Sassality

Service, appreciation and love. The not-so-silent connection

2012-03-04T09:35:00.001-08:00

Whenever Rog (my husband) calls me several times a day with no other comment than to tell me he loves and appreciates me, or gives me lots of unwarranted hugs and quite, kind looks across the island in the kitchen, I know something is up.

When this started, around Thanksgiving of last year, I worried the shoe was going to drop, and his words and looks were preparatory to an unwelcome announcement. It never happened. Instead, he invariably revealed an experience that had made an indelible impression, causing him to re-up his appreciation of me, our girls, the home, and our family life in general. Who among us, I ask, doesn't want a spouse to experience this type of transformation, even if it is only temporary?

The kitchen buffet line where
Roger served

This time was slightly different. Rog came home late, around 9 pm. I knew he and his hockey team were going to be making and serving dinner at the Ronald McDonald House in Seattle. For those international readers (which nearly outnumber those in the US), the RM House is a place where children, stricken ill with terrible diseases (cancer is the most common) can live with their families, all expenses paid, as their children undergo surgeries and recuperate.

He hugged me several times, loved on the girls and before he could say much, I enthusiastically explained that he gave service to a dear friend's niece. Her niece, in her early 30's, had 1 year old girl born with a cleft palate, and has had a series of operations in the last few months. Her four year old daughter was diagnosed with cancer in her leg, and after surgery, the doctors found another huge cancer tumor in her other leg. The father recently returned from Iraq to see his youngest daughter for the first time, and comfort his four-year old. The entire family was living at the RM House.

When I told Roger about the connection, he shook his head, not recalling the family. "It was so packed," he said, recounting he and his team were hard pressed to cook, serve and cleanup for the 60 or groups that only a few faces stood out. "I worked harder in those four hours than I have in a long time." He changed the subject, back to our own family. He apologized for working so much, for not doing homework with our daughter. For neglecting to put the handles on the doors to their closet (I told him not to worry on that count. I've come to appreciate grimy fingerprints as works of art on permanent display). He said he regretted not telling me he loved me more, or appreciated my work in the yard (going so far as okay'ing my purchase of the Huskavarna jacket after the fact). He went on. At the end, I knew he had seen many things he couldn't express, with or without a eruption of emotion.

Then he stopped.

"Those kids, most without hair from the cancer treatments-- in every one, there was hope and fear," he said, his voice soft and harsh. He was at the bottom of the staircase, holding one rail, his other hand at his hip. "And this woman, she came down by herself. I guess she was early thirties. I think at any other time, she would have been very pretty, and I could see her as a vibrant happy person. But you know," and here he stopped, looking at me hard so he wouldn't lose it, "she just was holding on. Doing all she could to survive." Rog described her walking zombie-like through the area, getting food and leaving, all the while, her eyes were glassy, like she wasn't really there. I would have been a wreck, I told him, and he shook his head. "No, we were too busy to reflect. That happened later, on the way home."

"I've never done that before you know," he said, referring to giving service. I did know. Other than distributing blankets to the homeless in San Francisco, he'd not actively sought out service projects. "I've got to do that now. At least once I month. I've got to figure it out." He didn't need to tell me the appreciation for health and family, for home and love, are too often taken for granted. I was thankful for his experience, the boost of love it injected in our home. He's was wrong on one count though. He's not the only one that needs to give service one a month. I do too.

Accelerating your workout-New finds for relieving aching joints, detoxing & slimming

2012-03-03T11:20:00.000-08:00

A few weeks back, I was fortunate enough to spend some time with a national level instructor in the line of martial arts I've been studying for a number of years. (National level means he has multiple black belts--I think he's at a level 7 or 8). He was up from San Diego for a few days, and I knew it might be six months or so before I saw him again. At the end of our conversation, which included his yoga-like bits of wisdom ("goodness is like a seed, plant it and it will grow, spread, and drop more seedlings, causing others to do good"), I casually mentioned that I was having lower back pains.

I now use this before
working out on
my lower back.
Works wonders

"Have you tried this," he asked, raising a tube of Jadience herbal formula. I'd never seen it before, noting that the "Muscle & Joint Therapeutic Cream Extra Strength" smelled slightly herbish, but was all natural.

"It's in all the Marriott Spas, Four Seasons etc," and is based on the recipes of the Grandmaster in our line of martial arts. "Are you hurting now? Here, try some."

He handed me the tube, and I slathered a bit on my lower back. Ever since having children, my back has been weaker than normal and I've had a pinched nerve that bothers me on an off. No amount of yoga, stretching or strength training is getting rid of it. I'm not in actual 'pain' per se, but it's irritating. Within seconds--I'll say 15-- the pain was gone. It stayed gone until that evening, and I didn't notice it again until the following morning.

What's interesting is that I went to the web site and learned about the founder and creator of the products, Janelle Kim. Turns out she has a masters in oriental medicine, her father a doctor and

: Jenelle Kim, MSTOM, L.Ac., Co-Founder of Jadience

based his medicine on a physician, Heo Jun, who served the Imperial Emperors way back when. Jun compiled a 25 volume collection on natural medicine. I don't know about you, but I believe that any herbal medicines who were tested on thousands of peasants, and ultimately used to keep the rulers alive, has some merit.

The Jadience web site is wonderful, and I ordered a bottle of herbal bath solution from the Detox Collection. I started with the Total Body Detox Soak. This goes in a steaming bath, and rids the body of toxins. How do I attest to this claim? Well, no doctor I, but I felt more refreshed, clear-headed and awake after the bath. During the bath however, I didn't feel so well. And that, of course, is the point. Toxins are poisons, and when leaving the body, it's an uncomfortable process. I didn't get sick--just felt a bit quesy. Afterward, I felt like a million bucks, and worked out for an hour.

Jadience Slimming Soak

Next up, I ordered the Slimming Soak, because I want to buy in to the fantasy I can lose weight simply by pouring some liquid in a hot bath, read my fantasy novel and come out a new, slimmer me. The marketing included detox and rejuvination, but what I really cared about was the reduction of cellulite. Certain herbs are proven to reduce the size of cellulite (and yes, many men even care about this), so I gave it a whirl. Guess what? It really worked. I looked at my legs before and after, and it was a marked difference. Of course, this isn't going to help if I go have a blowout at the hamburger joint, but I definitely use it the day or two before I'm going to put on a swimsuit.

With a bit more investigation, I learned that some of the other cremes are those that we've been using in the martial arts studio for years. These include hand and feet sprays (to accelerate the healing, and loosening of the joint muscles) as well as for detoxing during workouts. I'm completely hooked, and thrilled that a bit of wisdom from the instructor has given me a whole new world of products that are 100% natural, and affordably priced. (And for new readers who may not know my policy, I receive no kick-backs from my reviews or commentary. Just tried and true feedback for you!).

Me and the Grinch: both hairy and full of angst

2012-03-01T19:48:00.002-08:00

Imagine the sex-appeal of riding atop
a motorized lawn-mower in this baby...

I'm depressed and out of sorts, though not sure why. What, with my brand new ninety-dollar jailhouse orange-and black colored Huskavarna jacket to ride around in the snow, how can life be bad? After all, I wasn't the wanna-be movie director who, during a 4 pm conference call today, got shut down by the producer for one of my books-turning-to-film, while I tried to play the diplomat. This followed my daughters realization that "Santa can't exist. No one can live in the North Pole." When I queried her on the subject (what about reindeers etc.) she point-blanked me.

"Mom, is Santa for real? And don't lie. Tell me the truth." I don't know what bothered me more. The fact that she knows what lying is, or that she already knew the answer and wanted confirmation. Now that I'm thinking about it, I supposed my odd feeling could be the result of having a future attorney on my hands. (Of course, that's far less expensive than educating her to become a doctor, which she already announced she wants to be).

Prior to the Santa announcement, I had the near-loss of my dog. My daughter gave my beloved P-dog an entire bottle of Dasuqun pills, which landed her in the vet hospital, but not before she vomited on my master bed comforter, the main floor, down the stairs, and in three spots on the family room floor, spewing two-foot spreads of goo mixed with baseball-sized chunks. (Who feels sexy cleaning up food from the after-life at 3 am as the family sleeps?) P-dog is home now, red-eyed and a bit skittish. Her stay at the animal hospital allowed me to get the carpet cleaners in and the house fumigated as much as possible.

This is a fair assimilation of me and my subdued state of
bummed-out harriness

Now that I'm having time to consider my woes of the week (as I've not been blogging, and you can always tell when my life is in an emotional and mental trough when I stop writing), I would say the capper came last night, when I looked down and couldn't see my toes. My stomach had popped from flat to about five and a half-months pregnant, all since lunch.

"What happened to you?" was all my sensitivity-chip missing husband asked. I could barely touch the tips of my thumbs as I placed my palms on either side. "I don't know," I stammered, trying not to be bloaty and farty at the same time. I slunk away, wanting to confine my misery to another room, void of humans. This landed me in bed, where I lay, thinking of all that was wrong in the world.

There is a bright side however. My stomach went down (I went on a 24 hour fast that cured me of most of problems), the dog is lounging beside me, looking slightly smaller than before, and the producer is still moving forward with my movie project. I'm going to go make some vanilla pudding and go watch the Grinch with my girls. (It being Dr. Suess Read-Across-America Week after all. Who says we can't watch Santa-esque movies even if we don't believe?)

Burning butts cause serious pain

2012-02-27T08:00:00.001-08:00

One of my marital requirements for staying in an environment that is more rainy and dark and sunny and light is a seat-heat in my car. I'm not talking a portable blanket warmer or hemorroidal helper like a heating pad. I'm talking full-blown, 120 degree, full-body ankle to back-of-the-head embedded car seat heater. When my husband asked me if it was a 'marital thing' I said "No. It's a happiness thing." If he wants happiness whilst in the marital state, he'd buck it up and put a seat heater in his car as well.

He has often scoffed at me for my over-use of the seat-heaters, which I'll turn on in the middle of the summer when it's overcast. With three levels of heat, I'll go for low when the breeze it out and high when it's snowing. Regardless, it's like a portable binky I never got over and don't have to acknowledge to anyone, until now.

Seat heaters are actually burning and scarring people's butts. Worse, many over-users of seat heaters such as myself, are complaining of rippling of the skin that doesn't dissipate when the seat heater is turned off. Turns out that over use can permanently ruin the skin, from the back of the calf all the way up to the back. (This is what happens when high winds force the closure of the gondola. I, like everyone else, surf the Internet and then become appalled/enlightened with some new piece of trivia).

"I told you so," said Rog, the sage of all that is cold and wise. The man has no understanding. He's a walking, talking heat-meister, perfectly comfortable in shorts in 45 degree weather. Thankfully, we don't own an Escalade, which is supposed to be the worst offender for seat heaters. He did however, break down and get after market seats put in his hee-haw truck so I'd be comfortable.

A'course, some heaters simply fail and burn a hole right through the seat. Youch. According to the site suggestions, once in a while usage isn't bad (to and from somewhere), but not 6 hours in a row. (Hmm. I regularly make a trip that's 5.5-6 hours one way, and I have that baby cranking the entire time. No red dimpling on the back of my legs...well, wait. Is that dimpling or cellulite? I can't tell..)

In the meantime, Rog has a great idea. "Go back to using blankets or wear a coat." Smart man. Not as cozy but beats burned skin any day.

What Dad's do for children

2012-02-26T08:30:00.005-08:00

On Thursday I entered the den of culinary destruction, otherwise known as XXX burgers in Issaquah. Unlike the week prior, when I was alone and forlorn, drowning my misery in a large root beer float and onion rings, I was this time surrounded by my urchins.

We arrived at 11:30, before the rush of madness by the local crowd, or so I thought. The postcard, photo antique-covered walls were barely visible beyond the mass of heads. Mostly men, the majority wearing the workaday outfits of the nearby shops: Oil Can Henries, a Honda repair shop, a few service stations. We made a lap around the small fire in the center, searching for an open booth and waited for a group to leave.

Sometimes, a Dad is best
when reading between two grand-daughters

As I settled us in, ordered with the hasty semi-panic of a mom w/an unruly two-year old and a six year old eyeing the numerous gum ball and toy machines that suck my quarters out like a supersonic vacuum, I notice the men on the other side of me. Or rather, seated beyond my oldest daughter. Not a lot of hair on either, their clothes were dirty, their voices low. They didn't acknowledge the noise from my table, which gave me some comfort. Only father's can act immune to the cacophony of sound produced by a stranger's children. The food came fast, and as I fed the ravenous beasts around me, I overheard a sound bite that caught my attention.

"She's really in to riding," said the man who was facing me. His hair was cut shorter than Dr. Drew, and when he tilted forward to eat a hamburger this size of his head, I saw why. He was mostly bald on the top. Yet when he raised it back up, his bright blue eyes popped out, as did his tan face and nice structure. He had the middle age sag that comes from being early forties, but he was still thin and handsome, the dirt on his shirt and nails adding rather than detracting from the look. "It's about three or four hundred a month."

His companion started talking about his sons and their preferred sports. Motorcycle riding and snowmobiling. As I sporadically ate and spent time keeping the vanilla shake from being knocked over, the two talked about their profession (he with the girl lays foundations, the other is general construction). They also discussed the pros and cons of their 'side jobs,' the girl's father relating how tending bar is great money (upwards of six hundred bucks a night) but is much harder than laying foundation. "I am more broken after a night of running back and forth than a full day of laying foundation."

I sat in more than than a bit of awe as I eavesdropped, wondering if their children had any idea how long and hard the men toil to provide for their children. The one man's daughter wants to compete, and he must "somehow come up with another four to six hundred a month," because he doesn't want to disappoint her. "All her friends are doing it," he said, matter of factly, a quiet moment following before his friend joined in, echoing his statement in relation to his own sons.

They paid, splitting the bill and left before we did. I kept my head down, not wanting to meet their eyes should they have looked our way. I'm not sure why. A smile of approval that might have been misinterpreted? I wasn't going to take chance. I just sat their, watching them leave, reflecting on what dad's do for their children, and if the children will ever know.

Preventing varicose veins

2012-02-25T08:30:00.000-08:00

Back in Sept of 2010 when I wrote about remedies for reducing and eliminating ugly varicose veins, I should have written a section about prevention. Silly me. In my defense, I was trying to keep to She's comment about the 5 paragraph blog which is the bane of my existence. I'm more writer than blogger, and not so good at that, but I digress on what my readers already know.

I had the uncommon good fortune to have a friend whose family was in the circus. Literally. Three generations of performing with Barnum & Bailey's traveling circus. What, might you ask, does this have to do with vericose veins? Everything, for it was my friend's mom bit-o-wisdom that I largely credit with keeping the snake-like demons of ugliness off my legs.

One afternoon, while we were inside their round house, which resembled a four-story high hobbit home (as in, hand-constructed and earthy, more like a mountain than a residence for humanoids, we were having a chat. I was watching my friend's brother flying around in the trapeze in the center of the room, their practice space. The father was in his wheelchair (he fell without a net) years before I met the family, and my friend was harnessing the belts on her waist. As usual, I was in awe of the graceful, lithe bodies that swirled above me, commenting on keeping a beautiful physique. Somehow, the conversation turned to legs, the mom's in particular.

"Just don't cross your legs," she said, something my mother had also told me. "It's the most important thing you can do." She went on to point out that men who cross their legs always have a lot of red marks and bumps above their knees. "And do you notice the women? They have red marks on the top of their thighs from the hours and days of weight on their legs." She then lifted her calf to show where the pressure on the lower leg creates spider veins.

As a teenager, I took her words to heart, never, ever, crossing my legs. It was hard to sit sideways, knees touching, as the others looked far more compely, sitting with their gams crossing, ankles touching delicately in perfect posture form. As an adult, I struggled to look refined as men and women in business meetings crossed and uncrossed, as much to make a statement as to be comfortable. Not I. I kept the faith, just as I did for not wrinkling my nose, raising my eyebrows or raising my forehead in order to stave off deep lines (that worked!).

Years later, as women of my age started getting saline solution injections or having their veins removed, I have been fortunate to do neither, but have used the horse chestnut oil I mentioned in the earlier blog.

Is it the floors?

Quite a few women I now hang with are firm believes that the floors they stand on have assisted in the maturation of veins. Hard floors, particularly in the kitchen (slate, tile etc) are considered the culprit by many. I can't say either way, since I have slate and have been standing on that for a dozen years now. Several women have ripped up their floors and put installed bamboo floors or cork. The bamboo is supposed to be quite soft, and the cork feels bouncy in a weird sort of way. It's an interesting look (not for me) but works well in the right setting.

Teenagers reading this....don't cross your legs, exercise, and adults, give your feet a rest and keep the horse chestnut oil handy.

PS the last time I saw my friend, she was getting shot out of a canon as I watched in Entertainment Weekly. Yes. people do live that life.

Friday Slackers

2012-02-24T09:15:00.000-08:00

Admit it. Three PM on a Friday at any office, in any part of the world is rough. It's also one of the most unproductive times during the week, second only to 3 pm on a Wednesday afternoon (so say the Internet data sources. peak time for surfing across the board is 10 am M-F and 3 pm M-F, and of course, 12 noon for those poor saps who are confined to their desk).

Since you're loitering on my blog, I'll take some pity and not make this a hard core blog about rising prices, unemployment or bad fashions. We have enough of that going on. How abt good food, family and the really rude policy of not responding to emails.

If you are still being unproductive, bribe yourself back to productivity, so suggests a productivity guru (people are so creative. Have I ever heard this before outside of Stephen R Covey? Talk about inventing a profession. Mom, Dad, I'm going to college. To learn what son? To tell others how to be productive. Wow! Great news!)

What you really want to do is stop wasting time on unproductive websites, (not this one of course. You are actually learning something here)...like....

carbonation purportedly accounts for 3 extra pounds of water weight per day? Contrast this with coffee, a natural laxative that rids itself of water. Ask any model. They'll tell ya...

spending time on Facebook actually hurts your self esteem? yep. the more time you spend, the less secure, and happy you are. $1 billion isn't worth happiness.

twenty minutes of adrenaline-pumping activity is all it takes to release endorphins, which in turn, makes us feel happy.

When you stop reading this, get yourself a date with anything that gives you 20 minutes of heart-pumping adrenaline. I can think of several that will produce the happy factor....

A Baker's Kitchen Part 2

2012-02-23T08:30:00.000-08:00

In the first installation of a baker's kitchen, I focused on vertical racks. Very important. This one is on the pull-out drawers for ingredients. This is the most commented on part of my kitchen, a close second behind the spice racks.

In this first pic, the point is to show that ingredient- drawers
should be invisible, and can be shaped in any formation desired.

To be honest with you, my readers in Lithuania that keep coming back in droves, I thought every kitchen had a drawer for ingredients. That changed when I purchased my first townhouse and started talking to friends. Turns out very few had ever heard of such a thing.

An ingredient drawer is one wherein the drawers are individualized in containers to hold dry ingredients; those that won't spoil or get hard. Flour and sugars etc. Items that are going to be used quickly are also a safe bet,

In my kitchen design, I have my ingredient drawers right below my most-used surface, which is the area where I do my baking.

The dimensions are 12x12 (I think),
but not sure. The wood is solid, not
composite. The top is plexiglass

The top two drawers are cooking utensils I use on a regular basis, while the first draw holds the flour and the sugar. Since I use predominantly white flour and white sugar, that's what I chose for these drawers. (I use containers for whole wheat flour, bulgar and other items as I don't use those quite as often. Some people have serious issues with whole wheat etc).

A top view

I chose to have a round, metal slider which has worked great over the years. It still slides easily, never catches, and the food has never spoiled. (think of the mess and space savings of taking the tupperware container down/out, getting the ingredient, then putting i all away. arg!).

A four-slot ingredient drawer. I have powdered sugar, superfine
sugar, oatmeal and then the fourth I have containers
for different types of brown sugar that must be preserved and closed.

A few misperceptions exist about ingredients. The first is that it's not sanitary. It has four sides and is closed. That's as sanitary as it can be in a container. The second is that the food will spoil. The wood I have used is solid, and the inside is lined with a special, non-toxic coating that doesn't allow moisture. Both sanitary and perfect for dry goods. Thanks to the sliders on top, neither food or junk falls in the ingredient containers.

Considerations

1. Where you bake. This should take precedent over all other considerations. You want the drawers as near to you as possible.

2. What you bake. If you are doing lots of thai or Indian, odds are you won't keep lots of dry ingredients around. Both require lots of fresh ingredients. German, Swedish, Italians, Russian, American...we all love baked pies, croissants, desserts and breads. How about this..big and tall? You need a dry ingredient drawer or two.

3. How much you bake. Definitely go as big as you possible can, size allowing, especially if you frequently bake. I love refilling my drawers once a week (or two), thanks to the size. It's like switching from a super-unleaded V8 to a clean diesel engine. All that extra time saved at the gas station is used elsewhere, most likely baking.

Thick & Rich Pork Chops & Gravy

2012-02-22T08:30:00.000-08:00

My cooking zone, complete with two science projects in front
of the cookbook

Pork chops don't have to be hard, dry or tasteless. After years of failed attempts, I found a great recipe that has been my go-to for all things pork chops for years. It's easy to make, provided the you do things in the right order, and above all, use good ingredients, starting with the pork chop. I made the (mostly American mistake) of choosing meat that's overly lean. Had I listened to my dad's admonitions to "keep in the fat! It gives it flavor!" my results probably would have been much better.

One of my most often-made vegies. String beans cooked in
organic vegetable or chicken broth. Quick, easy and flavorful

First off, the pork chops. Pick out nice, thick chops, not thin. You will waste your time. My preferred cut is a 1.5-1.3/4 inch cut of pork chop. I typically make 4 at a time, since the chops I get are so huge, I typically share with someone else in the family. (Surprisingly, Costco has a great selection of thick chops, (for beefy American's no doubt) but they aren't organic or natural. When I go to the butcher, I have to request the thickness.

The rest of the ingredients are straightforward, though as usual, I recommend sweet, salted butter and sweet, Walla Walla onions.

Overview

The recipe essentially comes from The New Best Recipe, though I have made some changes as usual. It's called Smothered Porkchops, for indeed, it is smothered, but this is what keeps it moist and flavorful. What you'll be doing is flash-frying the pork chops in a butter/onion base while making the thick and rich gravy. You re-add the porkchops back into the main pan, cover and cook for a bit. You have the most divine pork chops and gravy to hit the planet. While this is cooking, you roast the red potatoes and make the string beans.

Pre and Cook time- @1hr 10 min

Ingredients
3 oz (abt 3 slices) bacon, cut into 1/4 inch pieces
2 tablespoons unbleached all-purpose flour
1 3/4 cups low-sodium chicken broth

I used a cast iron press to speed up the bacon and
even out the cooking

2 tablespoons vegetable oil (I split this with butter)
ground black pepper
2 medium size sweet onions, sliced thin (I make mine very small)
Salt
2 tablespoons water
2 medium garlic cloves, minced or pressed through a garlic press
1 teaspoon minced fresh thyme leaves (dried is ok)
2 bay leaves
1 tablespoon parsley (fresh or dried)

**note: I've actually cut down the cook time about 5-10 min by doing a few of things slightly out of order. The gravy is supposed to be made after the pork chops are done, but I make the gravy first, thereby smothering the pork chops in true southern fashion.

Directions
1. Fry the bacon over medium heat and brightly, rendering the fat, about 8-10 minutes. Using a slotted spoon, transfer the bacon to a paper towel and reserve, leaving the fat in the pan (you should have about 2 tablespoons. Add vegetable oil if you don't).
2. Reduce the heat to medium low and gradually whisk the flour into the fat until smooth. Cook, whisking frequently, until the mixture is light brown, about the color of peanut butter, about 5 minutes.
3. Which in the chicken broth in a slow, steady stream; increase the heat to medium-high and bring to a boil, stirring occasionally. Cover and remove from the heat; set aside.
4. Heat 1 tablespoon of the oil in a 12 inch skillet over high heat until smoking. Meanwhile, sprinkle the pork chops with 1/2 teaspoon pepper. Brown the chops in a single layer until deep golden on the first side, about 3 minutes. Flip the chops and cook until browned on the second side, about 3 minutes. Transfer the chops to a large plate and set aside.
5. Reduce the heat to a medium and add the remaining 1 tablespoon oil, the onions, 1/4 teaspoon salt and the water to the now-empty skillet. Using a wooden spoon, scrape up the browned bits on the pan bottom; cook, stirring frequently, until the onions are softened and browned around the edges, about 5 minutes. Stir in the garlic and thyme and cook until fragrant, about 30 seconds. Return the chops to the skillet in a single layer and cover them with the onions. Pour in the reserved sauce and any juices released by the pork chops; add the bay leaves. Cover, reduce the heat to low, and simmer until the pork is tender, about 30 minutes.
6. Transfer the chops to a warmed serving platter and increase the heat to a medium-high and simmer the sauce rapidly, stirring frequently, until thickened, like a gravy.

Red potatoes
Ingredients
Potatoes
Olive oil
Salt and rosemary

Directions
1. Dice the potatoes in quarters, drizzle oil, add salt and rosemary. Toss and place in a convection oven at 400 degrees. Cook for approximately 5-8 minutes then remove, scrape and move the potatoes. Return to the oven for another 5-8 minutes.
2. Remove and serve warm or cool.

The caramel color of the flour

Avalanches and detaching from ones spouse

2012-02-21T08:15:00.001-08:00

As Rog left the condo this morning in full regalia, resembling a skeksis with a helmut and a backpack, my final words were: "Are you going to go back trails?" In other words, does he have a death wish, and if so, are we insured? (It didn't help that I had mother, a sister, two girlfriends and a male work associate all send me texts and emails to see if we were ok).

Snoqualmie...Washington's version of
little Switzerland

Now, I hate to sound cold and cruel, but let's face some facts. When it's been skiing a foot each day and another several each night for days on end (and still snowing), avalanches come with the territory. As we were driving over the pass, I read about three skiers that died at the pass nearby, another 8 buried. The mountain operations went to great pains to identify the skiers were out of bounds and not on groomed runs. Little did we know that as we were driving over Snoqualmie Pass, rescuers were digging out the body of a snowboarder who had skied out of bounds, triggered an avalanche and was swept over a cliff and down 500 feet.

"I'll be careful," said Rog, clearly regretting the words the moment they left his mouth. Yesterday he'd been skiing deep powder with two friends, only one of which had avalanche gear, and even his was missing the critical beeper. I mean, what's the good of having an inflatable if no one knows where to look on a 200 yard stretch of 20 feet deep snow?

"We don't have a stupidity clause in your insurance policy," I told him, nary a hint of joking in my voice. It just so happens I had read our life insurance policies several days ago to give some pointers to a friend.

"Yes, but it's been two years," he says with a smile. I'd also informed Rog than an entire, single-spaced, double-sided page talks about suicides. The net of it is that the insurance company will only payout if the person covered commits suicide 2 years after signing the policy.

That made me feel sooo much better. "When are you going to get the avalanche gear?"

"The inflatable is $800 bucks," he explained, referring to the little item that had saved the pro-skiers life when her friends died.

I asked him if his life was worth $800 dollars, receiving only silence in response. He zipped up his gloves. As he started to walk towards the door, I did my level best to channel my inner non-Budha, searching desperately for that thin line of patience in my Swedish-Scottish rip chord of fury. I did the only thing a woman on the verge of worry and fear can do in such times.

I detached.

"Just so you know, if you die from your own stupidity, after I get over my pain, I'm going to be seriously pissed at you, and will have no problem spending your life insurance policy."

This made him laugh. He turned and flipped up his goggles. "No out of bounds. No death. Promise." With that, he left. I did what any wife does in that instance. I turn to my daughters, make them chicken soup and carry on with life.

The email a writer never wants to get

2012-02-20T08:30:00.000-08:00

On Tuesday, I'm driving to an appointment and the familiar 'ding' of a new email coming through on my phone alerts me. When I'm at a stop light, I look. I panic. The light turns, and it takes every ounce of self-control I possess not to scan the rest of the email before actually dithering about leaving my daughter at school or going back to my computer.

This is what it read.

Hello! I hope this email finds you well. I wonder if the PDF you sent to us in the below email is the final translatable one?
The Indonesian publisher found that there was no Chapter 35 in it, while Chapter 34 was followed by Chapter 36…

Please advise, many thanks!

It took three phone calls and an hour of waiting for me to get home, flip open the files and realize that, indeed, the numbers were off. Fortunately, the content was in place, and I can only surmise that it was 100% human error. In numbering the files I pulled off the ebook (it was already published in ebook format when my agent wanted to send it around), I skipped a chapter.

Of course, I lost a year of my life that I'll never get back over the stress, but worse? The file went out this way to all the US publishers and all 31 foreign publishers. Fabulous. Just what every author wants. My agent is none too happy about it either. She has the unappealing job of going back to the publishers who are in reviews and pointing it out.

Capturing the moment

2012-02-19T10:12:00.000-08:00

My mom forgave me for "borrowing"
the photo album when it later saved it
from going down the river
(I'm the flopping one in the center)

Being the fourth of six kids wasn't condusive to a legacy of scrapbooks. Unlike some of my friends who have entire shelfs full of pictures from drooling age to graduation, I had a lone volume. It had a lot of pictures to be sure, but they were haphazardly arranged, some photocopies and the pages were solid colors, green, red, and blue. Who could blame Mom? With six of us running around in a foreign land speaking Spanglish, I was lucky I had anything. The real tragedy struck when the waters came, all Biblical like, cresting right in to our living room (after I'd moved out) and spirited away hundreds of mom's classical music LPs and the remaining photo albums.

Fortunately for all of us, years earlier, I'd secretly spirited away a leather-bound photo full of 8x10 black and whites from our Costa Rica days. Granted, I was a six month old ball of pudge, but my mom is one glamourous babe, in stocking and heels by the Christmas tree (because they did that then), looking like a teenager instead of a woman with four kids. Dad was thin and trim, and the set came w/photos of me and my older brother as well, proving to the entire world I did in fact, have blond, curly hair as a youth.

Ironically, not having lots of photographic memories didn't instill in me a desire to do so for my child. My reluctance increased to full on dithering for the nine-months due to insecurity as much as learning a new skill. Let's face it. For years, I watched my sister-in-law (you know, the nutritionist) create these amazing photo albums with custom colors, matched cut-outs and perfectly-matched backgrounds lovingly and painstakingly placed just so in the albums for her four kids (and did I mention, go up for a week w/her girlfriends to do nothing but scrapbooking? If that doesn't set an intimidating, never-to-be-achieved-standard, I don't know what does).

Ahh, Dad.

Since I still have a hole in my heart where a shelf of photo albums should reside, I made a vow to keep not one, but multiple journals for my children. Although I'm as 'crafty' as a mortician and probably'd enjoy it more, as least I have my technology. I want it electronic and I want it now. Why create a photo album when I can upload all my digitals and create a DVD for posterity?

Because my internal wounded-self won't let me, that's why.

Here's what I did, and do. It's called Sarah's-scrapbooking for dummies with very little time, but need to get something in place to allay future guilt.

1. Create a folder. I have done this for every year...well, I have one folder, then at the end of the year get caught up.

2. Use a calendar to note items. Gotta give mom full credit for this. Since graduating, the woman dispenses a calendar at Christmas. It's been all over the map, from Inca art to Matisse. Doesn't matter. I write down quotes, events, activities (keep it by the bedside) and then store this calendar in the folder. When the time comes to create the photo album, I have all the dates, times and places down.

3. Take advantage of on-line storage. In addition to keeping digital files on my computer, I have a backup on my desktop and every month, I replicate this to our mass storage disk. And because I've lost images, manuscripts and full systems (not to mention theft of externals), I now keep a backup/backup of everything in the safe. I don't really care about guns and diplomas. I want photos (wound. wound.)

4. Use digital services. I became a fan of Shutterfly after I had an incident from above that shall not be named. Suffice it to say, that had I not uploaded a bunch of school pics to Shutterfly, two years of pics would have been lost. I created an account (it's free) upload the photos by category/date, and then can order pic books for relatives or whatever else at will. I'm addicted.

5. Be regular about it. I used to get caught up every month. It made it easier to manage. Then it went to once a quarter. Now it's more like twice a year, but every so often when I can't take writing any longer, I'll get nuts for a month and catch up on everything.

The bonus round....free video software comes with PCs and Macs now. I take full advantage of this and create movies for the fam or classmates. After a year, I upgraded to Power Producer and the suite of products. It's great for editing and making full movies. Between the movies, the books and the multiple copies of photos, come fire and flood, my children shall be covered.

24 hr natural fix for Croup

2012-02-18T08:00:00.000-08:00

On a perfectly normal Monday, I was waiting for my child to get out of school, making unnecessary small talk with the adorable, pint-size mom of twins who are in the same class. In the course of asking about the family, she reveals her son has had Croup.

"He's been hacking for a week and I just figured it out." I'd heard of Crupe, and thought it sounded contagious. Before I could ask if he was out of school today, she said, "I hope he's better now." Hmm. When my daughter gets in the car, I ask her about the boy.

"He sits by me at our table," she says, and I groan. Tables are set up in circular fives, a veritable Dante's Ring of contagious diseases.

Tuesday night, Porsche hacked. Wednesday morning, she coughed twice before school, and definitely sounded like a seal, the most common characteristic of croup. I gave her some vitamin C and aconitum, thinking it was a sudden onset. She wasn't aching nor sniffling, and besides, Wednesdays are half-days and she'd be done in three hours. Around four pm, the hacking began, and it was definitely different.

I called my Swami.

After telling him the symptoms, he yips at me for giving her Aconitum. In swarthy, middle-Eastern accent he tells me once again that "Aconitum is for a sudden sickness from the flu to pink eye. This means with ten minutes or a half an hour, the body has obviously come down with something."

He asked me the following:
1. is it is a "wet or a dry cough?" Dry is hacking, with no moisture. Wet is defined as phlem in the throat, or other moisture coming up. Her hacking was definitely wet.

2. is she flushed or pale? She was pale.

3. is she aching? Not in the beginning, but later her legs started to ache a little bit.

4. is she tired? No, but restless.

The solution? Ferrum Phosphoricum. This is commonly abbreviated to Ferr Phos. Luckily, I had 30c, because by Wednesday night, both me and my 2 year old started hacking. Here's what we did.

Directions...
1. Take 1 pill of Ferr Phos every 30 minutes for 2 hours (each one of us). Results: within 1 hour, the hacking tapered off, and by hour 2, stopped entirely.
2. Moved to 1x every three hours (this was throughout Wednesday night). Rog took care of the girls every 3 hours, I took care of myself.
3. Kept the girls down Thurs- one from home and we all pretty much stayed indoors, in bed, resting. Both myself and oldest daughter had slightly aching legs, but this dissipated by Thursday night.

Results...by Friday morning, the coughing was gone from all three of us. Porsche was well enough to go back to school and me and my 2 year old are as good as new.

Remember, when taking homeopathic remedies (available at many health food and natural stores), it goes like this:
-when the healing is evident, drop back to 3 x a day for 3 days
-drop back to 2x a day for 2 days
-drop back to 1x on the last day

When it's OK to take a name in vain

2012-02-17T08:08:00.000-08:00

For the first ten years of my marriage, one of my most over-used phrases was when referring to "my sister-in-law, you know, the nutritionist." My husband would then groan and roll his eyes, hoping the effect would stop me from always introducing said sister-in-law with this preface. I'd ignore him and sure enough, the next time, I'd say it again, as though he'd forgotten both her name and her background.

It was done with purpose you see. My opinion, (derived from an unfinished college degree but lots of life experience), had not one iota of credibility when it came to information about food or nutrition. Thus, when I wanted to emphasize (or in reality, convince) my husband to change his evil-eating ways, I'd invoke the almighty of authority: my sister-in-law.

And why not? I have a brother as an accountant and attorney, and I use his good name left and right when it suits my purpose. Same goes with my mom the therapist. Why take my word for it when I can take hers? Fashion sense? I go straight to my sister, who was a GM at a high end boutique and would invariably offer me advice akin to Zoe, though forgetting I didn't have a Kardashian budget. When I'm trying to get what I want from my husband, I invoke...who else? Good old Dad. A man who has six kids and is still married has got to carry more weight than my own.

So it is that I believe a person's name, nea...very aura and image, can be used to a fruitful and positive end.

These times include weaning someone away from chocolate:

"If you keep them away from chocolate in the first four years of their life, they won't ever want it."

So said my sister-in-law (the nutritionist), before I had my daughters. She was raising the first two of her four kids, and I locked the bit of wisdom away for a decade, opening the drawer and applying it to my daughter when the time finally came. Guess what? It worked! She doesn't really like sweets. Beyond this tidbit, I've invoked her name on all sorts of things she's said. Beyond coming off as nice to impart some good advice, I have the added benefit of having a cool, informed in-law.

When you need to improve the happy factor in your married life:

"If it takes five minutes, don't complain, just do it. What does it hurt?"

From dear old' Dad, when referring to my husband and his, er, requests. 'nuff said. Like the aforementioned advice, I have replayed this to other women, much to their spouses' happiness and delight. Dad is broadly known as the coolest, most informed 73-year-old out there. (Not much different than the man he was when I was a teen. Just a bit more 'free' with his info).

When you need an honest opinion:

"When you ask for a friend's opinion and they down first before commenting on your outfit, don't believe what they say. They are lying."

From my fashionista sister, who, having vetted thousands of trendy-seeking customers, knows her stuff. On a side note, I've tested this out multiple times. It's true. The exception? My husband. He looks me straight in the eye and tells me it's ugly. That's how I know he's a keeper and my sister? I can use her name anytime I want. She, like the others, always come out looking like superstars, and that's when it's OK to take their name in vain.

A baker's kitchen Part 1

2012-02-16T08:03:00.000-08:00

Side angle view of the vertical cabinet,
between three drawers under the cooktop and
the double ovens and warming oven below

When it came time to remodeling our kitchen, the designer who helped me started out by giving me a comprehensive checklist of things I wanted in the kitchen. My homework assignment was to check off all the ones that applied to me. I checked off every last line item, then added a few more. This included vertical cupboards and slide out drawers for all my various cooking sheets, muffin tins, pastry pans and cooling racks. It also included drawers for all my baking ingredients.

The extra long vertical length +
the depth allow professional size
trays, cooking sheets etc

It's hard to see, but I have 2 inserts for 3
different slots. I've cleaned this out slightly
for the shot, as I was a tad embarassed abt how
overful it was

She was perplexed.

"Why would you store dry goods in drawers instead of in tins?" Alas. She revealed her true take-out colors by the very question. This wasn't my brilliant idea. It was my mother's, who used the drawers in her own remodel decades prior (a woman ahead of her time, clearly).

Since we were focusing on the area around the stove first, I zeroed in on what I wanted by the stove. This included the vertical racks I'd use on a daily basis for cooking (and lest you laugh, I open this more than any other cabinet in the house.

This 2nd vertical cabinet is for
non-flat (or molded) baking tins

The benefits of vertical over horizontal include ease of in and out, without stacking on top of one another. By placing this conveniently by the ovens and cooktop, I can open the drawers and cabinet, turn and place food then whirl back around to slide the tin in the oven (all while wearing 3 inch heels and white gloves a'la the 1950's stereotype...not).

You can see I also cram cheesecake
tins and an odd pan for good measure

The other vertical cabinet that's come in very useful is another right by my baking center (doesn't that sound official?). To put it another way, this is a slightly rounded area of in my cooking space that has my hardcore baking ingredients underneath the counters, all within a two foot radius. To the left of my baking area, I have this vertical cabinet that houses all the 'shaped' or formed tins I use all the time (versus the thing slides shown above).

This cabinet is slightly wider and deeper than the other, also with two dividers. It's ultra convenient. Truth be told, I would have added another, but my husband brought up a good counter argument..."you only have two ovens, and they have three racks each. Why on Earth would you need to purchase more tins/cookie sheets etc. when you are limited by the oven space?"

I'm a cook, that's why. Utensils are essentials and tins are like diamonds and chocolate...one can never have enough. (ps. he didn't buy either argument, and I was capped at 2).

Dry Ear Remedies

2012-02-15T08:21:00.000-08:00

One of the fringe benefits of taking up martial arts was the youngish, hot-looking instructor on staff during the times I found most convenient. I was married of course, he single, and about a decade and a half too young even if I had been of the four-legged, mountain-dwelling type of feline, but still the motivation of impressing the young man increased my determination to complete a V-sit up, learn to flawlessly execute rolling knuckle push-ups and stand in a lung poster longer than I thought humanly possible.

The impossible dream of him ever glancing my way for a comment other than to push in my hips or keep my elbow up higher when lifting a sword during a down thrust was dashed when, during a break, he asked if I'd been out in the sun. I responded that no, it was Seattle in the winter. Of course not. Why do you ask?

"Your ears are really dry." With that, I slunk out of the studio as fast as decorum would allow, cursing my Swedish roots to the edge of the land from which we came. Why me? Why my dry ears?

It's not like I hadn't known about my dry ears for oh, say, twenty years already, since I'd hit puberty, nor had I used every method, tip, trick or remedy to rid myself of this evil malady. But no. It's with me, like my long legs, thick hair and fat, cow milking hands, the progeny of my generations of Scottish cow farmers I'm sure (Vikings conjures a more flattering image, but I lack the prerequisite red hair).

Thankfully, I'd forgotten this ego-reducing incident until I had my hair back in a baseball cap and my 6 year old brought it up. "Mom, why do you have dry ears?" Off goes the cap, down falls the hair, covering my offensive, though perfectly shaped ears and I wonder...why can't we all be perfect? Would it have been so hard for God to have extended his love from the outer edge of my ear to include the inside? It couldn't have required more than a nudge fingertip to give my inner lob the moisture it needed.

Until this unanswered question of the universe is answered, I must rely on man to solve the problem. First, why?

Some common reasons include...bad hygene. People who don't bathe more than a few times a week get the dry, crusty film. Over bathing can cause a similar result, since the oils on the skin get washed away and the surface becomes like the scalp--dry and flaky. The Mayo Clinic cites actinic keratosis which are lesions on the skin. I've never seen nor suffered from that. From all my research, 'itchy' is a common side effect, but I've never had a single ear 'itch.' This is attributed to Swimmers Ear or an ear infection and so on. All kinds of remedies are available for this, none of which apply to me.

Here's what I've had and tried...(it comes and goes, like Vivaldi's Four Seasons). During the spring and summer, my ears are mostly fine. Enough moisture, enough sun, the proper balance of both. Fall and winter, not so much. My mother hypothesized it was in line with the amount of water I consumed....

Natural remedy #1....more water and liquids. This certainly has helped, perhaps more than anything else. My scalp and skin produce similar results, why not my ears?

Remedy #2...more sun and less moisture...in other words, when I shower, I must pull my hair back and get ALL the moisture off every surface of my ears. Just like my scalp, when the moisture isn't 100% gone, my scalp goes berzerk.

Remedy #3...the weekly 'scrape.' It sounds more disgusting than it is. We scrape our teeth two times a day (brush) we scrape our scalp by combing, we scrape our legs, faces (men) and armpits with blades, why not scrape our inner ear.

Here's what you do. Take the end of a tweezer (mine is round and thin but not sharp) and gently run the flat edge along every area that is dry. This gets off the old, invigorates the new.

Remedy #4....Along with the water, start taking Vitamin E or daily Omega 3 gelcaps. When I take one or both daily, my ears are nearly perfect on the inside, plus my hair is glossier and skin/nails much improved.

Things that DON'T work. Lotions are terrible. It just turns the dry skin in to the ears version of pancake mix without the benefit. Oils are worse. The oils plus dry skin is a mushy goo, that still then needs to be scraped off. gross. The last thing that doesn't work are Q-tips, or the soft removes. The marketing folks would have us believe pushing dry skin around is the same as getting rid of it or improving circulation. Not so.

Zombies jogging: Otherwise known as Runner's FAce

2012-02-14T08:13:00.000-08:00

Once upon a time, back when I indulged in facials and eyebrow waxing on a more regular, and necessary basis (or in other words, when this Swede was an appropriately hair free gorilla), the aesthetician wouldn't stop talking.

Runners face typified

"And you see these women with runner's face and they are so hard to wax," she was saying, talking rapid fire as she applied hot wax to my face with a titanium spatula. "The crevices are so deep it's hard to get the wax in and the hair out, and the skin!" she moaned, removing the spatula off my own skin and applying the thin cotton strip, pressing down with her bony fingertips. "It's so thin it's like a grandmother!" Then she unceremoniously ripped off the cotton, and with it, my furry face.

As I rubbed my cheek to make sure I still had an epidural layer, I told her I'd never heard of Runners Face before. "In the beauty industry, that's what we call it," she explained. "We can always tell if a client is a runner or not, man or woman. The face is where most collagen resides, and it's the first place the collagen leaves." She went on to tell me that once it's gone, the only way it will return is if the person, male or female, is under 35. "After that, it's all over." Note to self: don't get all emotional with this person. She was a little short on compassion.

A few months later, I paid a visit to my own doctor and asked her about Runners Face. She confirmed earlier reports. "Collagen dramatically decreases after 35. That's why you see so many women getting fillers. These are unnatural replacements for what nature gave you."

There I was, smack-dab in the middle of a moral dilemma (name the movie). To run, or not to run, that is the question. It is great for the heart, but bad for the knees and ankles, unless you read and adopt Chi Running, which counter acts both. Now this? Yikes. Running can't get a break. Speed walking however, may be getting a boost here in the next while, at least in Maple Valley.

Movie: Gone in 60 seconds, when the detective is talking to Raines.

Tips to Saving Money at the Prom while still having an excellent time

2012-02-13T08:15:00.000-08:00

This next week in America, many high schools (or secondary schools for those European's reading), will be attending what is called the Snowball or Sadie Hawkins. The tradition for this dance is the girls ask the boys, and do it in all types of interesting ways. For example, the young woman who asked my nephew asked permission to decorate his room with streamers and put up a sign. Conspiring with friends and family is a part of the fun and tradition of the girl-asks-guy formal. In a few more months, proms will be held, not just in the US, Ireland and Australia, but also in the UK, where the notion took hold in the seventies, thanks to the proliferation of American TV shows. It's usually called the Leavers' Dinner or Leavers' Ball. This is typically when the boy asks the girl, pays for everything, and both youths (and/or parents) break the bank trying to make the event memorable.

Last year, a young woman from my church asked me if I were comfortable letter her use my car for the Sadie Hawkins dance. I was shocked at the request, but applauded her guts. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. "We are trying to save money on the limousine," she admitted, and I immediately understood. Crunch time. Despite what those in Australia sees on TV about America's Sweet Sixteen birthday parties and all types of crazy, over-the-top formal events, the majority of teenagers save and struggle for these events.

Here are a few money-saving techniques that will help everyone have a better time, before, and after the evening has ended.

1. The dress. Rent versus buy. Last year I wrote an article on alternative proms, a trend in the US that is taking hold due to teens who want to have a clean environment unfettered and bothered by other social norms. Not every young girl wants to dirty dance, and not every young man wants to touch a foot of exposed flesh on his dance partner's back. It was a revelation to learn that beautiful dresses can be rented for less than a hundred dollars, a far cry from the $300-400 required for a new one.

2. The car. Limo's are fun, but can be expensive even when an entire group joins in to pay for it. For three or four hours at a hundred bucks an hour, that's enough for a great meal. The other downside of a limo is that you are stuck with the people for the entire night, which can be challenging if the group wants to go home or split up afterward. Worse, you might not have a ride when you want to get picked up. "Our limo driver had booked two other prom gigs and we were stiffed," complained an 17 year old in our neighborhood. His parents (and others) had to come get their teens---most who had cars and could have driven themselves, but they wanted the limo experience. The suggestion? Drive yourself or carpool with just one other couple.

3. The food. This is the biggest crapshoot (or variable) of them all. When talking with the young woman who wanted to borrow my car, I asked her what they were doing for dinner. "We are going to a fondue place," she said, her voice enthusing with excitement. Instead of hitting the 'nicest, most expensive' place in town, try a unique venue. Brazilian food for example. Many have incredible dancing around tables. My vote? Consider having dinner at one of your friend's homes. When I was 16, one of the mom's in our group offered to put on a formal dinner at her place, served by the other mom's. To be honest, I was mixed on the idea. I wanted to go out and show off my dress, but I also didn't want my date to spend loads of money. I remember approaching it with an even opinion.

All that changed when we arrived. The place was decked out in white lights and linen, like the Breaking Dawn wedding. The mom's were respectful (not irritating or giggly, which is the worst when you are a teenage girl), and treated us like adults, instead of nervous young women on dates. The formal dining room table was set with china and silver, candle lights and sparkling cider in wine glasses. The doors could also be shut, giving us the feeling of a private dining experience only enjoyed by the upper echelon of society. The food was amazing, we laughed and joked as loud as we wanted, without fear of repercussion, and best of all? The tip was affordable.

The politics of fundraising

2012-02-12T15:12:00.000-08:00

In 2011, I wrote two pieces on how to raise money for auctions. This month, the fundraising season started anew, heralded by the angels of solicitors, all seeking money for a good cause (myself included). After all, when one has donated all the money one can, one asks for money from others. (Compare this with my husband's philosophy of starting with others, then making up the difference with your own checkbook).

This year, I thought I had a brief respite from glad handing for a cause until I learned that the elementary school my daughter attends (for Kindergarten) is having it's bi-annual fundraiser (goal $150,000.00). Shortly thereafter, I was invited to attend the annual Red Cross Heroe's Breakfast (desired 'donation, $150 min'), was asked by 3 friends to sit at their respective tables for the district-wide school's foundation (min donation, also $150.00) and then of course, hit up for the auction my daughter attended for the last three years (seats are $75 each, then the items purchased at the auction itself).

Saying yes and when to say no

Stressed out auction chairwoman

Nearly every good friend in my circle as been a past auction chair, or is presently serving as an auction chair. These are high-energy, smart, motivated women who are passionate about their cause. They should be! Education is important, as are service organizations that help the poor and needy. Who can argue with either? That's not up for discussion. What is up for debate and conversation (with spouse) is the impact on personal finances.

"I can't do it," said one woman, a current chair of an auction (goal $150K), when referring to the two other auctions held at schools attended by her other children. "I can only do one." Translation: she's made the decision to donate to 1, attend 1, and spend her time making 1 successful. "I just had to prioritize my efforts for a single entity this year."

Contrast this with another woman with only one child. She has been a past auction chair but this year has limited her contributions....according to her. "I'm attending my auction (elementary), the school foundation and X" (her child's former school's auction), unabashed and actually quite excited. She had no problem spending the money to buy her seat or purchase items. "I don't have to do anything," she said gleefully. "I just get to show up, eat food and spend money." Go girl.

The rest of us don't have that kind of time nor inclination. As an older, wiser friend told me after she took a training class on how to better choose clients, a criteria had to include 3 things:

1. It has a direct impact on you/your family or child (money or other)
2. It furthers your goals or career (long term)
3. You are doing it for love (personal satisfaction)

I liked her examples and started applying it to the recent requests. The man who invited me to the Heroe's breakfast is the chief HR officer for a firm of 4,500 person global consulting firm. I've referred several potential candidates his way, and it's been successful. He's a good person to know. This is definitely the category of 'direct impact on me/my family,' and is a good cause to boot.

"Smart spend," says my husband, knowing full well it's a tax deductible write-off.

The school's foundation will impact my family (daughter) but it's not like my $150 is going directly to her classroom for supplies. The money will be shared among many schools, most that are much better off than her own. My husband is definitely opposed to this, suggesting instead that we approach the her teacher and offer to purchase supplies for her classroom. So attending that event is a no, which coincidentally, conflicts with a trip we have, so it is sort of a mute point).

The auctions are another matter. Think about this: paying for the seat (usually $65-75, and this covers the food, overhead), then purchasing items (let's say $2K), a raffle ticket ($25-$50 depending on the auction) and raise the paddle (for special projects, $25-2,000 allotments). The logical person must ask: is it not better to just give the money directly to the school, or does one want to walk away with something in return? The second consideration is also---where is the priority-- existing or past school auctions?

Once again, Rog and I came back to the basics. Where will we have the biggest impact for the dollar, and what will affect our daughter(s). This made the decision easy. For one auction, we are not going to attend, but instead, work with the school directly (and her classroom). For the other, we will be out of town, but as our next child will be attending the school in 2012, we want to ensure future programs are adequately covered.

So what to say to the wonderful women (and men) who are heading auction, procurement and raffle? I've found honesty is the best route. "We are placing our priority on X school for this year," or "we are going to be giving directly to the class," or "we are working with the organization directly." Of course, my sister thinks this is bunk.

"You shouldn't be giving explanations at all!" she said, disgusted at the thought. "It's none of their business." She's right of course, but next year, I might be the one in a position of responsibility, and then my perspective might be a little different, and it will be necessary to understand the politics of fundraising.

My other dads

2012-02-10T11:49:00.000-08:00

On was Wednesday, I was sitting at the counter of Triple XXX burgers, stirring the vanilla ice cream on the corner of the root beer float, talking with the owner, Jose. "How are you today?" The question, I presume, is asked because I was in the night before with my family, all happy and light. This time, it's two pm on a Wednesday, and I'm eating what amounts to a Texas-sized tuna and cheddar with onion rings the circumference of a Swedish pancake.

"Not so good," I replied honestly. Jose, the owner since 1999, father of seven and grandfather of thirty-three grandchildren (!), immediately leans over the 1950's style counter, elbows down, hands clasped. His look of compassion and understanding so genuine, tears threaten to flood my eyes.

This is why I go there

"It's hard in this economy," he said, a good, generic message laden with understanding. I nodded, unsure I'd be able to answer. "All you can do is rely on family and hold together," he said, blissfully unaware that the sole reason I was in his shop at 2 on a Wednesday was because of family drama. Like a wise father, he then expounded a few sentences on hardships making us better people and stronger families. My take-out box came and he helped me load the remaining food in. I told him I'd make it through and see him again soon enough.

Thursday wasn't a lot better.

After a sleepless night (augmented by three, Extra-Strength Tylenol's for a crushing headache) and the incident with my dog, I had no excuse to put off the trip to the post office any longer. A full stack of Valentine's gifts and cards were piled in my car, and as I pulled in, I was determined to remove the black cloud of unhappiness that had consumed me for the better part of three days.

The parking lot was jammed and the line inside was long. I practiced on-the-spot vertical meditation, willing myself to think of anything but the two women at the counter, one who kept changing her mind on the pictures of stamps she desired and the other sending two packages to foreign countries that required multiple signatures.

Jose beside an authentic root beer keg

Like a missile in search of a target, I searched the area for a point of distraction. I found it in the form of a man, late sixties or early seventies, sitting in the conference room, picking, sorting and placing stamps on mounds of letters. I noticed his process: the way he picked a handful of letters from the bin, aligned them just so in front of him, spaced out like an accordion, then he pulled and cut a section of stamps from a roll the size of a turkey. One by one, he placed each, the collapsed the letters, and returned the stack to a separate plastic bin.

The act wasn't as interesting as the man himself. Even though he was sitting, I could tell he was tall, perhaps six four or five, with the build of a former athlete; lean but muscular, more tennis player than football star. He had a mass of thick, grey hair, and though his jawline was covered with a modest amount of loosening skin, his strong jawbones and angular features were very evident. He was a handsome older man, like Paul Newman, who somehow retained his nice looks and austere appearance until he died. Like Newman, this man was dressed in fashionable sweats and a well-fitting sweatshirt. The only evidence of his age were the walking shoes he wore, the kind with thick heels that rock from one end to the other.

At that moment, he looked up from his task and stopped long enough to give me a smile. It was full of a life of understanding and wisdom. It was genuine. I smiled back, hoping to convey the respect I felt for his dedication to his task, no matter the reason for him being there. His inspiration lifted me right out of my lingering doldrums, placing me right in a better, more motivating place.

The two experiences made me feel as though a world of men, fathers, husbands, were out there, willing to give an uplifting look or a comment to a stranger (or relative acquaintance) in need. I know my own dad has often done the same, lending a kind word or uplifting remark to others, many times when I looked on, my teenage self rather confused at his interactions with strangers. It's like these men are dads-among us, not by birth or relation, but by feeling and intent. A wonderful concept, and I'm grateful to Jose to the anonymous man in the postal office. Still, nothing is like the being wrapped in the big 'ol Swedish/mutt-Danish/Scottish arms of my father. He was 900 miles away, so I went home and burrowed my head in my husband's neck. He didn't ask a question. He just puts his arms around me and held on. After all, he's a dad too.

PS. don't kick my dog

2012-02-09T16:47:00.000-08:00

Last year, we had a crew of six come out with wenches the size of logs and trucks resembling large earth-movers, all with the intent of felling hundred-foot, rotten-from-the-inside Maple Trees. While big-city dwelling denizens believe Maples are somehow sacred, in this part of the world, they are considered weeds. They grow fast and multiply, the arbivore equivalent of rabbits in the spring, and then rot from the inside, falling over at the most inconvenient of times and on to the most necessary items (homes and cars being two). The crew was efficient, fast and adept at ensuring none of the nine maples hit our home, about a cars length away. When it came time to pay the bill, I had my checkbook in hand, ready to write the check. Thus it was that the foreman on the job gave me a number twice as high as the bid over the phone. Without getting angry, I refreshed his memory.

"Chris, the owner of the company, gave me the quote himself. Two-fifty for each tree, and the stump grinding was included." I'll spare you the details, but this man, Daniel, insisted that the trees were bigger than Chris might have known. "Chris has been in the business for twenty years. I'm pretty sure he knew what size the trees were." Needless to say, I was chapped (American for really, absurdly angry), but I remained calm. I got on my cell phone, called Chris, reconfirmed the price, and gave the now red-faced Daniel a check for the original amount.

So yesterday, I call up the tree service company again. During the recent storm, a few unfortunately large limbs plummeted to Earth, their fall stopped only by our trailer and fence. ugh. Nothing says bummer like damage not covered by acts of God. I call for Chris and guess who shows up at my door. Daniel.

My dog doesn't like Daniel from the start, and I'm not sure he remembered trying to screw me the last time around. My pitbull has a sixth sense for people. Just last week, we had a new friend come over. The giant of a man is 6'8" tall, and a goliath. He bent down, started playing with P-dog, and in seconds, Penelope had curled up in to a C, her butt to his chest (the ultimate sign of comfort in a guard dog). As much as I'm disappointed, I'm all smiles, pleasant and professional. I start by introducing him to P-dog, who waits to see what a person does (she doesn't jump or bite etc. She takes my lead). I ask him to remove his hands from his pockets so she can smell them and he says no.

"This is what you should do with pits" I explain, telling him how a closed fist is taken as aggression, a precursor to a strike. Pits, like people, don't like to be struck. I don't want wait for him to do it. I take his wrist, pull it down and let Pen smell it. We then walk the property, but all the while, he's looking sideways, not smiling, reluctantly answering my questions, all things a person does when they are uncomfortable (or experiencing guilt).

P-dog senses what I'm senses, and she starts to stick close by me. After all, I'm there on the property with my two young girls, and no one can hear me scream. P-dog is next to me, and we can both tell the tone of his voice has changed when he tells me the cost. It's about three times what it was the year prior (nearly six thousand as compared to $1800 the year before). P-dog must have channeled my irritation, as she walks to him (he's on the other side of me) and starts to sniff his hands again. Instead of doing as I instructed, the man grips his fingers in to a white-knuckle ball and kicks out. What the...At that exact moment, I'm having deja vu. I realize that a) he's trying to screw me again and b) he might actually deserve to be bitten.

Well, I can tell you, my P-dog does not like a kick being thrown her way. P-dog then moved up to put her paws on his chest---a dog's way of being a man who gets right up to a drunk person, pushing chest to chest and saying 'you better back down,' but no teeth, no growl, just a 'word, what's up with you.' The man lifts his leg, gut checks with his knee, and then she was one unhappy dog.

As much as I would have liked her to show him who was boss, I gave her the command to sit, then took his estimate, thanking him politely. He wouldn't look me in the eye, and kept well away from P-dog. He didn't offer to shake my hand as he got in his truck, thank me for calling the company he works for or give me a smile. I would think in this economy, people would be just a wee bit nicer than last year.

I couldn't help myself. My 43-year old former M & A person kicked in. I stood by the truck, waiting patiently as he rolled down the window. "I was just wondering, is this the type of job you guys like to do?"

He scrunched his face like I was still the blond of my youth. "Sure. Of course," he answered. "Why?"

I shrugged my answer. "Just wasn't sure. The price seems a little high."

After he left, (for he said nothing in response, I told Rog I felt sure Daniel was not the type of fine, upstanding citizen I want on my property again, no matter if the price went down.

"It has nothing to do with the price," Rog said, taking the estimate in his hands, point out the price of felling the trees was only a couple hundred more each than last year. "We have a lot more trees to cut down this year," he continued, almost apologetically, as though he were being disloyal by making the comment. "it was about the dog."

I narrowed my eyes. "Don't ever kick my dog," I muttered protectively. Rog laughed and tore up the paperwork.

Porcupines are people too

2012-02-06T19:52:00.000-08:00

Like all two-legged land-dwelling creatures, I have a softer side underneath. You wouldn't always know this, particularly if we were sitting across the table from one another, negotiating a licensing agreement or if you were to hear me "discussing" my water will with the service manager. In fact, like the white under belly of a porcupine, my softer side is often disguised by layers of pricks, sharpened by financial tsunami's, breakups with boyfriends and other humiliating experiences, each one of which lends itself to an increased potency of verbal barbs, that, when used, give the unsuspecting a severe, emotional

laceration.

"You need to read 'How to Hug a Porcupine," my mother casually suggested. I should have known better. She's a therapist. Of course it had a double meaning. But I was being dense. I thought she was referring to improving my relationship with my husband, who I've always considered a bit...rough around the emotional edges. "You might really like it," she said smoothly. "It helped with your dad." That was it. Amazon confirmed my rush order later that night.

When I got it, I resolved to read it page by page with Roger, thereby saving the big reveal for the two of us. Secretly, I was hoping he'd make evident his emotional vulnerability as we read about his emotional issues. How little did I know.

The sub-title of this book is "Dealing with Toxic and Difficult to Love Personalities," I might say, and the definition of a toxic personality is thus:
A toxic behavior is any word, deed, or action which detracts from you being your best self or hinders others from becoming their best selves."

The next paragraph basically says many toxic personalities are well-meaning. They "sincerely believe that are acting in a loving way and that the end justifies the means." The trite phrases of "I'm doing this for your own good," or "you will thank me later," are really demeaning, criticizing etc. The difference between toxic and nontoxic behavior is in the approach. How they deal with the negative is the issue. The manner in which they treat others defines them as toxic.

I waited until Rog and I were in the car for a four-hour drive to a weekend destination when I whipped out the book and started to read up to page 7. He laughed at the title, smirked at the definition of toxic, and became completely silent by the time the attitudes and behaviors of toxic people are listed. I read 58 characteristic descriptions. During the exercise, I marked those I felt he had, but was surprised when he wanted to join in the conversation.

"You have a number of these as well." Me? What the...This wasn't about me. How could I be toxic?

When it was over, we had 16 between us, almost evenly split. Generally speaking, he owned his characteristics while I was offended and immediately went in defense mode. I mean, he's the one who has trained me to debate and play the devil's advocate on everything, particularly household expenditures that I believe are necessary and he believes are discretionary (working outdoor lights to keep away predators, as an example). "What?" he said, a bit surprised at my attitude. "You didn't think you are a bit prickly on the outside?" This was akin to hearing his pot calling my kettle black, but I kept my mouth shut.

Needless to say, we both enjoyed the following chapters on the differences between a porcupine and a muskrat (how's that for a visual. Honey, you being such a muskrat today)....the chapter on raising little porcupines (manipulating beasts), plucking quills on a porcupine (e.g. making the softer), putting on the armor (keeping yourself healthy with toxic personalities, entering the home of a porcupine (an relative or friend w/undesirable traits) and so forth.

In fact, each chapter is so laden with real life (e.g. true) examples, step by step how-to's for dealing with difficult personalities, I found myself wanting to get or recommend the book to everyone I know. For the truth is we all come in to contact with toxic personalities, in the workplace, friendships, church or on the street. Being armed with the tips is like putting together a the perfect offense required to win the game as opposed to the stress of memorizing defensive plays.

Oh, and lest I forget, a very lengthy chapter is devoted to "what if I'm a porcupine." The equivalent of joining AA. "I'm Sarah, and I"m a porcupine." After all, recognition is the first step. Of course, I'll follow that up with 'but at least I'm not like that skunk over there. He stinks." Oops. I guess I missed page 163, the section on 'positive communication skills.'

Women's self defense

2012-02-06T14:44:00.000-08:00

When I was 32, I hired a corporate development manager who was intelligent and quiet, as well as round and short. One time we were walking in San Francisco after a late night meeting had wrapped and the streets were empty. I was a bit worried about her walking to her car alone, and offered to go the distance before heading to my car in the opposite direction.

"Don't worry about me," she said, a wave of her hand in the air. "I'm a black belt. I can take 'em down." With that, she turned and casually went her way as I stood in surprised awe. She said it with confidence, it had to be true. Her? Was all I could think to myself.

The following year, I happened to hire yet another woman, this time a product manager, who was also the unlikeliest of martial artists. She was blond, of medium height and build, and once again, rather on the demure side as opposed to the outgoing, aggressive type. I'm not sure what I had in my mind as the "martial artist type," but it certainly wasn't what I was experiencing first hand. I only found out this woman was a practitioner when she kept declining lunch meeting requests.

"I'm going to the studio," she'd say. I mistakenly thought this was for pilates. "No, martial arts. I'm a black belt."

At that point, I investigated her hobby a bit more. I quickly learned it was no hobby. Martial arts was a sport, a love, a passion, and a pragmatic defense against the badness that is in our society. My employee, we'll call her Brenda, told me she'd been attacked once in college, and since then, had determined to improve her ability to ward off a threat. It took her several years, but she could handle herself against multiple attackers, men three times her size, from front grabs, neck and back attacks, knife attacks and many more.

A few days later, I asked her to take me to 'the studio' where I was introduced to a fourth degree black belt and shown a few simple moves. I was hooked. The following week, I signed up for a black belt program, and attended my first women's self defense seminar. I'm a bit ashamed I've never written on this topic before, since it's so important and practical, like learning to swim as a life skill.

Aside from my own knowledge, I've reached out to a few teachers in various forms (or types) of martial arts, and will start posting blogs on the topic. It's amazing how one can learn practical, useful defenses in less than ten minutes that can prevent a horrible event from occurring. It's not just something that happens to 'the other person." Over 1,100 women are attacked and killed by an intimate partner in the US, and 4.8 million assaults and/or rapes (600 a day) by those we know. A quarter of a million women are raped every year, and the statistics don't include theft, assault or other acts of violence where a rape is not involved.

I'm going to have videos and how-to's, along with tips and advice. For now, a few points:

Is it expensive to learn self-defense? No. While the costs very, you can learn simply moves for less than several hundred dollars (max). A small investment in your health and safety.
Is it time consuming? A two-three hour seminar is less time than some movies. Corporations often offer self defense seminars scheduled for one hour at a time (I was involved in co-teaching one at Ivar's restaurants for a group of women. In 40 minutes we were able to show four different hand-grabbing/releasing techniques).
Is it really possible to escape a grab from behind? Absolutely. A quick grab, turn and twist can many times break a hold. The key is to think quickly and act before the attacker has a chance to respond. (Most expect a person to do nothing, particularly women).

Matthew Apsokardu or myselfdefenseblog.com has been so gracious as to provide me with many additional pointers. For now, check out his site and the questions/comments sections from readers. They are packed full of great information.

Accelerating enlightenment through music

2012-02-05T15:24:00.000-08:00

How often have you read about a super-human child with off-the-charts intellect or acute capabilities in one area or another and invariably, the interviewer asks the mother, "what did you do?" The answer was nearly always "I played classical music while I was pregnant," sometimes augmenting this by putting headsets on the belly. (which leads me to wonder if people really had fat, hydrosauphalic heads back then, but that's a different blog). As I'm neither off the charts intellectual nor a prodigy in any discernable area, I wondered, why all the fuss? What about the masses for which classical music has done butt-kuss?

The answer? It finally came to me while I was raking the last ten pounds off my arms and legs yesterday and couldn't get Shubert's Ave Maria out of my head. Classical music is uplifting and calming in a way inspires, rather than tires.

In particular, I find classical Christmas music changes my entire mood, removing the grey in my head, replacing it with bright yellows. I love a good Moby tune as much as the next person, but it doesn't compare to Candlelight Carole by John Rutter.

In fact, I was a bit worried to think that I was the only person alive that listens to classic Christmas music year round, when I recently read a blurb about another writer who complained about her husband's preference for Christmas music. She was disgusted, limiting to the general areas of the house between the day after Thanksgiving and New Years. The rest of the time, she "makes him listen to it in his own office."

I remarked to my husband that at least 2 of us exist in the world, like Shrek finding Feona. "No," said my husband, "You only listen to classical Christmas music year around, not 'holiday'" It's true. No Rudolph the Red Nose Reindeer in July.

Bad mood? Need inspiration? Give it a shot. Here are four reasons to kill the dance music for 10 minutes.

1. Classical Christmas is uplifting
Can anyone argue that Handel was divinely inspired when he composed the score to the Messiah? I know people from all walks of life and all religious persuasions who agree that the Messiah is a magical piece of work.

2. It's calming.
When my daughters are going at it like two teams at the Superbowl, I play Shepherd's Pipe Carol. Suddently, my daughters stop all activity as they try to sing along. When it ends, one of them inevitably says "can you play that again?" We actually have the Carols from Clare conducted by John Rutter and play the CD over and over again.

3. Enlightenment begets enlightenment.
Let's face it. Everyone strives for enlightenment. Who doesn't want to be more tomorrow than they are today? Expansion of the mind comes with the extension and growth of the soul. When I listen to beautiful music, I feel inspired to learn more, to achieve, and frankly, be a better person.

4. It collapses time.
I tend to either listen to dance music or classical Christmas writing the blog or on the elyptical, and I will tell you this. When I listen to classical Christmas, the 30 minutes on whatever device of pain I'm using skips by, and I'm so much more motivated, whereas simply dance music (or upbeat of any kind) doesn't speed by so fast.

5. It kills a bad mood.
I simply find it hard to be in a bad mood when something do angelic is playing in the background. As I was stuck, raking mounds of dog-poop-encrusted piles of leaves yesterday, I tried to give it a shot. I thought of a man I simply abhore, willing myself to think evil of him. Ave Maria was swirling in my head the entire time, and guess what? It was impossible to keep him in my head. He sort of...faded, replaced with the lyrics of Shubert's song of giving.

And yes, I listened to the music while writing this. (PS. I also love the odd classical bit, like Torelli's Trumpet Concerto in D. Supercool.)

The Yard Terrorist

2012-02-04T19:33:00.000-08:00

It wasn't a thief in the night that came on our property over the last two weeks, nor was it a thief at all. We were betrayed by one of our own, a family member who took special care in allocating torpedo-like nuggets of pain in shadowed, well covered places, thinking the smell of pine-needles would throw us off. As my husband and I, along with my daughters toiled away in the yard, slaving away in the twelfth day of yard clean-up following a snow and then ice storm that downed dozens of trees and limbs on the property, we eventually heard the sound of inevitability, and it came from the smallest one of the bunch.

"Cucks...cucks......." yelled my two-year old as she came up to me, lifting her left boot. On the bottom of the pink and leopard camo snow boot (thanks again product managers. my husband is a sucker for anything combat and pink) was a giant, mandarin-orange size blog of dog crud. Cucks is Swedish code for Cuck-a, which is code for poop, and when it comes to the Gerdes family, is all code for one thing.

A dog bomb.

"It's everywhere," yelped my husband, walking up, then in, another land mine of crap. "She's a g** D***ed yard terrorist!" Sure enough, each one of the raked piles we'd carefully scraped over the last two weeks has a dark brown (and sometimes orange) bomb in various stages of nuclear meltdown. The weeds? Pasha. The edge of the grass. Forget it. Nothing so common for P-dog. Only the best for her. Top-of-the-pile- or nothing.

Wanted:
Yard Terrorist. Female. Approximately 8 years old.
Brown hair, Green eyes. Long tail.
Beware. Sharp teeth.

Rog, the master of the one-liners who came up with Dog-bomb months ago, (and used my favorite stainless steel spatula to clean it up), has now bested himself with yard terrorist. Never fear, dog owners far and wide. We have her contained her random acts of terror in our own personal fenced in Guantanimo.