be awake during the day, enjoy natural sunlight, and look out the window at the scenery can do so and be happy fliers.

I looked at a few travel blogs to see how this issue was discussed. One reason for sleepers taking the window is if they had the aisle seat no one could get by them to use the restroom and their arms and heads would get hit by the cart and other passengers. An awful lot of excuses to just sleep your day away. A few people suggested that people simply not sleep on flights other than international, all nighters. Makes sense. This suggestion was in response to sleeping passengers who snore.

Actually, there are several blogs handling the issue of window shade control, who has it and who doesn't. Then there was the issue brought up that if you choose to sleep on the plane you are more likely to be groped or pickpocketed. Wow, I didn't know that sleeping on a plane is dangerous too. And then there's a few stories about sleeping passengers that were left on the plane...for hours. Did the flight attendants not see them? Really? Perhaps if they weren't hunkered next to the wall they would not have been missed. Another reason not to sleep in the window seat.

I think I’ll write an airlines and suggest they make certain seats in the back of the plane “daytime sleeper friendly” so the rest of us can really enjoy the flight and the view. The window shades can be fixed shut and no one has to hear them if they snore.

Oh, and yes, I did ask for a window seat, but was told there weren't any available.

MY STADIUM WHINE ( MAKE THAT WINE) OR WHY BASKETBALL PLAYERS ARE MORE CIVILIZED

2012-03-07T17:46:00.003-08:00

http://www.fangraphs.com/not/index.php/some-baseball-whys/OR

As a parent, I began my appreciation of the sport of basketball for several selfish reasons. First, it was indoors during the winter. Even though we live in a fairly mild California climate, this area during the winter can often be wet and/or cold with gale force winds. Many years ago, when Beginner Child played a couple of seasons of soccer, I did my stint outside on the sidelines, in the drizzle, standing because my chair was soaked. They don’t call off soccer games unless it is really pouring, and only then because the grass field could be damaged. No thought to the drenched players or parents. Of course, after a particularly cold spell, our climate zone could offer up off-shore winds and above-normal temperatures for the following weekend. If my body were made of sedimentary rock, I would have cleaved and eroded away by now.

Thankfully, neither Last Son or Teenager has much interest in playing soccer, so I have been spared that sport’s seasonal weather mood swings. Beginner Child and Last Son are big fans of baseball. Baseball season, even though this perennial sport is played in Spring, it can be an even colder sport to watch in our part of California. The onshore winds off the ocean kick in around March and it can be brutal to be outside. During baseball season I always have my parka and two quilts on standby in the car to get me through a game. A game which goes a minimum of two hours or six innings - not including the warm-up time. Sometimes I come home after watching a baseball game and can’t get warm the rest of the day.

Ahh, but then there is basketball season. The sport with an indoor court. No matter the weather, the gym is dry, though a jacket is sometimes still necessary on the bleachers. And the games, at least through the high school level, are limited to about an hour. Unlike after watching a baseball game, following a basketball game I have never felt the need to jump in a hot shower or bath just to get rid of the chill in my core.

Spectator, and player, beverages, however, are limited at indoor gym sports. While having a thermos of hot tea or coffee is du jour on the soccer field sidelines, and on the metal bleacher seats of a baseball diamond, basketball fans are limited in their choice of drink. In the gym it’s water only and no eating. Wood gym floors do not handle liquids well. Which brings me to my absolutely favorite thing about “in the gym” sports....no spitting!

Why do baseball players spit continually, anywhere and everywhere. The dugout must be slimy with spit by the end of a game. The dugout floors are concrete, not dirt. It’s not soaking in, its sliming away on top of the floor. And who has to clean up this crap? Now there is a job for Mike Rowe of Dirty Jobs!

Do baseball players all suffer from the problem of an overstimulation of salivary glands? Back in the day, I guess the tobacco chewing players needed to spit regularly and they just used the ground like a spittoon. But today, hardly any players chew tobacco, so I’m not sure of the reason to spit unless it is just “part of the game”. Yuk! It is disgusting to watch on TV and in person. Young baseball players are emulating their idols by spitting sunflower seeds continually throughout the game. Hmm, are sunflower seeds the “gateway substance” to a spitting habit? Even those who chew gum are spitting. Don’t they need that moisture in their mouths? Do they need to drink more water?

Baseball players may be sweating due to heat, nerves, or their minimal moments of exertion, but I don’t see any of them breathing so hard standing in position that they could be building up excessive amounts of saliva that needs to be spit out. And then there are the fans. Historically, baseball fans love to eat peanuts and spit out the shells on the ground around their seats. Apparently this is how diehard fans get into the spirit of the game.

Watch a basketball game and there is no doubt that the players on the court are breathing hard and sweating because they are continually running, up and down court. These guys are working up a sweat. If a basketball player lands on the court floor, the towel guys are out there quickly sopping the sweat off the floor from player contact. Are the basketball players sitting on the bench spitting on the floor in front of them. No. Are they spitting into a bucket nearby instead? I haven’t seen any indication of that happening. And they certainly aren’t spitting before making every free throw.

I have googled the topic- spitting- and it is simply amazing the comments posted. Apparently, the question of why baseball players spit has quite a few people wondering. And, I didn’t find any answer that points to anything other than a gross habit ritualized by the baseball players of old who used to chew tobacco. Okay, totally makes sense to continue the disgusting habit right?

So baseball, America’s Game, is a sport that encourages spitting, on the playing field, on the mound, and in the stands. Spitting, an act that is gross behavior in any other setting; is unsanitary; is distracting from the game being played; and probably nothing more than an addictive, ritualistic habit. Yep, sounds just like an activity this country would hold in highest esteem.

And to think that when I was a kid I didn’t like basketball because of the uniforms. At ten years old I thought it was gross to see men’s armpit hair showing every time they shot the ball. As an adult, the armpit hair is no longer an issue, though I can be distracted by the tattoos the college and pro players are sporting. Which brings to mind the thick magnet necklaces that many baseball players are now wearing. Basketball players cannot wear necklaces or any other jewelry on the court.

So, with baseball you get spitting and necklaces; with basketball you get no spitting, and get to ponder the players’ tattoos. With baseball you can drink and eat anything you want, and then spit. Here’s a question that could change my mind... Could I endure a baseball game’s inherent spitting scene if I was sipping a glass of wine in the stands? My answer? What kind of wine is it?

Now this is quite clever, though a bit crude if you are still sitting on the cushion while you are filling your cup.

From: http://mis2pesos.blogspot.com/2011/10/11-creative-ways-to-hide-your-booze.html

Whipped Cream or Saliva Suckers

2012-02-14T13:13:00.000-08:00

My parents had this album
when I was growing up.
I remember thinking,
"What a waste of whipped cream!"

Teenager finally got her braces off yesterday! A long-anticipated, very exciting day for her. While Himself and I are glad she is coming to the end of her orthodontic experience, it also means there is a final bill looming ahead. Well her smile is worth it. With the braces gone, she'll suffer no more injuries when she gets elbowed in the mouth during a basketball game. Sitting in the waiting room while her bands were popped, pried, and ground off, I could hear the various dental tools being used. Ahh, that familiar “zzzzzz” drill/sander/polisher sound. Even two rooms away I shudder convulsively when I hear it. Even though this time it was used to remove the band adhesive, my body responds to that sound like a Pavlov dog. I wonder how it sounds to someone who has never had a cavity? Beginner Child was spared cavities and braces; Last Son has yet to have a cavity and truly looks forward to those two visits a year to the dentist. This is all a bit weird for me, the kid who had to regularly go to a dentist named, of all things, Dr. Shock. Really, that was his name. And I spent a significant number of hours in his chair.

Another tool of the dentist trade I find unpleasant is the “saliva sucker”. Not sure what the real name for the device is, but that is what it does. Hooks right over your lower lip, sitting inside slurping away. Ugggghhhh. Generally, the sound of this gurgle is as gross to me as swimming in a pool looking at floating hair. However, yesterday as I was waiting for the Teenager, and I heard the saliva sucker gurgle, the sound was actually quite pleasing because...the sound I heard was that same sound that whip cream dispensers make. I actually visualized delicious whipped cream being shot out on top of a cup of hot cocoa. Hmm, it was chilly outside. Do we have any whipped cream at home in the frig? I think so, but is there enough? Enough for hot cocoa for three, and Himself if he is at home? Best to pick some more up at the market on the way home, just to be safe. Though being “safe” in talking about having enough whipped cream on hand could be construed as an odd comment by some. But that is how I see the world. Being safe means, among many other things, having enough food on hand (of course my list of “being safe” things involves plenty of non-food items too!), and whipped cream is a food I like to have on hand. Yes, it is a food and it covers a gamut of uses: substitutes in my coffee if I run out of half-and-half; is essential to hot cocoa; and consumed straight up, or actually straight down from the can and into the open, awaiting mouth, makes a delightful bribe to get Last Son to finish his schoolwork. Hmm, I think whipped cream could actually be an essential. Like flour or some cans of soup in the pantry. And if there is an earthquake, or other disaster, wouldn’t you feel better with a mouthful of whipped cream? Yes, the soup would sustain you longer, but the whipped cream would ease your panic. Yes, an essential it is.

What size spoon would you use to eat this?

How can you eat that canned stuff? you may ask. Of course, if given the option, I prefer the real, get-out-the-Kitchenaid-whip-it-yourself, whipped cream. Problem is that I seem to always have "extra" whipped cream when I use the real stuff for a recipe, and it doesn't store very long in the frig. Meaning: I tend to devour the "extra" quickly and don't always have whipped cream on standby in the frig when I need it ("need" being a subjective term here). The canned stuff lasts longer (and no, I don't really want to know why!).

These are actual band colors.
I ask you:Can you see much
difference between
Aquablue and Violet Blue?

Back to the orthodontist’s office...while I was still contemplating the whipped cream supply at home, Teenager emerged into the waiting room, smiling broadly. Wow, it has been a long, long time since we’ve seen all her teeth. No more trying to figure out what color of bands she chose while commenting that they looked...cute?, fun? stylish? (I never did figure out the right thing to say) And when I mistakenly tried to identify the color of the bands, I was usually wrong - not even close. I couldn’t tell the difference between one color of bands and the next set, and that always led to the “eye roll”. Parents of teenagers try to become immune to the “eye roll”, but we secretly try to do something right to avoid it when we can. I am so glad those days are over! I mean figuring out her band color choice...I think the “eye roll” phase will be with us for a few more years.

In the excitement of Teenager's new fresh, slippery teeth feeling, we forgot to pick up more whipped cream. When we arrived home, the day was not really chilly anymore, so no hot cocoa. But Last Son and I usually have some on Fridays (again, it is a great bribe for schoolwork). I can’t help but wonder now if the sound of the whipped cream splurting out on the cocoa will sound as good to me this Friday as it has in the past. Will I now associate the delectable ssscchhhhh (sound of whipped cream coming out of can) with the sound of the “saliva sucker”. How could my mind dare taint such a wonderful thing?

SPINNING INTO THE NEW YEAR

2012-01-31T13:58:00.000-08:00

Ahh, another thing to add to my guilt!

Okay, it’s been way too long and the holidays are long past, and I haven’t posted anything for a long time.

I am not much of a New Year’s resolution maker. I set goals randomly throughout the year.This year I decided to be average, typical, and boring and resolve to get my weight down and my health up. Again, thinking about exercising is not as beneficial as really doing it (but wow if it was I’d be in excellent shape). I did think about my health and fitness level for two weeks, constantly, especially every time I put jeans on after they were washed and dried. What I needed was a kickstart...and not a heart attack.

Recently, I met up with my running partner from several years ago. She called me and asked if I wanted to do a spin class with her. Hmm, this might just be the thing to fuel my motivation. I am highly motivated by guilt - guilt if I let down a friend, not myself mind you, but I don’t let down friends. If I tell a friend that I am going to do something with her, something that she will be truly depending on me to do with her, then I will always do it. So, I said, “Sure, I’ll check it out.” Now, I have never taken a spin class, but I have heard about them. And what I have heard is that they are tough, but also a great workout. I’m thinking I can sit on a bike and pedal to music...

So, off I went to my first spin class...alone.The friend who initiated my guilt couldn’t start the class for another week.I accepted her challenge of checking out the class by myself. Himself and the kids were amused at my decision to take a spin class, but definitely supportive.

The class is held at the local high school. I found the cycling room (by following a woman with a water bottle and towel) and my eyes met with a sea of stationary bikes. Hmm, does one pick “their” bike? Is there a good location? Near the door? What if it is “someone else’s bike” already? I joined this class a week after it first started and was told that, apparently, spinners can get particular about which bikes they use and like to use the same one each time. Something about getting the bike adjusted just right. Since the class was held at the high school, and the bikes were used every day in PE, I wasn’t sure this could be an issue, but I was alert for the signs that I was taking someone’s coveted bike.

The class was small, but feeling a bit out of my comfort zone, I picked out a bike that was located in the back row, away from the other spinners, and none of the latecomers seemed peeved I was on “their bike”. The instructor made sure it was adjusted to my height and then, I was on my own. Apparently, there is a special language spinners know...add more road, let out road, sprint, etc. Should I have asked a few questions on terminology? Of course, but I’m an intelligent woman and “I don’t need no stinking instructions!”

First thing I noticed...my shoelaces were clicking on the bike frame...irritating little clicks every time I pedaled. I wasn’t the only one clicking so, okay, I’ll deal with it next time. There is no downtime during the class to make these adjustments, or maybe I was too self-conscious to do anything about it.

Second thing I noticed...I have rather strong negative feelings about bike seats. They are terribly uncomfortable- no matter how they are designed. This feeling has prevented me from taking a spin class in the past. See how dedicated I am to my friends?

Well this just says it all.

Perhaps my excess thigh girth is to blame, but by the end of the class I was feeling a painful chafing on my left inner thigh and was consistently numb anywhere my butt met the seat. Not much I could do about the chafing until the class was over, and the numbness would not be permanent (or at least I am under the impression that no permanent damage could occur). I just needed to buck up and endure “the burn”, right? No, after enduring “the burn” I have now promised myself that I will stop and make some serious adjustments if I have that feeling again. Egads, I am seriously chafed, like a rope burn. I am going to have to put a large bandaid over the area for tonight’s class.

Third thing I noticed...I am a weak wobbly mess! All that thinking about exercising did nothing for my endurance and strength. Not that I really thought it would, but I like to think that my mind is a powerful device and can command my body to obey. The truth hit me like a concrete wall when the instructor said, “put on more road”, and “stand and pedal for one minute.” My first thought was, “I should be able to do this.” The mind said yes, parts of my body said, “Okay, we’ll give it a try,” but my legs screamed, “What possible exercise in our recent past gives you the green light to think we can do this?”

Pedaling while standing is much, much harder than I thought it would be. After realizing my legs were not strong enough and I really was in danger of falling off the bike, I sat down on that seat from hell and pedaled along, glad I was in the back row and my failure at standing was not readily seen. Sitting on my sore butt, chafing away, I couldn’t help thinking, “Well, when I’m on my real bike and going up a hill, I shift down so the pedaling is easier, so why do I have to “add road” and stand up to pedal?” Because this is an exercise class stupid!

Found this Spiderflex seat on

bicycleseatsonline.net

Would it be weird to bring
my own seat to Spin Class?

After more than 50 minutes of sweaty pedaling, chafing and feeling the rings of fat that circle my hips slap up and down with each stroke, the instructor had us dismount for some stretches. I’ve always had a bit of trouble standing steady and walking after a real bike ride, and this was no different. Hmm, perhaps this is the real reason they call it a “spin” class.

Overall, the spin class was successful. I now feel muscles that have been dormant for almost a year (okay, maybe longer). It felt good to sweat again. Although I know it takes six weeks for results to show up after starting to run, I don't know how long effects from spinning will take. Will this class prompt me to do more exercise? My mind says, “Yes!” in a happy strong voice. My butt answers, “I don’t know. Maybe. I’ll let you know once I have feeling again.”

Wrapping up for the Holiday

2011-12-22T13:34:00.000-08:00

Is this the Runway idea
of the Christmas Sweater?

The Mother (mine) and her husband came to visit my family this past Thanksgiving holiday. They showed up two days earlier than I expected. I wasn't ready, though Himself will affirm that I am never "ready" for a visit from the Mother. True, but I could have used more practice in my breathing and serenity exercises.

Early into the visit (actually within five minutes of the Mother entering the house), I had already broken my first rule of engagement: Do not engage or comment on any subject, no matter that you have facts to back you up. My fact-based comments are not regarded well, and seem to provoke a menacing reaction in the Mother.

I made a fast recovery from my initial transgression, and went into "I'm on camera" mode. When dealing with uncomfortable situations, I have found it helpful to pretend there is a live camera on me at all times. This way, when the other person (almost always the Mother) starts talking, I make sure I look like the sane, together one, and that the Mother is totally accountable for what comes out of her mouth. Sometimes I know my face just screams out "What the F*@# Did She Just Say?", but I have learned to actually force myself to smile instead of attempt to have a meaningful conversation or discussion about the subject she is talking about. In the past, I have made dreadful mistakes in judgment by contributing unwanted facts to dispel her "facts", and well, the Mother doesn't take it well and I am rewarded by being told that I am not nice, and "you just think you know it all don't you?" My brain yells out: "Hell yes, I do!" But then the visit ends badly and will be all my fault.

Another great coping trick of mine is to excuse myself to use the bathroom, where I practice deep breathing and affirmations like: "I am not crazy" and "All is well, think serene thoughts". Again, the hidden camera trick works, as does the "bathroom time out", though if you use that one too much you will need to answer the question, "Are you feeling okay?"

In the end, I provided a great visit to the Mother, she got to spend time with her grandkids, and Himself dazzled her with his barbecued turkey. Though while the visit went pretty smoothly, due to my extreme intention of making it through unscathed, I did lapse into PDSS within a day after they left. Post Dramatic Stress Syndrome - or PDSS, is real. I developed-or is it contracted?- a virus affecting my respiratory system that, literally, was taking my breath away. After all that serenity breathing, and attempts at settling my heartrate and reactionary attack mode that the Mother invoked in me, I thought I was homefree. Apparently, it was too much for my immune system.

Skip to the present...I ended up getting really sick. Two days ago, it was my one day shopping without kids and I was so out of it I forgot what I was doing in a few stores. Well, after my sorry attempt at shopping, I made myself go see a doctor. Now after 24 hours of beginning the Z pack, I am feeling better. Unfortunately, when leaving to see the doctor yesterday, I almost took out a neighbor driving by when I pulled out of our driveway without looking right. It's not the same as doing that in front of a stranger who you don't know and most likely won't see again. Crap, now if I get into an accident, he will be able to say how I barely missed hitting him just the other day, and that he could tell it was only a matter of time before I hit someone. I'll have to be ultra careful driving for awhile. That really sounds bad, like I'm not normally careful. But then I just told you that I about took out a neighbor, and the car was still half in the driveway. Well, at least he was in a car and not walking down the street... I promise to be more aware of my surroundings...is that better? I'll be more careful, out there in the world, but really right now with only two days to finish shopping, I'm feeling more like making hot tea, crawling into bed, and reading a book all day. Everyone will be safe, and all will be right in the world...

Worse part (or is it really the best part?) of feeling like I have for the past few weeks is that I lost my taste for sugar. So all the baked goods here in the house were the safest they have been for years. Even a sip of wine tasted off...

But now, I am on the mend, and looking forward to helping the kids decorate cookies, enjoying a glass of cheer, and grooving on the Christmas tree that took a day and a half to decorate. I have this thing about stringing the lights on the tree, all because of Martha Stewart. A few years ago, I watched her show where she wove the lights in and out of each branch. Absolutely gorgeous, and absolutely tedious. Nope, no more just looping the lights on, tucking them in, and saying done. I spend hours, many, many hours, doing the lights. Our tree is usually around 10 feet or so, so it takes about 1500 lights or more. The first year I tried the "Martha" way I had to go out and buy more lights...many boxes of more lights. Now, Himself, Teenager and Last Son have no interest in joining me or enabling me. They willingly leave me alone in my madness, returning only when I say Done!

While telling ourselves it's not about the presents, Himself and I fret over the "lists" and the visualization of how Christmas morning will look to Teenager and Last Son, while silently cursing the consumerism we have bought into (literally).

Okay, now this is a bit much,
but how cool to be able to see it in person?
(from: psychcentral.com/blog)

Well, enough of that bah humbug...Here's to a Great Holiday Season with good cheer, time for friends, decorated homes, light displays to drive by (carefully), Christmas treats and Christmas songs.

And for a parting gift:

Check out this site for some cool Christmas Trees! http://funniestarea.blogspot.com/2009/12/funny-and-cool-christmas-trees-photos.html

Coastal California Visit from St Nicholas

2011-12-22T11:28:00.000-08:00

CHILD THANKS PARENTS FOR FEEDING HIM...

2011-11-23T10:52:00.000-08:00

Cereal bowl, work of art, or
absolute waste of a costly food product?

Yesterday, Last Son came home with a Thanksgiving card for Himself and I. He designed his card with tiny cross-hatched squares that he individually colored.Tremendous small motor skill work for the boy who balks at holding a pencil correctly.

We are always so happy when he writes anything, especially when he comes up with the wording himself. And what did this card say inside? “Dear Mom/Dad, I love you so much. I am also very thankful for you packing my lunch, feeding me dinner, breakfast and lunch.” Good grief, what did his teacher think when she read this?

Anyone with two growing kids in the house knows how fast any food in the pantry disappears. Both kids love fruit and at least two servings are packed in their lunch. Organic fruit is expensive. Last Son also tucks a half or whole red bell pepper inside his bag. Organic vegetables are expensive. A turkey sandwich, Greek organic yogurt, and sometimes seaweed. Yes, Last Son is a fan of the sheets of seaweed.

Anyone who eats (and who doesn’t) and anyone who has to shop for food (I’m thinking most of us do) knows how expensive food is. And the grocery bill just gets higher every two weeks. And since we try to buy organic or “real food”, our bill is higher than a Walmart shopper’s bill. I hate to go to the store. I hate to see how much money I am spending on food that won’t make it to the end of the week. I hate coming home after spending $80 and realize there isn’t a meal, other than lunches, in the bags.

Do you remember eating a bowl of cereal if all the frig had in it was milk? Well, cereal is a premium and extravagant food product now. And the healthiest cereals are boxed in smaller quantities for more money. Cereal has become an issue in our home. Teenager likes Smart Start which is very expensive and never on sale. And for the past two weeks (coinciding with trips to Trader Joes), Last Son likes Puffins, a choice which would no doubt change though if they are ever on sale and I stock up.

Actually, the issue in our house is not what kind of cereal, but whose cereal. The kids have started putting their names on their cereal boxes, even with warnings like “Stay out Dad”. And why you may ask? Because Himself likes to combine cereals in his bowl. Himself generally likes cereal that has twigs and flakes, but will add any other cereal to his bowl for variety. A bit of this cereal mixed with a bit of that cereal. Himself’s cereal mixing has wrecked havoc. I am convinced that cereal is packaged to fill a certain number of bowls- full servings, and if you mess with this method by only pouring a half serving, then the box ends up with less than even a half serving of cereal. And because Himself has been conditioned (since childhood?) not to eat the last of anything, he leaves that minimal amount of cereal in the box - which is the perfect amount for a cereal mixer but not for the rest of us. And because Himself is the only one who mixes types of cereal, and because the amount left in the box is less than even a kid-size serving, no one touches it. And it goes stale and is eventually thrown out. This is where I get involved since I am the person who cleans out the pantry.

Years ago throwing out a bit of stale cereal was not so much a concern. But now, the price of cereal is ridiculous. I used to tell Beginner Child to have a bowl of cereal after school if he needed a snack. Now, with the price of a box of worthwhile cereal hovering at around $5, this is no longer a cheap fill up. A box of cereal only has about 3-4 bowls inside. I mean real-life bowls, not the “suggested serving size” listed on the box. A half-cup of cereal just doesn’t do it for growing kids, or apparently husbands.

Himself becomes quite defensive when I point out that his cereal mixing is causing our children to “hoard” their cereal. I don’t think it is normal that children should have to put their names on their food to keep it safe. Even growing up in my whack family, we never put names on cereal boxes. Of course, cereal selection in the morning was much easier in my childhood home. The adults had “serious cereals” like Raisin Bran, Shredded Wheat (the big not-bite-size kind), and Grape Nuts. These boxes sat on the shelf alongside Cap’n Crunch and Lucky Charms. Never a problem finding enough cereal in a box in the panty. As a kid, in one sitting I would just keep adding more cereal to any milk left in the bowl. And then if there was not enough milk, I would add more milk, and repeat the process. Nope, there was never any nominal serving of cereal left over to go stale.

So, after all this rant over cereal, what is on our shelf for me? In order to be able to reach into the pantry and still find a box with a full serving of cereal in it I choose... Raisin Bran. No one likes it in this house, so I am assured of a bowl on any given morning. Do I yearn for Lucky Charms? Yes, with shame (nothing tastes better to my tainted taste buds than blue moons and green clovers!). Do I miss the Cap’n? Yes, but I no longer enjoy the feeling of a sliced palate (those little “crunch” pillows must have swords!). I am an adult, or at least that’s what society tells me. I must eat like an adult, whatever that means. Or does that mean that now I can eat whatever I want? Like now that I am an adult I can stay up as late as I want, even if it means I will stagger through the next day? If so, then why don’t I have a box of Lucky Charms in the pantry if that is the cereal I really want to eat? Because, I would have to put my name on the box, and there is something really wrong with an adult putting her name on a box of Lucky Charms!

(This is the DyeDiet Risk Chart for Lucky Charms)

LUCKY CHARMS- UNTIL I READ THIS IT TRULY WAS A "MAGICALLY DELICIOUS" CEREAL FOR ME...DAMN FACTS ALWAYS GETTING IN THE WAY

What The Hell Is That Noise?

2011-11-06T10:37:00.000-08:00

Tahitian Dance involves some great costuming.

For the past few years I have been dancing hula. No, not with hula hoops, I mean real Hawaiian Hula. When I turned my most recent decade, I took on two challenges: one was being able to lap swim (see September 13, 2011) and the other was to learn to dance hula. Fortunately, there is a hula halau in the area I live in. A halau is essentially a school where hula is taught, along with Hawaiian culture.

I went into this challenge thinking I would learn a few dances and that would be it. Little did I know that my first class would turn into years of classes, several local performances, and one on-stage performance with a Hawaiian bigwig steel guitar legend, Keola Beamer.

To show you just how naive, ignorant, clueless...you supply the adjective, I was going in to my first hula class, when the Kumu (teacher) stated we were learning the “Beamer” style of hula, I was thinking: smooth, classy, you know - like a “BMW B’mer”. What an idiot. No, the Beamer style is named after its founder, Helen Desha Beamer. Yes, the Beamer style is very smooth, but there is more to it than just that.

Along with taking a dance class, the first in my life, I was also thrust into learning the Hawaiian language. While some songs have English lyrics, many do not and all the ancient hulas, or Kahiko, have Hawaiian lyrics. I have found that my mouth struggles with this language. I find myself wishing for a consonant here and there to break up the sometimes three or more vowels strung together.

Although dancing hula is a continuing education in both dance and language, another type of dance often lures hula dancers. Tahitian hula. Now, what I have noticed in watching live or YouTube Tahitian dancers is that these women are thin, young, and look really fit. Check out this YouTube video for an amazing performance:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wWKFR1IMIio&feature=related

Seeing this, I am thinking: Hey, if I learn Tahitian maybe I could lose some weight and keep fit too. Great idea in the head, and probably still a good idea in practice. But, as I have discovered, perhaps I should rethink learning Tahitian in a class setting.

A hula friend, who is also a great Tahitian dancer, showed me one simple basic step to get started. The ami, which is the hip circle. I’ve got the Hawaiian hula ami down pretty good, but the Tahitian ami is much, much, much faster. I have found that when the hips start really going my upper body starts to compensate. This has not been an issue for me with my slower Hawaiian amis (at least not in the past year or so). To help you be aware of what your upper body is doing, it is helpful to practice amis in front of a mirror.

Wearing my pau skirt (these skirts are very full, not terribly flattering, but are the essential Hawaiian hula dress) I stood in front of my bathroom mirror, which is very large, and started the slow hip circle, then started speeding it up. Holding down my shoulders with my hands (picture the kid song,”head-shoulders-knees and toes”), I kept this up for about 30 seconds. This 30 seconds went okay, but how the heck was I going to keep this up during an entire dance was another question.

I took a break, watched another YouTube video of a basic Tahitian ami, demonstrated by a young thing with hardly any hips or fat on her body, and went back to my mirror.

This time proved a bit more successful. I was doing my ami faster and faster, fascinated by how much my stomach roll could follow my hips. While circling my hips, I began hearing a weird noise coming from...me. What was making that noise? Was it my skirt, my joints? I started up again, listening closely. At low speed, no noise. As my speed got faster, the noise was more distinct.

I took off my pau skirt, and tried again just wearing my underwear. Maybe the skirt was too full? It was while I was gyrating away, doing my best to do a fast Tahitian ami that I saw what was making the noise. My thighs were slapping together! Seriously, slapping in rhythm to the movement. Fascinating! Not cool fascinating, more like morbidly fascinating. The death of body tone. All that hula dancing and my thighs are still slapping away at each other.

I am not through with trying to learn Tahitian hula, but I will not be attending any classes in an inside studio where my thigh slapping can be heard. I think learning this style of hula outside, on a beach, with loud crashing surf is the best scenario for me and my thighs. Hmm, actually that scenario is probably best for about everything I like to do.

THAT 80'S THING - THIRTY YEARS LATER AND STILL KICKIN'

2011-10-23T22:37:00.000-07:00

Last night, Himself and I treated ourselves to about 5 1/2 hours (we left a half hour earlier than closing because we are not fans of The Fixx) of crazed dancing to a couple of 80’s bands who performed for a local fundraiser. Close to thirty years later, I still love to bounce around and rock out, though now I’m a lot older and have to last out there on the dance floor without artificial stimulants. I’m feeling a bit tired this morning - Himself and I got home just before midnight, which is really late for him. My neck is really sore from looking up at the bands from the dance floor. But heck, I got to see and dance to live, in person, Bow Wow Wow, English Beat and Berlin. Missing Persons cancelled due to a Dale Bozzio health issue. Damn, they were missed. Especially when the fill in band was Gene Love Jezebel. So not Missing Persons.

Dancing straight through Bow Wow Wow, and then English Beat, I was sweating most unbecomingly, but I was having such a good time. The place was like a sauna inside, and was packed full of people mostly in their 40’s-late 50’s. Quite a few dressed the part as well, though outfits that were kind of punkish back then, made several women last night look more like “been there” hookers.

As usual, super long lines for the women’s restroom, though several women went en masse into the men’s room, where they startled the men standing at the urinals. Oh, just like the 80’s...

Getting back to just how sweaty I was...when I pulled down my leggings and sat on the toilet, the paper seat cover stuck to me, and started to disintegrate right there and then. Which is what they are supposed to do...when they are in the toilet. Seriously, I was quickly pulling off strands of paper seat cover off my butt and thighs.

I really needed to get my sopping hair off my neck and back. No, I didn’t bring any hairbands (didn’t really think it was something to put in the purse). Being a resourceful person, I tried to figure out what else I could use. Looking down on our table I saw these long tie things. These were bright orange lanyards advertising the company supplying the beer on tap (what purpose you would use these lanyards for escapes me). My pride took a backseat as I braided my hair and used the lanyard to tie it up. The little metal hook thing - cool metal thing- (again...what the hell are these things designed to do?) dangling on my neck. Quite a look, but since it was behind my head, and I couldn’t see it, I really didn’t care.

Other than the sauna feeling, and the obstacle course you had to go through to get through the crowd to the bar or outside air, there were the usual crowd pushers...those people who cram themselves into the already crowded section in front of the stage and then jam in front of you, like you’ll never know they are there, or won’t do anything about it. Well, not me. I demand and defend my hard won space to dance, and I kept them moving if they stopped in front of me. Sometimes that involved tapping on the shoulder and gently moving them along. One big guy that I tried to keep moving along, out of my view, actually turned around and pushed me! Like what? Did he think I was going to get into a pushing match with him. What an ass! Likely he was an ass in the 80’s too.

Highlight of the evening, other than great live music, was when Himself and I touched hands with Terri Nunn from Berlin as she was carried through the crowd on the shoulders of a security guy. The closest I’ve ever gotten to “one of them” (rock stars, not security guys). I can report that Terri Nunn has very soft hands (or rather, left hand). Hmm, I wonder if Himself is remembering how soft her hand was...probably not.

Ms. Universe 2001 and I Have Something In Common...Really!

2011-10-11T13:32:00.000-07:00

Himself and I celebrated our anniversary, eighteen years thank you, at a fabulous restaurant on the bay. Himself reserved the best table in the house, and we both enjoyed watching the sun go down, glowing through the fog, casting a great light on the moored boats. This restaurant has an extensive wine menu, which while it is thrilling to read, immediately intimidates me. Knowing one bottle of wine would not be enough, though not wanting to pay for two, and knowing two bottles would be more than we could drink in one setting, and be able to drive home, I came up with this clever option. Himself ordered a beer, and I ordered a glass of Tolosa No Oak Chardonnay. Now I consider this wine to be above my “everyday” wine drinking price point, but it was one of their “house wines”. For dinner, we chose Rombauer Chardonnay. Himself enjoys red wines, and I love the smell and taste of reds, but my stomach does not. Thus, we had just enough glasses of wine for the evening!

The prior paragraph has nothing really to do with this post, but I'm hoping for wine sponsors! Back to the post:

While Himself and I talked about our lives and the kids, he reminisced on one of my more embarrassing moments that happened right there, in that same restaurant, years ago. As the years have passed, this embarrassing moment has become humorous even to me, so I will retell it here, in the hope that it will be therapeutic for my psyche.

Back when I worked a real job, in a law office no less, the partners would hold an annual Holiday Office Dinner at a nice restaurant for partners, staff and their significant others. One year, they decided this particular restaurant on the bay would be perfect for a December dinner. Himself and I got a sitter, dressed up, and looked forward to an evening of really good food, and expensive wine. One of the partners was a total wine guy and loved to share his knowledge, and the firm’s expense account, on good wine.

My dress-up attire for that night was a silky camisole, a full-length silk wrap-around skirt, black stockings and heels. Wine was ordered, but before it arrived and I had a chance to touch my lips to the glass, a few of us ladies went to the restroom.

Now, because it was the holidays, and larger groups were dining out that night, many tables had been put together for these large parties. These large parties were skewed towards the large bay view windows, leaving a large space in the middle of the room. Which was good for everyone walking to the restroom and the waiters. Most everyone in that particular area of the restaurant could easily view whomever walked through that area, unless they were seated with their back to it.

Be patient, I’m setting up the scene so you can truly appreciate what happened next.

After two of the women at our table left for the restroom, I decided I should probably take that opportunity as well, before appetizers arrived. So, I got up from my chair and proceeded to walk through the large open area towards the restroom. I felt my right shoe snag a bit and I looked down to see silky fabric puddled on the carpet around my feet. Crap! Is that my skirt? I quickly bent down and grabbed it up. Note: I don’t wear underwear with my pantyhose and these were shear ones- all the way up shear ones. I pulled my skirt up, bunching it around my self best I could, while bee-lining it to the restroom.

Opening the restroom door with my shoulder (both hands were occupied holding slippery fabric), both the wife of one of the partners, and a fellow paralegal, were washing their hands. “What the...?” was pretty much what I remember hearing as I began to quickly rewrap my skirt around me - with this full wrap-around skirt I must open it all the way up, align the back seam, and then wrap it around me. So, yes, I was completely naked from the waist down, except for very sheer, non-control top, pantyhose. I started to seriously sweat while I redressed myself in the restroom answering their questions of when I noticed my skirt had fallen off.

Okay, this isn't me, it's Miss
Universe 2001. Apparently, she just hustled off stage and didn't even
pick up the skirt.
Just left it laying there,alone,
on the runway.

“Your skirt fell down, all the way to the carpet? Didn't you feel it slipping? You had to bend down to pick it up?” Partner's wife seemed empathetic, but was muffling her giggles.

“Yeah, and right in the middle of the room.” I think I was smiling by now.

“Wow, I wish I had a photo of that!” This came from a co-worker, and not, apparently, a friend.

They left the restroom laughing.

I wasn’t sure how to return to the table. My body was in fabulous shape back then (if I do say so myself, and I do), and my legs looked great, so there was that. Had my skirt fallen off today, well, for one, I would have been wearing control top pantyhose and not so much would have been out there for all to see.

When I gathered my courage to return to the table, I was sure I would have had some stares or comments, at least from our table. The partner’s wife had returned to the table just before me and had remarked to Himself, and the rest of the table, that she didn’t know I had such great legs.

"Huh? What did we miss?" "What happened?" "Your skirt fell off?" "How did your skirt fall off?" and..."Damn, I missed that?"

As I relive that night, I am thankful I had not had anything to drink yet, as I am not so certain I could have gracefully managed to (1) not trip over the skirt, and (2) grab it in one try and arrange it around myself.

I am not convinced that my show went unnoticed. I am fairly sure someone at the other tables saw me do something. Perhaps I was so lightening fast that no one saw me bend over and pick my skirt off the floor, in the middle of the room? Okay, perhaps...And just as I assure myself that no one saw it, you know I’ll be in some kind of social situation and someone will share that they saw this hilarious thing happen to a woman while they were eating dinner, many years ago...I just hope they share that she had great legs!

"What are they, Mom?"

2011-10-04T12:18:00.000-07:00

Those of us that have raised, or attempted to raise, small children will remember how many bandaids they went through. The most minor insignificant can-barely-see-it scratch warranted a bandaid. A bruise? Apply another bandaid. Like many parents, we purchased both “basic” and “kid” bandaids. For some reason, we went through the “kid” bandaids faster than the kids were injured. We kept the “basic” bandaids in our bathroom where we hoped to actually find one when we needed it.

Sometimes, though, you would be hard-pressed to find any type of first aid bandage in our house. Last Son was a particular fan of applying bandaids on any part of his body that looked “hurt”. Considering he was generally recovering from some physical injury to some part of his body at any given time, Last Son was a pro at finding and applying bandaids.

One of my “wish I would have taken a photo” moments, was when Last Son was around three years old. Last Son was climbing over some tree branches and wood piled up in the back yard. Of course, he couldn't do anything without at least receiving some minor injury. And this time he succeeded to barely scrape one leg-enough to need, at most, one medium-sized bandaid (if we could have found one in the house). Last Son's first aid decision was a bit more-well, amplified. He ran into the house (see, I told you he wasn’t that hurt) and said he was going to get the “big bandaids”. I called after him that we were out of bandaids. He said he knew where some were. Really? Okay, I figured the Bandaid King would probably know where to find one. I’m thinking he must have found some gauze first aid pads or something. Which might have worked but we were out of first aid tape. And no, scotch tape, masking tape and duct tape are not suitable substitutes! (Don’t ask why I know this.)

I could hear Last Son running through the house on his way back outside (again, he was not really hurt). He burst through the back door.

“See Mom, there's a bunch of big bandaids in your drawer in the bathroom.” Last Son was truly proud of his discovery.

“Um, those aren’t bandaids hon.” This was so hard to say without bursting into laughter.

“Well, then, what are they?” Last Son looked perplexed.

Indeed, what were they? Was there any way I could answer my toddler’s question with a straight face as I looked at the many mini pads he had stuck and wrapped over his shins and knees - sticky side down of course.

This was one subject I didn’t really want to tackle at his particular age. Last Son wore them for the next hour or so, until they fell off. I picked up the "used" mini pads off the ground, threw them away. That evening I drove to the store and stocked up on bandaids, in all sizes, and...more mini pads.

HOUSEKEEPING TRICK NO. 2: YOU TOO CAN HOST A PARTY AND ONLY CLEAN ONE ROOM!

2011-09-26T12:06:00.000-07:00

If you want to end people asking
you to host an event at your
home, post this sign in your
guest bathroom!

Here is another housecleaning trick from me to those of you who are brave (or masochistic) and do like entertaining: Other than clearing off the kitchen counters (into a box which is hid in your bedroom) and running a cloth (a dirty sock you picked up off the floor) over the dust, there is only one room you must, and I repeat, MUST, clean well. No, it’s not the kitchen. If your event involves eating, then most guests will assume you didn’t have time to clean up after making that fabulous food you are serving. No, not your floors. Most guests never look down and if they do, they will assume the rest of your guests brought in dirt on their shoes and have messed up your clean floors. Of course, you have to hope that no one drops a “wettish” food product and beats you to the damp paper towel to clean it up. The color of the paper towel after wiping the mess off your “clean” floor will announce just how dirty it is.

The one room you must clean? The bathroom that all your guests will be using. This is the only room where a guest will be sitting, or standing, alone, without distraction, and will have the chance to really look around. Women sitting on the toilet will always look around them: they will check out the floor, the baseboards, the tub (if there is one), the cleanliness of the towels, the sink, even what kind of soap is offered. Men, I’m not sure they see anything, but I could be wrong. Regardless, the toilet must be spotless so that when a male guest lifts the seat there is nothing to see. Especially if the male guest was not raised right and leaves the seat up for the next guest (who will always be a woman)!

In conclusion: the bathroom you have the guests use must be immaculate. If this bathroom is clean, it sends a “clean” message over your whole house. And, be sure there is plenty of toilet paper! If a guest tells you, hopefully quietly, that you are running out, and they looked everywhere (egads, did you clean “everywhere”?) then you will be forced to get another roll. Depending on where you store your toilet paper, retrieving another roll could totally jeopardize your “clean house” mirage. I have had to open the under the stairs closet in front of my guests, step gingerly over the mess piled up on the floor, and bend over to dig out another roll hoping I didn’t lose my balance and need help getting out. Unless your closets are ready for inspection (are anyone’s?) this is not a dignified way to interrupt your hosting duties. So, be sure a spare roll of toilet paper is available, either in the bathroom itself, or within easy reach of your hand through a partially-opened closet door.

Oh, and another, not so wonderful chore you, as hostess, must perform during your event...Periodically, go into this guest bathroom and do an inspection. This means lifting the toilet seat and wiping it off with some toilet paper. Even though the toilet was clean at the beginning of the evening, after several people have used it, there is no way it is still “visually clean”. No, I don’t mean go in with the toilet brush. Check your toilet paper supply, take some toilet paper and wipe around the seat and rim (yes, the rim could be gross), wash up, arrange the towels, and go enjoy the rest of your party.

HOUSEKEEPING TIP NO. 1: HOW TO STAGE YOUR VACUUM CLEANER AS A SOCIAL MESSAGE.

2011-09-25T11:45:00.000-07:00

Yes, this doll house is covered in what is

sucked up in vacuums!

Hmm...What the hell is the green stuff?

My vacuum would yield much more interesting

materials to work with.

(Art by Maria Adelaida Lopez)

Our house is big and I am in control of cleaning it, either through direct action or through vocal efforts of “inspiring” the other inhabitants to do their share. Our crazy schedule does not present many hours of cleaning time. Therefore, I am not currently offering up our house for any meetings or events where people that have never been to our house might show up.

Our house has some pretty cool and artistic touches. People who are new to our home invariably want “a tour”. Even if I am able to stop them from taking a “self-guided tour”, they are still invited into the entry, where I watch them scan the room. This is my prime location for the “vacuum on standby”.

My women friends who feel that their houses are out of control, merely need to come over to my house unannounced. Once they have been allowed in to see my house in its naked uncleanliness (and a quick assessment of our future relationship may be taken), the pressure on me to keep up appearances is over. My women friends will leave with the knowledge and confidence that their housekeeping skills are better, way better, than mine. It’s a service I offer to only my closest friends!

Another art house by Maria Adelaida Lopez

Besides making them feel superior in their cleanliness, I have also let these close friends in on my trick to avoid criticism from not-so-close friends: If there is a chance someone might stop by, and you don’t have time to clean, leave the vacuum out! Leaving the vacuum out sends the message: “Yes, I know my floors are covered in dog hair, and there is stuff everywhere, but I was just getting ready to clean before you showed up at my door.” How can anyone fault your messy house when they are the reason you haven’t started vacuuming or cleaning? It is imperative, of course, that if you have a clear canister vacuum that the canister must be empty and not full of hair and dirt. And have the vacuum plugged in. If it is just sitting there, unplugged, the “I was just starting to clean” moment loses its spontaneous quality.

It is also important that you dress accordingly. If you are dressed to go out when you open the door, your credibility as a harried, interrupted, housecleaning kind of gal flies right out the window.

I have used this “vacuum cleaner as art installation” successfully for several years. But Himself is now commenting that the vacuum is always out, and the canister is always clean. He does notice that the vacuum moves around from room to room though. And his problem is...what?

Two lumps or none?

2011-09-21T08:00:00.000-07:00

Yep, there's a lump alright!

When Teenager was young, around five years old, a neighbor's daughter watched her at the house during the summer a few days a week. This wonderful sitter brought our daughter her entire collection of Breyer horses to play over and gave them to our girl. Well, Teenager, being an observant child, was playing "horse" holding and moving the horses around. She turned the horse over and with true anguish blurted, "My horse has lumps!" "Why does it have lumps?" The answer we gave is that those were the boys. Her disappointed little face spoke volumes. She next turned over each horse and examined it for "lumps". Those without lumps were able to play with her. Those with lumps were separated out.

Last Son had not been born yet, or no doubt she would have asked us, "Is that the penis?"

True or False? Grit is Grit!

2011-09-20T12:51:00.000-07:00

Beginner Child was a latch-key kid at the age of nine. XBH (ex-Beginner Husband) did not wish to pay court-ordered child support, and so money was beyond tight. We lived in a very small town, and though the school had after school care, the cost was more than my budget could cover, so Beginner Child had to be home, alone, for two hours between school and my coming home from work. No, not the best scenario, but it that's what is was. The home alone “rules” were: he had to stay in the house or backyard, lock the front door, not answer the phone, and call me when he got home from school and at least once again. Oh, and no cooking.

This was before computers and Nintendo DS, so watching TV and eating were his in house options. I find it interesting that Beginner Child was only eight when he was home alone, while Last Son, who now nine, is not allowed to be home alone for any time. I believe my experiences with Beginner Child have shaped my current parenting standards on the age of when a child can be left on his own.

A priceless gem of Beginner Child’s childhood, and probably the first time I acted like the parent I hoped to be, is when...

Beginner Child was eight years old. I came home from work, did my normal check in with him on his day at school, received his usual “It was okay” response, and asked him to take a shower while I fixed dinner. When I put the baking pan for the chicken on the kitchen counter it made a scratchy noise. A closer inspection revealed a layer of fine grit on the counters...and the floor...and the top of the stove. What the hell? I cleaned off the counter and stove, swept up the floor and finished up with dinner. The dining room table had some dust on it too. The living room looked unscathed. Very mysterious.

During dinner, I asked Beginner Child if he knew what was all over the floor. He looked down at the floor and said, “I don’t see anything.” Well, of course not child, I swept it up.

No use in asking about the kitchen counter either, at this point.

Beginner Child dutifully went to bed without argument, which should have been a clue to...something. I shut down the house and took myself off to bed as well, not knowing that my head wasn’t going to hit my pillow for at least two more hours.

Back then, my dressers were antiques, and the drawers did not always shut easily, which meant they were sometimes left slightly open if I was in a hurry. Me in a hurry? Single mom? Anyway, I went to close them and there was more of that grit stuff inside my drawers coating socks, sweaters, whatever was in the open drawer, the same stuff as what I swept up off the kitchen floor. This fine grit had found its way into every open drawer, and on top of each dresser. Again, what the hell?

It was too late, and I was too tired, to clean, so I just took some big, deep breaths and chose to go to sleep and deal with the mess in the morning. Pulling back my sheet and comforter I almost laid down on the pile, yes PILE, of grit in the middle of my bed. This pile had been under the comforter and sheet, not on top.

Okay, for those really perfect parents, beware, my next act was a brief relapse of mirroring my mother... I stormed into Beginner Child’s room, switched on the overhead light and told him to get up! Beginner Child was half-asleep, until something in his brain must have registered that I had just discovered “the pile” in my bed.

“Mom, I didn’t mean to do it. I just couldn’t stop it.” Beginner Child sobbed out before I had even asked him any questions.

Note: I had recently attended a parenting workshop (yeah, I know, didn't I learn anything? but at least I knew I needed guidance) and felt this was a wonderful opportunity to see if that guy I listened to for four hours actually knew what he was talking about.

“Okay, let's both calm down. Now...what is this stuff?” I asked, gently, while pointing at the pile in my bed.

“I don’t know what it is...sand?” Seriously, he doesn't know what he put in my bed? Grrr. My internal voice had apparently not paid attention during the workshop. My external voice, fortunately, remained in control.

“Okay, what couldn’t you stop.” I now was more curious than furious. (What a catchy phrase.)

“That thing in the kitchen, it wouldn’t stop.” Sobbing had ceased. He was surprised at the “new parent” he was dealing with.

“Show me what "that thing" is in the kitchen.”

Beginner Child led me into the kitchen and pointed at the fire extinguisher which was in its holder by the stove. I truly had never given it much notice as it was there when I rented the house.

“How? What? Oh, Jeez was there a fire?” I twirled around the kitchen looking for burn marks.

Beginner Child then told me that no, there wasn’t a fire. He knew he wasn’t supposed to cook when he was alone (He can follow some directions, yeah!), he just wanted to see how the fire extinguisher worked. He said he pulled something off the top and it started spraying out and he couldn’t figure out how to make it stop, so he ran through the house and stuffed the fire extinguisher in my bed until it stopped making noise. Then he put the fire extinguisher back into its holder.

“Oh.” I was really straining to keep the “screamer mom” in, but that four hours in the parenting workshop was going to a waste of my time if I didn’t. “You know, I have never used a fire extinguisher before. I always wanted to know how they worked too. So, you're telling me that you can't stop the stuff from coming out once it starts?” Curiosity was extinguishing (I’m liking this word) any residual anger at the enormous mess Beginner Child’s experiment had caused.

“I couldn’t make it stop, Mom. I tried really hard.”

“Well, you can help me change my bed right now. Tomorrow after school, instead of “vegging” in front of the TV, you will vacuum the house-the entire house. AND next time you want to try to see how something works, could you ask me first? I might be curious too?” Wow, did that really just come out of my mouth?

I would like to say that from then on my parenting style was just like that...understanding, compassionate, positive. I’d be lying to you, but I did enjoy a delicious moment visualizing Beginner Child rushing through the house, freaked out, holding onto the fire extinguisher as it spewed, whatever it has in it, all through the kitchen and into my bedroom where it coughed its last breaths under my covers.

The Agony of Swimming with Trichophobia - and how I didn't get over it!

2011-09-13T19:00:00.000-07:00

No! It is supposed to say:
"Protect your Pool from your Hair!"

At my last milestone birthday, I decided it was time to set some new goals. First on the list was to be able to swim laps without looking like a dork. This activity may be so easy for some of you that your eyes are rolling up when you read this, but for me, it was harder than training for a half-marathon. And I had no idea that my challenge of swimming laps would also expose me to an unaddressed phobia.

For me to be able to swim laps, correctly, posed a tremendous challenge. I never truly learned how to swim properly. I got by after all these years by avoiding any activity which would highlight this gap in my childhood education. However, if you were to toss me in the ocean or a pool or a lake I will not drown. At least, I won’t drown where you threw me in. I may not make it to the beach or the shore if they are far away, but I will make it to the edge of the pool- and probably look okay doing it, though my head will be up like a dog’s, while my arms will be doing their thing. My style was much like an old lady who didn’t want to get her “do” wet. I have tried to teach myself to swim over the years by watching good swimmers, and trying to copy them. The Teenager swam competitively for five years, and was a tremendous inspiration. Listening poolside to her coaches, I picked up a lot of information on form. Putting it into action proved more difficult.

My first day of lap swimming I went to our local pool, which is a small one, but the only public pool in our coastal area. It is regularly packed every summer day, with lap swimming starting once public swim is over. Donning a swim cap over my wet and conditioned hair (a tip from a swimmer friend), wearing an old bathing suit (another tip), I gathered up a towel, my new swim goggles and was off to the pool. Before leaving the house, Himself let me know that I would most likely have to share a lane if it was crowded. When I arrived, every lane was occupied - with people who knew how to swim.

Now, faced with the no open lane scenario, how does one choose who to join? Is there a protocol to follow only known amongst swimmers? Is it a “your choice” rule, or does everyone start joining in at one side and just move to the next lane as they fill up? Himself had suggested I figure out which lane was the slow lane and start there. The slow lane? There are speed limits in a pool? Apparently, if you are a pokey swimmer, aka me, you aren’t supposed to share a fast lane. Discourteous and all that. Okay, I accept this “rule”, however, how does a “newbie” figure out which is the slow lane?

While sitting there, trying to see who was "slowest", and most likely looking a bit timid (yes, sometimes I can be timid), a wet friendly face popped up and said, “You can share this lane with me, I’m almost done.” Oh, how kind and maternal of her. Adjusting my goggles, I slipped into the water. I took some big breaths, visualized what I thought I should do, and plunged forward.

I made it one lap, stopped, held on to the side and gasped for breath. My form was obviously inefficient, but I had tried side breathing and I hadn’t hit the lane line, the side of the pool, or the other swimmer. However, hanging onto the edge of the lane messes up the other swimmer, but she continued to be very patient with me. Damn, this lap swimming was harder than I thought it would be. But it wasn’t my poor use of air control that was hampering me. Rather, it was my in-the-face panic moment when I became so totally aware of how gross pool water is after several hours of a hundred kids swimming in it. My new goggles were crystal clear and I could see all the hair floating by me. Looking down at the bottom near the drain I saw hair ties, a metal barrette, an old bandaid and a broken strap from a pair of goggles.

I am not a fan of loose, no longer connected to the scalp, hair mixed in water that makes contact with my face or body. It doesn't matter that it might be mine, it gives me the creeps. Viewing a Floating Hair Clump severely affects me both physically and mentally. It became increasingly difficult to get into my Zen breathing while I looked underwater. Solving my problem my swimming with my eyes squeezed shut proved to be very disorienting and potentially hazardous to my lane mate. Was I going to let my hair issues keep me from reaching my goal? No-but it definitely added a challenge that I had not foreseen.

In spite of seeing the horror of my underwater environment, I did succeed in swimming six laps. My form wasn’t pretty, but I was kind of getting the every-three-stroke-side-breath rhythm down. Not once did I resemble a water spaniel, so I felt that Day One was a success. But one day, or rather twenty minutes, does not a lap swimmer make. I would have to do it several days a week to reach my new, improved goal of 36 laps of glorious “I look like I know what I’m doing” swimming.

Over the next few weeks, I swam religiously, though my disgust of what lies below the waterline in public pools never wavered. A memorable moment of panic was had while swimming in my newly-acquired Zen state and I felt something move over my hand. Screaming underwater is difficult. Screaming underwater in a public pool can also be dangerous. I came up sputtering, water had made it into my mouth and probably... haaaaiiirrr!

Bobbing up and trying to drain out any remnants of pool water from my mouth I spied a tiny tan frog swimming vigorously away from me towards the center of the pool. Funny, I am more than grossed out touching floating hair in pools, but not afraid of touching frogs and gladly scooped the little critter out. (I did worry how his skin would take the chlorine he had just soaked up.) Apparently, he was not the only frog taking a dip as another disturbed swimmer came up splashing her frog away. I swam over and rescued her frog as well.

Returning to finish up my laps, I shuddered as I watched a clump of floating hair drift by my hand towards the side filter. It is difficult to swim and shudder simultaneously. The shudder came with the realization that just a minute or so ago, pool water had entered my mouth during my underwater scream. A quick round of the tongue through the mouth came up hairless. But the fact remained that pool water had already entered.

Because my brain continually carries on internal conversations when my body is physically occupied, several questions came up. Why don’t the lifeguards strain the pool before lap swimming starts? They have those long mesh things. The answer: Because they don’t go in the water, so they don’t know how gross it is, that’s why. I prefer to believe our youth are negligently uninformed, not intentionally avoiding doing something that could benefit others. What was the chance of me getting diarrhea later from any ingested water as I had heard can happen from pools? And if I actually thought this could happen, then why in the hell was I in here swimming in the first place? Can chlorine really kill everything? And if there was a chance of me getting diarrhea later, did some kid, perhaps a kid that comes every day to the pool, already have diarrhea and... you know...

The internal voices calmed down and I did achieve my goal of swimming laps that summer. My form was okay, thanks to encouragement from the pool deck, and yes floating hair actually streamed across my face during a few sessions which ruined my form for that lap as I freaked out a bit. I got past my disgust of looking underwater by allowing my goggles to fog up. I was able to barely make out large objects like lane mates and lane lines, but was oblivious to all the other stuff floating around. This method worked well and I only hit my head on the edge a few times. My hair got trashed from the chlorine, and my bathing suit had to be thrown away at the end of the summer. I still have extreme issues with loose hair and am close to gagging if I have to pull any out of my food, my coffee, or my mouth. In fact, damn the etiquette, I’ll work at finding and pulling out that little hair in my mouth however long it takes.

Back to the accomplishment of my goal: to be able to swim laps. If you were to throw me off a boat into the ocean or into a lake, I now have a very good chance of making it to shore - as long as the distance is no more than 36 pool lengths (though why you would ever feel the need to throw me in escapes me). Water clarity in either body of water would probably not disclose any floating hair masses. What I can't see won't hurt me, right?

But, you just try and throw me into a pool that has been previously occupied for several hours by a lot of people, and I will put up a mighty struggle, a fight for my well being, and it has nothing to do with me not wanting to get wet!

When Temporary is Really Permanent or How to Incorporate Dog Hair into your Design

2011-09-08T19:32:00.000-07:00

Very similar to our stairs,

except you need to add twelve

years of spilled drinks,drops

of paint,dog drool,dirt, etc.

We began adding on to our current home twelve years ago. I say “began” because we may be unable to put a past tense on that statement. During the design phase, I told Himself that I wanted a big ass house with a large kitchen. Of course we did not have the budget to finish a big ass house. The analogy would be someone trying to build a Porsche with a Volkswagen budget. It doesn't happen, something will be missing. Ergo, several aspects of our house are still unfinished. But with the amount of time that has passed, we are currently into maintenance projects. These take precedence over finishing initial projects.

One such unfinished project is the interior staircase. It is still construction grade wood. Had I known I would be writing this current description of those stairs, ten years after the stairs were put in, I would have at least painted or stained them back then. Himself keeps telling me it is too much work to sand them down now and paint them. He also says the paint will wear off in the traffic zone. I’m thinking it’s okay if the paint starts wearing off in a year or so, at least it will show that there was paint on them once. Plus, maybe the dog hair will float down the stairs easier with the painted finish, and hopefully it will collect in just one big pile on the landing. If I was to tackle this project now, what color should I paint them? Dog hair color? A stain color trying to fake a better looking wood? Or some totally out there color that screams,“I know the stairs are just construction grade wood, but aren’t they painted a cool color? We meant to do this!”

Writing this, I am actually getting excited about this idea. Knowing that “someday” the stairs will be covered by finish wood, I can have some fun with this project. I’m visualizing patterns, words, mosaics of color. As Himself likes to say, “Nothing more permanent than a good temporary fix.” This philosophy explains why our dining room table is a piece of 1 inch plywood with sanded and rounded corners, sitting on top of four 4”x4” “legs”. This “temporary” dining room table is now permanently painted bright “Safety Red” (this really is the color stated on the can). It functions, so now why would I still want a beautiful Amish-crafted dining room table?

Saying I do get this project going, how will the family get from one floor to the next? Creatively, and with care. How will I keep the dog hair from blowing onto the drying paint? Hmm, perhaps I’ll use the dog hair as texture to keep the painted step from being too slick. Next step, let's go see the choice of paint stored in the garage. Since Himself won’t be too keen on me purchasing paint (yet) for a project that he sees as a big waste of time, I’ll be restricted to what is on hand.

Of course this new project of mine will keep me from exercising for the next several days or weeks (are those tears of sadness or glee coursing down my cheeks?), and it may take a few more glasses of wine to make this tedious project more enjoyable (see comment above about tears), and it may change the whole look of the house since the staircase is seen from everywhere (again, see my comment above), but sacrifices must be made.

The only downside I’m seeing is the fact that I’ll have to sand the old wood first. I’ll only do it if I can use the power sander. I hate the feeling, energy, and sound of hand-sanding large pieces of wood. It is right up there with fingernails on the chalkboard. Then there is the dust from the sanding, followed by tremendous time vacuuming up the dust. And how much wine is in the fridge? Enough to start right away? Details, details, so many details.

LOSING, FINDING , LOSING AND FINDING THE TITLE TO THE KIA

2011-09-07T07:00:00.000-07:00

This is a follow-up to my August 26 post where I relived the time, many months ago, when I attempted to register the KIA, aka generic SUV. If you like ironies, and who doesn’t?...I did find the “plain white envelope”, eventually, sandwiched between some gift boxes in the closet. Apparently, that is where it has been for the past three or so months. I haven’t a clue how it got there, and probably never will. In a rare instance of cleaning out the closet, the envelope fell onto the floor. I grabbed it up, looked in, and actually squealed as I ran into Himself’s office, where I stated, “I found it!” and started ripping it to shreds. After a brief reminisce of how much trouble this document had caused me, I swept up the shreds and threw them in the recycling bin.

Should have been “end of story”, right? Not in this house. That night, I popped up from a sound sleep. I didn’t really check over the document inside the envelope, before ripping it to shreds, to verify it was the missing title. Maybe it was the “real title.” I assumed it was the missing one that I was gleefully ripping to pieces (yes, yes, I know: When you assume, you make an ass of u and me). Not wanting to wake up Himself or the kids as I searched the house for the “real title” or scavenged outside in the recycling bin at midnight for scraps of whatever I ripped up, I let myself go back to sleep knowing that trash day was still a few days away. Plenty of time for confirmation.

Except that I forgot all about it the next morning, and the following day. I remembered the evening before trash day, and was rummaging around the recycling bin as the sun sank into the fog bank. Wow, I shredded that document into really small pieces! Really small pieces that had fallen through really small spaces into the nether layers below, through butter wrappers, sour cream containers, yogurt cups, etc. After too long rummaging through icky plastic and paper, I did find enough shreds to confirm that it was the missing title-the “cost me an extra $300” missing title. Oh yeah for me. Again, this should have been the end of the story, right? Nope, not yet.

Confirming that I had indeed shredded the “too late to use it” title, it became important that I view the “real title” too, and now. Well, of course, it wasn’t where it “should” have been, among the other vehicle titles, birth certificates, etc. Did I panic? Nope, I stayed calm, realizing I didn’t really need to know where the title was until I wanted to sell the vehicle, and by that time-hopefully many years from now-it could be honestly “lost” or “misplaced” without any connection to me. This future excuse would not work if I asked Himself if he had put it somewhere. It was time to let the matter rest.

Follow-up to the follow-up: The “real title” surfaced recently during another spontaneous cleaning out of a cabinet. Yep, there it was...on the shelf tucked between the dog and cat flea control packages, next to the supply of new checks. And that is where it will stay, for now, since somehow its location must make perfect sense to some part of my brain. Of course, I may not have been the person who stuck it there, but if I ask, I will expose my lack of knowing where it was in the first place. Best to let shedding (sleeping?) dogs lie, or is that lay?

Vacuuming: One step closer to insanity!

2011-09-06T14:06:00.000-07:00

Okay, this dog does not look happy.
But, this may be the answer to my dreams!

I like a clean house. Problem is, I don’t want to clean it. It’s not the actually cleaning part, but more the amount of precious time needed to keep it clean. Dust accumulates overnight in this house. Our dog is a Golden Retriever. You cannot own a Golden Retriever unless you like to vacuum. I mean really, really like to vacuum. We have maple hardwood floors, which are approximately the same color as the dog’s hair, so you don’t always see it until it starts billowing up behind you as you walk by. If it’s been a few days between vacuuming, and happens to coincide with a more heavy seasonal shed, there can be a lot of dog hair on the floor. When I vacuum during one of these heavier-than-normal-shedding times, the whole top layer of floor appears to move as a unit as it is sucked into the floor nozzle. We have a Dyson, which I can truly state is the best vacuum I have ever owned. Seeing how much dirt and hair I suck up in just one room is amazing, and appalling. We have some area rugs which are vacuumed with the Dyson in upright mode. The rotating brush picks up the dog hair very effectively, but the length of my dog’s hair twirls around and around the brushes and must be cut and pulled out by hand every month. I have had to replace a few parts of the Dyson due to wear and tear, and a few parts that did not survive the day the Dyson had an unfortunate fall down our wood stairs.

Overall, vacuuming is not that big of a chore, but my house is large and it takes over two hours to vacuum all of it. I seldom vacuum the entire house in one session. The Teenager will usually vacuum her room if the vacuum is brought in and left there. Last Son will occasionally volunteer to vacuum his room.

My issue with vacuuming is all the crap on the floors which requires me to bend over, pick up the item and put it out of the vacuum’s suck zone. Last Son likes to have Nerf gun battles throughout the house, and I am getting really tired of picking up Nerf darts as I vacuum. I’ve tried vacuuming around them, but the Dyson sucks them up like they’re Dyson food. If I am in “Nice Mom” mode, I’ll pluck them out of the canister right away. “Nice Mom” rinses these darts off (dust sticks to Nerf darts like glue) before resuming vacuuming. If “Mean Mom”, on the otherhand, is in charge of vacuuming that day, she shows no mercy until she is finished. It is likely that she will get distracted before she remembers there are Nerf darts and other “precious items” inside the canister. If the kids are home, “Mean Mom” gives a ten minute warning to Teenager and Last Son that vacuuming will commence in ten minutes. This announcement is followed by my children scrambling to pick up all the crap on their floors before the vacuum is turned on. “Mean Mom” does not intentionally vacuum up anything left on the floor, but it can and will happen. “Mean Mom” says, “Oops, I have no idea what that was”, as the sucked up item rattles into the canister. Sometimes I can see what the victim item is before it is swallowed deep into the hair and dirt, and if it is something I will need to replace (meaning it is necessary and will cost money), I will retrieve it. However, if the victim item is “non-essential” in my world, or cannot be readily identified, no search for the victim item will ensue.

When Teenager was a toddler, to her horror she witnessed a few Barbie shoes get sucked up after the vacuuming announcement. She ignored the warning then, however, it only took that one time to convince her that “Mean Mom” meant business. She has yet to defy “the warning” since that pivotal day. Last Son, however, acts like he doesn’t really care if some of his Legos get sucked up, and defeats “Mean Mom” by simply reminding “Mean Mom” how much Legos cost and how hard it is to make sure every single last tiny Lego is picked up, thus delaying immediate vacuuming.

Even after the second announcement, Last Child will still be picking up or playing when the vacuum, whining through the door (The decibel level on a Dyson is a tad high), starts sucking up baseball diamond grit, beach sand and garden dirt while dodging dirty balled up socks, pennies,etc. still laying around. (Note: I cringe when I hear a penny or other coins sucked up. It’s not like a penny is worth much, but I will retrieve them. Can’t stand the idea of money going into the landfill knowingly.) Last Child frantically tries to guess my next move and actually picks up potential victims and flings them into the nearest corner of his room. Before I start to vacuum that corner, Last Child dives in front of me and flings the victims into already vacuumed areas, thus avoiding accidental suck up by “Mean Mom.” He has experienced the moment of panic when he missed something and heard the tink-tink-tink of “something” being sucked up. Okay, I admit I have filtered through dust, dog hair, dirt, sand, and all the other gross human flake that gets sucked up, searching for tiny Lego Star Wars guns and helmets. But if you have ever tried to replace these Lego parts, you know they are worth more than the pennies and dimes I willingly pick out.

If it bugs me so much, then why don’t I “make” the kids do the vacuuming? Answer: Because until I enjoy stepping on grit, or tiny Lego parts (ouch!), until I can reach a “zen moment” watching dog hair gracefully float in the air billowing up behind the dog (or anyone walking by); and until I get to the point where I don’t care if someone stops by and sees my house like this, I will continue to repeat the above actions.

My brain just popped up with Albert Einstein’s quote: Insanity: doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Okay, so, I ask you: Is it more insane for me to just stop vacuuming-waiting for the kids or elves to do it? Or doing what I am doing, over and over, hoping for a different result, but still having a mostly vacuumed house?

What has 6 wheels and 82 legs?

2011-09-04T00:36:00.000-07:00

With Beginner Child’s wish to “baaale haaay” when he grew up, I don’t know why I dared to hope that Last Son’s dream for his future would be more...inspiring or ambitious. Nope, when Last Son grows up, what he plans to do is a bit wacky.

From the moment he first stepped inside an RV at the age of six, Last Son has dreamed of living in a motorhome when he grows up...a motorhome with twenty cats. He wants to travel everywhere with his home, and his cats, with him always. This Last Son has always enjoyed traveling, but also shows the biggest relief coming back home and sleeping in his own bed. I suppose in his six-year-old mind living in a motorhome would be a great way to spend his life. And with twenty cats, the odds are good that at least one or two of them will not scatter when he moves to pet them. Last Son does not move anywhere slowly. He runs in and out of doorways, jumps into bed, does ninja rolls over ottomans, and just doesn't stay still very long. All this movement makes our two cats a bit unsettled. The only way Last Son can pet our cats is to move close to the cat very slowly, with his hands by his side, not make any eye contact, and nonchalantly put his hand on the cat lightly. Which is very sad since one of the cats is his.

My parenting has tempered a bit since Last Son came on the scene. When I heard Last Son's future quest, I did not react like I did to Beginner Child's career choice by packing up and leaving the state. Actually, I was fascinated to hear more about Last Son's motorhome dream. Perhaps he had a creative career path that needed a motorhome. Time to ask Last Son to give me some details on his plan.

“Where do you plan on going in your motorhome?” I asked him.

“I’m going to see the world, definitely China,” Last Son replied. He has dabbled with a fascination of China ever since he read about the Great Wall.

“Hmm, how will you get the motorhome from here to there?” I hope he realizes he can’t drive there.

“On a big container ship.” Hmm, he’s been thinking a bit about this.

“What kind of work will you be doing?” Oh please answer with something that requires some intelligence.

This guy lives in his motorhome and has
five cats that he does tricks with.
I wonder if his mother ever comes to visit?

“I don’t know.” This came with a shrug and a “who knows?” look on his face.

“Hmm, well, how are you planning to feed all those cats? You are going to need money to buy food for twenty cats.”

“Look, I haven’t got that far yet, okay mom. Maybe I’ll just have ten cats.” His tone made it clear - I had asked my final question.

In Last Son’s first grade class, there were adorable twin girls who had a bit of a crush on him. Their mother told me the girls were sure that one of them, if not both, were going to grow up and marry Last Son. I informed this mother that Last Son was planning to live in a motorhome with twenty cats when he grew up. She pondered what I said, and then replied that one of the girls would probably find this arrangement quite agreeable.

It is now very clear to me that I did not spend time with either of my sons, when they were young and impressionable, discussing all, or apparently any, of the wonderful career choices out in the world available to them. Last Son has assured me that when I am old I can stay with him in his motorhome, just for a few weeks though...he might need someone to feed his cats.

Beginner Child and The Larva

2011-08-29T15:01:00.000-07:00

These larva, nothing like what landed on my hand,
or on Beginner Child's bed, make pretty little cases
for themselves out of tiny pebbles. Fashionista Larva.

While at my desk, playing Staries, a computer game I am currently addicted to, I felt something on my hand. Thinking my hand was just getting those first twinges of mouse overuse, I ignored it. I did shoot a look down and saw something moving on top of my hand. Ewww, it was some sort of laaarrrvaaa. Twisting, squirming in all its “larvaness.” I flicked it off onto the desk and smashed its little beginning life out. Damn, now I don’t know what it could have been, meaning: What kind of larva was it? Did it fall from the ceiling (termite)? Did the cat in my lap bring it in? Or is it the spawn from something living, unseen, in my office?

I’m not seeing any on top of my desk. Did the thing bounce off my head, landing fatefully on my hand? Have others landed on my head, getting trapped in my hair? And why when I think of squirming things, do I flit back to the incident many years ago starring Beginner Child and “the larvae”?

Beginner Child was around twelve years old and we were living in a house with open beam ceilings. Beginner Child had shelves above his bed filled with books, treasures, the sort of stuff most twelve year olds have. The top shelf was too high for him, so was unused. He was a fairly neat child, but wouldn’t always make his bed in the morning. Sometimes I would make it for him, hoping that seeing his bed neat and orderly would inspire him to keep it that way.

I came into Beginner Child’s room to put away some washed clothes and noticed some squirming things on his bedspread. They seemed to be in a line. Strange. I swept them up and looked up to the ceiling. There was a beam straight above the bed. I thought that what I was seeing was evidence of termites. Note, I didn’t have a tremendous amount of termite identification experience back then.

I checked on Beginner Child’s bedspread that night. Again, a few more larva-ish things were squirming on top of the spread, and in the same exact place-almost in a line. Okay, time to alert Himself, who was a part of my life then.

Himself looked at the squirmers and looked up at the ceiling beam, “I don’t think those are termites.”

“Well, what are they then?” I like to further my education on all subjects whenever possible.

“I don’t know, let’s just keep checking and see if they stop showing up.” I have since learned that this is the coping manner of Himself when he doesn’t want to deal with something right away.

Beginner Child came home late and went right to bed. I forgot about the larva until the next day. I made up his bed that morning. By that night, again we found larva in the same spot on the spread.

“We need to deal with these termites right away, this is gross.” I had seen enough and wanted it to stop. Thinking of how many might have fallen on top of Beginner Child in his sleep was very disturbing. Himself agreed we would do further investigation while Beginner Child was away that weekend.

Beginner Child left that evening to visit his dad. Beginner Husband had by this time acquired an “X” in front of his description. XBH moved many hours away and visitations were few: holidays and three-day weekends. This was a three-day weekend, and so the bed stayed made up.

Before Beginner Child returned home, I checked his bed for larva (this sentence is so wrong!), removed a few, while muttering to myself “this is ridiculous.” Looking around the room, I saw it could use some dusting. I began dusting the lower shelf above his bed, thankful there wasn’t any larvae on them. Then, standing on the bed, reaching up as high as I could to dust the top shelf, my hand felt something weird, something outdoorsy.

I felt around some more and grabbed a bird’s nest off the top shelf. What the hell? Where did this come from? It wasn’t as if a bird had made it all the way into his room and nested without us noticing.

Old bird nests, in their natural, abandoned state, are not at all like the sterile fake bird nests you see in home decor shops. Nope, they are actually dirty, with old down feathers from hatchlings and such. That would be the condition of a typical nest, except in the nest I was holding in my hand that fateful day of dusting. That particular nest had the usual downy feathers clinging onto the twigs, along with something organic stuck in some feathers at the bottom of the nest. Turning over the nest, I dislodged a bunch of squiggly maggots, which fell onto the spread. The bottom of the nest was infested with them.

I don’t know what the maggots were still living on. The bottom of the nest had bits of something that looked like it had oozed down through from the inside. I yelled for Himself to come see what I had found. Being taller, he could see the entire upper shelf.

Himself looked down at the nest I was still holding, then up to the shelf. Standing on the bed, and looking eye level at the shelf, he announced that there were no other nests, but there were maggots squirming and rolling around on the shelf underneath where the nest used to be. In fact, they were rolling right off the shelf and landing on the spread below as he said this.

I handed him the paper towels and cleaner. Lucky for me, Himself was the only one tall enough to do the job right.

We weren’t dealing with termites, we were dealing with live maggots living off of whatever had been in that nest. Maggots that had been up there for who knows how long, rolling off the shelf for a week or so, landing on the spread, landing on...

When Beginner Child returned from his visit with XBH, we told him about finding the bird nest.

“Oh, I forgot all about it.” He was very happy we had found it.

“Where did it come from?”

“I found it on the ground under the trees by the driveway.” Oh, good he didn’t remove an inhabited nest.

“Was there anything in the nest?”

“There was a baby bird in it, but I checked and it was dead.”

Oh.

Skinny Jeans for Large Women?

2011-08-27T08:00:00.000-07:00

Ok, I have gained some weight in the past few years, not gradually either. More specifically a lot of weight in the last three years. I now have a "muffin top", and my butt and thighs look like they belong on a woman who eats McDonald's crap everyday. How did this happen? Is there a limit to the amount of fat that will congeal on my butt? And now I need to buy some new jeans. But when I'm out shopping all I see are jeans for other women. Women with no waists or thighs. Women with "low cracks" who can wear low rise jeans. I apparently have a "high crack", which looks really bad looming above the waistband when I barely bend over. This isn't a good look on a teenager, and it definitely isn't something anyone wants to see on a woman over forty-or-fifty-something.

And who the hell thinks women who wear a size 14 and up should wear "skinny jeans"? This is not a style that should be marketed, nor encouraged, to this size range. There are shows on TV that will throw this jean style out of your closet if you wear a larger size.

I am trying to find jeans that do not shout to the world that... yes, I have let myself go to hell. I used to run. A lot, and long distances. I eat treats like I am still running 8 miles a day. For some reason, I thought my body had a "weight limit". That I would reach that limit and the weight gain would stop. I have begun to reassess that line of thinking since I am over what I thought my limit would be. I now see a future involving elastic waist “easy and care-free” pants. Pants that have enough fabric to cover the mound of fat that will be bulging below and above my waist. Will I be the woman who shops in the "Women's" section - no longer welcome in the "Misses" section and decades past the "Juniors" section?

My brain still wants to dress up in something short and clingy. Something I could buy at Forever 21 or Banana Republic. But of course, I do have principles and some semblance of style, and won’t subject the public to my body in those clothes. No, I’ll just simply smile as the Teenager tries on anything trendy and looks fabulous. And yes, I did check out the "Plus" section at Forever 21, before I had a reality check and remembered the name of the store and that those days were over and long gone.

I have begun to hate shopping. I can't find anything I want to wear that looks good on the current body I am inhabiting. Perhaps that is my problem...I think I am just temporarily inhabiting this current body, and that somehow, if I just “think” of exercising tomorrow and “think” of not eating sweets, "my body" will slowly return to me. Though when "my body" returns, and it may still, I will miss the "girls" that came with this weight. I actually see cleavage now, where once there was a wide valley. Granted, the "girls" need to be helped into place, but they are still pointing up, and so we'll let them be happy while the rest of me sinks into various lumps of cellulite depression.

My worst “oh my god is that really me?” moment was a few months ago when I had to buy a new bathing suit. I am a born and raised California girl who has always worn very little to the beach. Even after having Last Son, in my mid-forties, I still looked (or at least I think I did) great in a bathing suit. I always felt so bad for the kids at the beach or pool whose moms wouldn’t wear a bathing suit because they were overweight. These moms would still wear shorts or T-shirts, or both, sweating away. Sometimes they would go in the water with these hide-a-fat-body outfits. But not me. I wanted to teach my daughter, by example, to be proud of her body, and all its imperfections.

Yeah, well, I still looked pretty good when those pearls of wisdom came out of my mouth. Back then, I was starting to gain some weight, but had not really hit my stride in volume yet. Teenager, who was barely seven then, said the most profound thing when she caught me staring in disgust at myself in the mirror. “Mom, maybe you’re supposed to look like that.” How kind of her. How elevated in consciousness she is. She is a wise child, and I wanted her to be right.

So what is Teenager saying to me now? “Mom, your face still looks great!”

Last Son doesn’t see what the big deal is about my problem of not fitting into my clothes. This from the child who will wear jeans above his ankles because they still fit around his waist.

And what does Himself say when he is challenged to answer my loaded question, “I’ve really gained a lot of weight, haven’t I?”

“I’ll still do ya!”