Mama's Alphabet Soup

A Wicked Holiday is Coming!

2024-11-18T19:09:00.001-08:00

I mentioned to someone (a few someones really) how excited I was that our kids were coming home this week. Yes, this week. Not next week when there is an actual holiday on the calendar.

Alex is still in Denver. Cole is now in Scottsdale. The kid who doesn't usually make plans without double or triple-checking with others went ahead and booked a flight for the week before Thanksgiving to save himself some snaps. I can't blame him, but was concerned that it wouldn't work for Al. Cole must've had a vision, because it did happen to work out. The kids will be here for that wonderful time known as the week before Thanksgiving.

Everyone with grown children understands how tricky the holidays can be, especially when kids live away from home and have jobs with various time-off policies and have partners who also like to see their own families. So, this year I put my tree up earlier than ever, flipped the lights to orange, wrapped a few gifts in fall-like wrapping paper and put a pumpkin next to it. The celebration will begin when they arrive. And I have plans!

See Wicked for starters -- get those advertisers for the movie off our backs.
Eat at the new Mediterranean Restaurant for some Shawarma.
Repeat the word Shawarma as often as possible.
Sneak our way in to a spa for a mother-daughter manicure while boys do something else fun like...cow chores.
Have a few cocktails and hope that Alex whips up something that uses a frothy egg white to entice the relatives to come over. (Last phrase was sarcasm. They don't need egg whites. They know our fridge has libations aplenty.)
Make prime rib and/or another non-meat protein that will be surprisingly delicious even to Doug.
Discuss the current state of cinema and the literary scene.
Avoid politics.
Eat some bar food to remind the kids of their roots.
Cheer on the Hawks! Or, if you're Alex, read a book during the game.

On Sunday, the kids will head home and we will embark on a more untraditional holiday season. We'll duck out of Thanksgiving at the in-laws early and head to Iowa City for a big game on Friday. We'll scurry back for a wedding on Saturday night. We'll host a Christmas for any family who's around the Saturday before Christmas. We'll catch Mass on Christmas Eve before we take off for Scottsdale on Christmas Day. Christmas night we'll celebrate with Cole and Anna and Facetime Alex and Leo as they celebrate in Oregon. Then, to top off the holiday season, we'll attend another wedding on New Year's Eve.

It all seems a little unorthodox for a structured person (aka me) who relishes in repeating traditions. I think about all the pageantry I tried to create at the holidays to make it special for the family. I definitely created unnecessary stress. As we transition into a new phase of our lives with grown children, I realize it's not the traditions I care about. It's spending time, doing anything at all, with my people. And the cat, course.

Welcome Home

2024-07-07T11:04:00.000-07:00

After a few gluttonous days in Denver, I needed to excrete some sugar and alcohol imbued-sweat by going for a jog this morning. It was a beautiful morning – a top ten day with partly cloudy skies, dewy grass and a slight breeze. I was running along, thinking about our time in Denver, with our fun kids and their lovely partners, listening to a song by the Silversun Pickups called "Empty Nest" (coincidentally) when I came across this:

A blurry screenshot of the video

Turkey vultures. Our daughter had just informed us of a fun fact: a group of ravens are called a murder. I couldn't help but wonder what a group of turkey vultures was called. Could it be a murder too? Or perhaps they are just called creeps. I was far enough away to stop and record, sending some Jungle Boy commentary to our family group chat. But as I was filming, one of the creatures faced me and extended its wings. I decided to scoot. I would've zoomed in and taken a photo, but I didn't want to. I skedaddled and took a quick glance behind me to see that the other turkey vultures were also now facing me, wings stretched wide. Apparently, they suspected someone was about to drop dead from running. Suckers. It only made me run faster.

As I turned on our road into the safety of less creepy animals like cats and skunks, I considered metaphors. Strangely, the Frontier plane we traveled home in had a condor on its fin. Undoubtedly, God was making me consider vultures while obsessing about our kids who are making lives for themselves in the wild west: Denver and now Scottsdale. But if I learned anything this weekend, I realized what a joy it is to see our progeny making lives for themselves. It doesn't seem all that long ago that we were the ones to stress about money, jobs and living arrangements. Sure, we met a few vultures along the way. We faced them. We studied them. When they threatened us, we ran home. I'm not suggesting the kids need to run home anytime they face a vulture (although they are quite welcome.) But I am suggesting they find the people in their new communities who are their home and their security. I think, our kids already they know this. They have wonderful people by their sides.

How about a cow metaphor now?

An Irish Blessing

2024-06-30T11:25:00.000-07:00

This country is painted all green.
The rain keeps the landscape so clean.
In accents so sweet, the people you meet
Will render your heart quite complete.

With a group of fun and feisty couples, Doug and I recently returned from the Emerald Isle imbibing bucolic scenery, majestic cliffs, ancient castles, rich history, merry music, and the most important imbibery of them all: the ale.

Our journey began with a celebration – a sweet marriage proposal during a delightful performance of fiddles, flute, accordion, harp and dancing from The Irish House Party. You wouldn't think the trip would get much happier than that. But the party was just getting started.

My wish came true the very next day when I got to see Bono! In Dublin! Of course, it was only a large picture of him on the side of a building. No matter, my quest to run into U2 at a pub was quickly forgotten. Every Irish person we met was its own adventure. Take the bartender at the Temple Bar. He had me sized up in approximately five second, grabbing the cocktail menu from my hands, sensing my fickle preferences and commanding my drink choice. We didn't need to add a superstar to our mix. The bartenders were entertaining enough.

From Dublin we routed around the country where we made a stop in Kilkenny to find a bus driver who was as "Mad as a March Hare" as our tour guide warned us. He was ornery, interesting, and endearing despite his capacity to make a "feckin" sailor seasick. This is where I became awestruck by our very first castle viewing! And I never quit being awestruck!

Then we winded our way to Waterford to relive a medieval soap opera, also known as the Marriage of Strongbow which was mildly reminiscent of Game of Thrones. We viewed Catholic vestments lined with 24-carat gold thread which were hidden underground for 123 years. (Clearly, here's a possibility for a National Treasure sequel.) We quenched our thirst at a pub called The Ginger Man where I almost scored a free copy of James Joyce's The Odyssey. (The bartender was giving away books left behind but "not that one!" I was almost out the door with it. I mean, the book had a price tag of $3.99.)

The next day we were off to the incredible Blarney Castle with its narrow, winding stairs which were designed to foil the enemies and cause tourists to bump their heads. Some of us kissed the Blarney Stone. Some of us missed the Blarney Stone (namely me.) In truth, I don't think any of us on that tour needed to be blessed with more gift of gab.

We toured the beautiful Ring of Kerry and made much merry in the city of Killarney – not even realizing it was a fashion capital as the men in our group sported dashing, wool, sheep sweaters. You can tell a great city when pubs leave to-go cups at the exit. The next morning we enjoyed a particularly quiet bus ride to the most beautiful place I've ever seen: The Cliffs of Moher. Thank God it rained that day. Not only did it make for great photos, but allowed all of us to wear the cute rain boots we hauled across the pond. Doug would've been devastated.

We found our way to Limerick to feast at a medieval banquet in a (you guessed it) a castle. The music and feast were almost as entertaining as the limericks the resident dog lover in our group created––much better than the crap I wrote above. Laura's Limericks. Watch for something to be published soon. There just aren't enough limericks about egg salad and sheep sweaters.

Speaking of dogs, we tried our best to see some real Irish Wolfhounds, even paying 7 euro a pop to watch two sleeping dogs lie. Luckily, we had a sheep dog demonstration! It didn't disappoint showing the brilliance of dogs who know how to listen, behave and serve a useful purpose. Still, my hubby wasn't convinced of the need for a canine at Kramer Farms, even if our cows did get out while we were gone.

We found much more merrymaking in Galway City, but our group was beginning to lag as our trip wound down. We didn't stay long, and good thing. The birds in that town were quite aggressive, not as welcoming as the Irish people.

Our last night had come, and we had the pleasure of staying in Cabra Castle. It was beautiful with rose gardens and all the ancient opulence you'd expect. There was even a fairy tale wedding happening. Our amazing tour guide hadn't told us much about this particular castle. I'm guessing he thought he had filled our heads with as much Irish history as we could hold. But on the way home, I suspected another reason he hadn't told us much. I discovered it was haunted! I didn't notice any unusual activity, but I'm assuming our loud group had pushed the spirits into the forest for the night.

There was much more on this vacation. But as you may recall, I didn't kiss the Blarney Stone. So I'll wrap it up. It was the longest vacation Doug and I had ever been on. Coincidentally, we spent the summer solstice in Ireland where there was sixteen hours of daylight. My birthday also fell on the day we flew home in which we gained an additional six hours of celebrating – in an airplane no less. Longest vacation. Longest day. Longest birthday. I'd relive it all again.

I vowed to disconnect from work, and I did. But I didn't disconnect. As a matter of fact, I feel more connected than ever. I allowed myself to engage in conversation without planning the next task in my brain. I let myself fall asleep, lulled by the serene countryside, without one speck of guilt. I let myself enjoy history and beauty. I even let myself have cocktails without worrying what the next day would bring. (Maybe I should've worried about that a little bit.) Best of all, I let myself laugh with old friends and new friends.

A huge shout-out to Bambi and Steve at Four Seasons Travel and Mick Mulcahy with Collette Vacations for making an unbelievable and unforgettable experience.

Slainte!

Possum Kingdom

2024-06-08T09:32:00.000-07:00

A few mornings ago, at approximately 4:30 AM, just as the dawn was beginning to crack we heard the awful, guttural cry of our cat sitting outside the ledge of our bedroom window. It's "camp-out" time for Quinn, our 12-year-old feline wonder who doesn't care to sleep in the garage with all the exciting nocturnal activity of summer. Needless to say, there's nothing that makes you sit straight up in bed than a growling cat. I went to the window in attempt to pry him inside but he merely swatted me away as if to say he was busy. It took Doug's heavier hand to pull him inside. It was too dark to see what our kitty was sneering at. I wasn't sure I wanted to know anyway,

A Hard Night

Fast forward to 5:30 when my alarm went off. I traipsed through the kitchen and glanced out the patio door. And what appeared before my groggy eyes? A pink-nosed possum planted comfortably near our shade tree. He leisurely glanced at me, then looked away, not terribly concerned. Then, upon close inspection of the yard, I see another pink-nosed snout! Once again, this possum didn't seem to identify me as a threat. No wonder kitty was so grouchy. Critters have invaded his territory! I called out to Doug. Without hesitation, he offered to get his gun for these easy pickings. "Don't you dare," I said. No matter how ugly these animals are with their wee, beady eyes, the thought of killing a helpless animal tugs at my heart. And I didn't care for the idea of possum guts all over our yard. Doug then pontificated on the "good" that possums bring to the natural world. I really didn't know. Later, a coworker of mine told me they eat bugs and ticks. I think that might win Doug over. He hates bugs.

I had a dream the other night that we got ourselves a new dog, similar to our beloved Percy who would bark his brains out all night long. We know now that he was merely on possum patrol. Doug and I keep discussing the possibility of getting another dog. Well, discussing might not be the correct term. I bring it up. He vetoes the idea. With two kids living far away and with plan to travel more, I can't argue that it's a bit impractical to have a dog. But often, the heart isn't practical.

Until we reach a mutual agreement about this dog thing, Doug and I will just need to channel our inner Ace-Ventura: becoming one with nature and welcoming creatures to our possum kingdom, with the cat in charge, of course. Two kids out of the nest. Two possums under the deck. I think I'll name them Digger and Roscoe. I'm not convinced they will fill that hole in my heart left by kids growing up and dogs passing on. But I'll give it a try.

Well, Hello Roscoe!

Ask Yourself This...

2024-04-03T15:36:00.000-07:00

A couple of weeks ago I went with two of my colleagues to an event called "Empowerment Hour." We all thought we were going to take a two hour break from our daily grind to watch a presentation. While there was little description, the title of "Empowerment Hour" was certain to get us inspired. Imagine our horror when we realized this was going to be a networking event. In other words, we'd have to step outside of our comfort zone, meet new people, and talk about ourselves. Yuck.

It's not that we are terribly shy. We all hold positions which require us to have decent communication skills. But who wants to be put on the spot to talk about yourself? With energy and charm? Maybe guests of Jimmy Fallon. But probably not most people.

The organizer of the event was pretty clever in keeping the agenda ambiguous. There was a solid attendance.

We convened in a lovely party room in pastel shades with large windows to let in the sunlight. There was pretty fruit and fancy cheeses that everyone was reluctant to eat for fear of messing up the aesthetic, or dribbling on themselves I suppose. We broke up into small groups, introduced ourselves and were asked various questions to answer. We switched groups a few times which was nice because some of us were more verbose than others. And the questions?

Tough! Here's a sample:

What's your superpower? (Who wants to sound braggy? My first thought was to mention my ability to get blood stains out. But that might've led to some dark assumptions.)
What's one thing you need help with? (Help? I don't want to ask for help! Unless of course it's asking my hubby to open a jar of pickles with his brute strength.)
What's your secret dream? (Not sure I could handle the reactions by admitting my dream to be an actor on SNL.)

To be fair, everyone felt awkward about answering these questions. But once we got started, we couldn't stop talking. Someone was either giving personal advice, finding common obstacles, or encouraging confidence. It ended up being really great.

My two colleagues and I are in three different generations and different life cycles. While I'm the elder in the group, I wouldn't call myself the wise one. We are all wise in our own ways. We all share similar challenges and insecurities. But the one thing we share is our determination to learn from each other.

While the event was specific for women, those questions are applicable to any gender, in any setting. I encourage everyone to answer those questions for yourself as honestly as you can. Then, let your responses inspire positive actions for your life. Signing off for now...need to figure out how to get Lorne Michael's attention.

MY HEROES!

Cats, Part II

2023-10-23T18:58:00.001-07:00

For those of you who read my last post, you might be asking why Doug and I (obvious cat lovers), didn't save Carl-Gus-Bob ourselves and bring him into our home. The answer is Quinn. I don't think our "house" cat has received much publicity in this blog. I'm pretty sure that's how he'd prefer it. But here goes.

Quinn came to us as a kitten twelve years ago when Alex was a freshman in high school. Mrs. Nelson, her Spanish teacher, had a brood of tabbies that needed homes. What young high schooler can resist cute kittens? Alex took two. We didn't argue. (It would good for our puppy to have company!) Alex named the little tabbies Quinn and Ollie. We all quickly fell in love, as any normal human would. Unfortunately, Ollie became a quick victim of his curious nature after crawling into Doug's truck. Needless to say, he didn't live the nine lives he was meant to live. Strangely, Quinn had also crawled into Doug's truck, but somehow survived. (We're not sure if Ollie was actually pushed by his brother. Quinn does does carry a certain "Scar" swagger.)

Quinn has outlived his brother and two other Kramer dogs. Maybe even some hamsters along the way. We're thinking he's got 99 lives. Not only is Quinn a survivor, he's a beast. We've seen him tell other feral cats to "take a hike" with his mean-cat growl. I suspect he's had to give the same scolding to skunks, raccoons and opossums. We don't even see coyotes around here. A friend of mine told me we should be careful that the eagles don't get him. I'm not sure an eagle to take the twenty-pounder. He's our little lion who doesn't hesitate to take severe measures when it comes to mice, birds and ground squirrels. Evidence shows up at our front door. Despite spending an abundance of time outside, he never shows any evidence of getting into a fight. His coat is smooth, his face, flawless. We call him a house cat. He looks like a house cat. But he's very selective about his time inside – usually only wanting inside for on occasional cheek-scratching or potato chip. (He would never lower himself to eat leftovers like the hoodlums back at the farm, but he'll come running at the crackle of a chip bag.)

Needless to say, Quinn is a one-cat show. We didn't even consider introducing him to Carl-Gus-Bob. Quinn might've broken his spirit, or convinced him to take a ride in Doug's truck. But no matter his sadistic, killer instincts, we love the fat, little furball. He doles out his measured affection to both of us, per his schedule, which of course warms our hearts and makes us laugh. Here's to Quinn and another 99 lives.

The Cat Whisperer

2023-10-17T17:21:00.001-07:00

My husband runs a cat house.

Feral cats come from far and wide to take shelter in Doug's machine shed at the old home place. We don't mind. Unlike most people, we admit to liking cats. We find them funny. We appreciate their killer instincts when it comes to rats and snakes. And while I adore dogs, we've had some tough luck in the last couple of years. It's the type of tough luck that rips your heart out and vow never to get another dog.

So our attention has turned to cats. (Empty nest syndrome? Maybe.)

Anyway, we just completed our first formal adoption.

In July, Doug came across a small litter of kittens in the shed. One particular kitten, the scrawniest of them, had a certain intrepid sense about him. Rather than hide from the humans, he'd come jaunting out of the weeds to say, "Well hello there!" The rest of the litter stayed more aloof, only inching out whenever Doug dumped out some cat food he lovingly purchased (and still purchases) at the feed store. As you'd guess, this seemed to solidify our new friendship with scrawny cat. But Doug gave me very specific warning. "Don't you go picking it up. We want them all to stay wild."

I nodded my head. But wondered how I long I could hold out. This kitten was so freaking cute! But I obliged. A week later I learned that someone whom I live with was being a hypocrite. He had done the deed. Doug had picked him up. And he named him. Bob, the Cat.

Bob became increasingly curious as harvest began. He had a keen interest in learning all about the workings of the combine. And apparently, Doug's machinery had some real nice places to nap. Well, you could see where this story might end.

Bob's future was beginning to look precarious. So, we made a simple plea to my parents–– always the bleeding hearts when it comes to saving an animal. Suffice to say, it didn't take any arm-twisting before Mom said, "Okay. Bring him over Sunday."

After some critical analysis, my parents decided to give Bob a new home and a new identity. Bob became Carl and gained two sisters: June (the dog) and May (the other cat). Mom had argued to name the kitty Gus to stay with the calendar theme (Augustus), but my father is the master of naming pets. So, Carl it was. (The kids call him Carl-Gus-Bob, which also has a nice ring.)

Carl now lives a life of luxury, no longer having to fight off skunks or other animals for food. He doesn't even need to fight off June or May, because, honestly, they haven't quite taken a liking to the little devil just yet. (Don't worry, he doesn't even recognize this fact.) So, what's the moral of this story? I'm not sure. Except it's a happy ending for an adorable kitten whose future was endangered.

And if the mood happens to strike, and you find yourself wanting to make prey out of yarn, and tell stories of the cute things your new cat did like crawl into a basket, you now know who to call.

Carl Gus Bob!

Yay for Sports!

2023-09-14T19:32:00.004-07:00

Mom's love for the Iowa Hawkeyes is likely the reason I wanted to go to Iowa City. She was a fan! I was always impressed and amused how much my mother knew about sports when I was young. She was passionate about watching football and basketball –– of the collegiate variety. I was more of a "what's the score" type of gal as I walked to the kitchen to get a snack.

Fast forward to the present. As everyone does, I eventually became my mother. I'd like to say I became a true sports fan as a freshman in college when I went to my first football game. I did become a fan. A fan of tailgating. It was a rarity for me to make it through an entire game in my college years. I even had class with football and basketball players. They were pleasant and normal students, just like me. I certainly didn't feel starstruck. I certainly didn't feel a need to ask them about their upcoming games or talk to them about a great play they made. I was nothing like a certain middle-aged woman who met Caitlyn Clark in a bathroom in Iowa City last winter and didn't want to let her leave. (That woman was me.)

I know so much about sports now, it's almost ridiculous. Ask me what a Nickleback is. I'll tell you that it's not just a popular band from the 2000s. Let me explain to you the pick and roll. I can! So sure, my husband has tutored me on these things, but not only do I understand a few positions and plays, I enjoy watching them! As long as the team we're watching is executing and winning. And by team, I mean the Hawkeyes.

Has there always been a sports fan within me? Lying dormant through my formative years?

My sister-in-law and I have discussed this phenomenon, because something similar happened to her at a certain point in her life. This phenomenon being a sudden and sincere interest in that world of sports in which our husbands have long been a part of.

Here's the sweet and simple explanation:

Kids.

Once you have kids, you become a cheerleader –– no matter if they love sports or dance or drumming or singing or drawing. When your kid enters a competition, you're all in. Your heart is a pitter-patter, and you want nothing more than for them to succeed. To win! And of course, you're heartbroken if they don't. Probably more heartbroken than they are. But it's a mother's job to cheer on her kids no matter what. I would argue it's a father's job as well. From my experience, however, a father prefers coaching over cheerleading. Whether cheering or coaching on your children, it all seems to come to a halt when they graduate high school. The calendar frees up. Laundry is done in, like, one evening. And you can only watch the same movies over and over again so many times.

So, what better way to fill that newly-drilled hole in your heart? Sports! Not only does it seem to give you purpose by cheering on a team that needs you, but it gives you a compelling reason to shop for fan gear. And if you're lucky? Your team will never graduate.

Go Sports!

The List that Keeps Giving

2023-08-31T09:36:00.031-07:00

I'm on a stay-at-home vacation this week, so lists rule! There's nothing quite like the feeling of crossing something off your to-do list. My intention this week was to get some stuff done: organize, weed the flower beds, edit my novel! It's Thursday, so time to take inventory of my accomplishments:

Weeded flower beds. Pretty easy job in a drought.
Organized one junk drawer. The main junk drawer that is. Found four sharpies. Score!
Finished Season 4 of Stranger Things. Whew. Time-consuming. Emotionally draining. But completely awesome!
Started Season 4 of Modern Family. Laughing should always be on a to-do list.

So, the week is running out and here I am, blogging instead tackling the furnace room or a closet I had my sights on. Truthfully, my purpose in organizing those areas was to find our wedding video to get it transferred to digital before our thirtieth anniversary (next August). When Mom told me she has a copy, my drive to organize areas drifted a bit.

I truly do believe in the power of lists though. Anyone remember Phil Dunphy mentioning how his wife, Claire, can create to-do lists that last for days? I'm with Claire. The only problem is my hubby doesn't usually see the need to do these pesky household tasks unless it has a monetary value associated. "If it doesn't make us money, why do it?" I should say that to him the next time he feels amorous.

I can be a bit sneaky in my approach in getting Doug to do something. Sometimes it's appealing to his need to be challenged. "Think you can mix me up a cocktail of weed killer?" He's on it. Sometimes it's appealing to his sense of fun. "We should refresh the basement. Maybe add a bar." We conquered that in a few months. Sometimes it's appealing to his sense of adventure. "How many limestones do you think we can dig up in the cattle yard?" My Indiana Jones found so many we were able to recreate Stonehenge. And sometimes, if it's possible, I find a way to make it a smart financial decision. "Couldn't we write-off a new garage if you use it for agricultural purposes?"

Our son figured out how to manipulate the list process at a young age. I usually left a list of chores for each of the kids in the summer. One day, when I was cleaning out a drawer, I found an old "list" notebook and came across something interesting – and just a bit off. It was the kids' lists with a few normal chores like filling the dishwasher, vacuuming and cleaning the toilets. But Alex had more on hers. And she had a special task in her column: Play video games with Cole. It even really resembled my handwriting. I'm not sure it worked, but I liked the thought behind it – integrating normal chores with the thing he really wanted done. And having Mom sign off on it.

I have just a few hours left of this stay-cation to get things done. (Tomorrow we leave for Iowa City to perform the critical job of cheering on our Hawks at the season opener.) So, there's still a furnace room and closet to conquer. But there's also a cat that needs petting. And it's almost lunchtime. And I wouldn't mind playing a little piano. And hey, when I return to work next week, I'll be armed to discuss my main accomplishment for the week: Finishing Stranger Things. Kidding. Sort of. Truly, and not kidding one bit, the best thing I did this week was spending time with my best friend: Doug. I'll never cross that task off the list.

A Little Place Called Napa

2023-08-14T19:07:00.005-07:00

We went. We drank. And unfortunately, we left. But the experience was unforgettable – except for those times when we imbibed too much, of course.

Doug and I have never been huge wine drinkers. Blame youthful experiences with Mad Dog and Night Train. But some time ago, after watching Sideways, we became fascinated with the idea of visiting the California wine country. Since we like to take our kids on vacation, we decided to wait until they turned of age. They were seven and three when that movie came out, so we had a few years to wait.

Finally, the time had come! Four Seasons Travel gave us some amazing guidance and set us up on a Top Five trip. Doug, me, Alex, Cole and his sweet girlfriend Anna. The weather was perfect. The people were welcoming. The towns were quaint. The food was spectacular. The vineyards were bucolic. And the wine? Well, the wine was not Night Train to say the very least.

We all came with agendas to learn more about wine and in the process increase our sophistication index. (Alex and Anna didn't really need this, but the rest of us sure did.) Cole had other agendas though. As a matter of fact on the way to Napa, he let it slip that he couldn't leave California without eating and In-N-Out burger. Ironically, "in-n-out" was how Cole took his wine on our first full day of touring. Not that the wine wasn't perfection, but he couldn't bear to watch his sister let her portions go un-drank. It had always been an important lesson in the Kramer household, not to let anything go to waste. Especially alcohol. Luckily, Cole's unleashing of the Cabernet's on our first full day didn't slow him down the rest of the week.

A day trip to Calistoga provided quite a memorable experience for Doug and I. The kids shopped while we made appointments for a "Mudslinger" at Dr. Wilkenson's Backyard Resort and Mineral Springs. This treatment involves slipping into a large tub of warm, bubbling mud (think Shrek's jacuzzi). Completely naked. Mind you, I don't even like my husband to see me naked, so I can't deny I was a little self-conscious. But there was only the attendant, Doug and me. So, I got comfortable in a hurry. Amazingly comfortable. The mudbath was followed by a natural spring bath with special soothing salts. Our old bodies were as loose as a goose, if goose are indeed loose. After this little slice of heaven, we wrapped up in a towel and were directed to the sauna which was a staggering 300 degrees. I only managed to remain in there for about thirty seconds. Doug lasted longer. He had been training in 300 degree grain bins. Nonetheless, the spa was amazing.

We did lots of great things. We joined a wine club, of course. We drove an hour north of Calistoga to visit a redwood forest that wasn't THE Redwood forest. But we snapped a few nice and weird photos there. We went on an e-biking tour to more vineyards. We drank delicious olive oil. We saw Barbie. We did more wine tastings. We ate In-N-Out burgers. I bought the book Sideways that I'm ashamed to admit I didn't know was a book before the movie. And on our last full day, we picnicked all afternoon in a picture-perfect winery eating charcuterie and blasting through five bottles of vino. As we chatted about the wonderful vacation, I admitted that I learned an important lesson that week. If we want the hubby to try new things, bring the girlfriend. While I can hardly bring up an idea without it being dismissed within the first five seconds, Anna's ideas were met with "Sure -– that sounds fun." (Thus the ebiking and Barbie outings.)

I loved almost everything about Napa. And one of things that struck me most was the agricultural identity, like our community. Maybe not exactly like ours. Grapes are a little more charming than corn. Just a little. Nonetheless, the residents of wine country carries a great love for their land and what it produces. Now, that's something we Iowa folk can relate to.

Cheers! Salute! Prost!

The mythical Poseidon Winery!

Hello Neighbor

2022-08-09T16:15:00.000-07:00

We live on a dead-end road, the only inhabited house on our stretch of 1800th Street. There's not much traffic this time of year. The postman. UPS. Fed Ex. An occasional farmer crop-checking. An occasional kid coming home to visit. Needless to say, I've become quite accustomed to our privacy. Maybe a little too comfortable.

Almost every morning, I get up as soon as there's just a bit of sunlight to go for a jog or a walk. When I get back home, I love to soak up every bit of morning outside. The slight cool breeze. The chirping birds. The sunrise over Earling's steeple. So, with my ear buds on, I lay on our driveway and stretch and stare at the blue skies above. Sometimes I twist into some yoga moves to crack my back. Sometimes I grab my cat and set him on my stomach to give him love. Sometimes I pray. And sometimes, I get into the mood to do dead bug abdominal moves. You know the kind where your legs are raised and you tap your feet to the ground? It's also known as a dance move which can be a high point at a wedding, for guests who like to laugh at the weirdos laying in the middle of the floor.

Well, imagine my surprise when I sat up the other morning after some dead bugs to see Larry, one of our neighboring farmers, doing an early morning check of his crops. Hi Larry. Don't mind me. I'm just laying on the driveway. Like an idiot, dead-bugging it.

Last night I went out for a walk because it wasn't 105 degrees outside. I slipped on my ear buds to 10,000 Maniacs. (After a weekend of seeing college pals, I was in the mood for some alternative classics to relive my youth.) And there's just something about Natalie Merchant that makes me want to wail along and dance. So, on my walk, in which no one in the world would see me, I sang and danced to These Are The Days. It's a song you HAVE to sing and dance to. I mean, Natalie sings about about shafts of light hitting your face! What can you do? So, I'm skipping along, swaying my hands when I hear the sound of Doug's ATV coming from behind. I turn around, hand on hip, trying to be cutesy for my hubby, still swaying to the song.

But it's not my hubby. It's Phil, another neighboring farmer, on his four-wheeler. He waves politely, as if I'm not a fruitcake.

So, here's my confession and apology to my neighbors. I am not crazy. I just forgot that we're not completely isolated here. So please, please don't send our freaky neighborhood turkey vultures my way.

You know what's funny? This past weekend, as we attended a college friend's wedding, even after a few cocktails, I didn't dare show off my dance skills. Too embarrassing! And these are people who saw me do some pretty stupid stuff in the day. Like practice my auditions for an MTV VJ. Or strike a pose to Madonna's Vogue. Almost every weekend.

Apparently, I needed the neighbors at the dance. THEN, I could've shown off my wonderful dead bug...while others killed it with their Humpty moves.

With Preacher/DJ John & the Ultimate Usher Dom.

A Short Story on Independence Day

2022-07-04T07:06:00.005-07:00

Last week Doug and I traveled to Denver to attend Pride with our daughter, Alex. It was fascinating, fun and a wonderful celebration of people of all identities. Not everyone has the luxury of having a space where you feel safe and loved. But love and kindness abounded, at least for that weekend in Denver.

Beyond Pride, we had another interesting interaction last weekend as our Uber driver, Mahad, took us out to eat. He was a young man from Sudan. He had a soccer shirt on, so we obviously had a lot in common. Like the clueless, American binge watcher soccer mom I am, I asked him if he ever watched Ted Lasso. Of course, he didn't know what I was talking about. Then I switched gears and asked him what brought him to the United States. "This!" he explained––the money and opportunity. He had a little girl and a pregnant wife in Africa. And he could support them so much better with the money he made here. He talked about how he missed them and couldn't wait until they came and visited him. Then I asked a question in which I was a little nervous to hear the response. I asked him how he liked the United States. And his answer? "100% love it." The answer shocked both Doug and I a bit, as we constantly hear the depressing news of racism and divisiveness in our country, which I have no doubt is real. But it was small breath of fresh air to hear this young African man talk about how safe he felt and how much opportunity he had here.

As we celebrate the 4th of July, I hope we can remember we're still a young country trying to sort out the ideals of democracy and equality for all. We have our challenges, for sure. But it's stories like Mahad's, a grateful man looking to build a good life for his family, that should remind us what we stand for and give us hope––for individuals of all kind.

Happy 4th Everyone!

The Office, My Office

2022-06-18T11:40:00.003-07:00

I'm not sure if I've ever shared my love for The Office on this blog. But I'm going to now. I realize the finale was aired clear back in 2013. But that series has become to me what Hogan's Heroes was to my dad. And all my love for The Office has recently come roaring back with a new book written by Jenna Fischer and Angela Kinsey: "Office BFF's."

The first time I saw The Office, I was watching by myself. (I'm guessing it was harvest.) It completely cracked me up. The character of Michael Scott was the perfect mix of parody and satire. And I knew just as soon as Jim hovered around Pam's desk, I would be hooked on their romantic storyline. I was excited to tell my husband I had found a series for us to binge watch. But, when we watched the pilot episode together, he didn't share my affection. This shocked me, because we have a very similar sense of humor. And my husband is a Steve Carrell fan! But Doug just couldn't get past his annoyance of Michael. That, I tried to explain, is what made it so funny. His utter lack of self-awareness, yet that subtle vulnerability that makes your heart go out to him when he casually brings up things from his childhood that were, well, sad. Like Jeff, his step-dad.

Anyway, I can't possibly write about the brilliance of The Office. That's for cinema majors who can profoundly explain the humor in something like a New Yorker article. All I can say is how it affected me. I work in an office. We use the same exact phones that Dwight uses to make sales calls. We have candy dishes. We have party planners. We have a sweet receptionist. And we have managers who desperately want to create a positive culture. Sometimes those efforts work. Sometimes they don't. (I'm a manager by the way, so don't worry about me getting fired for that statement.)

I've worked for the same bank for nearly 25 years now. In truth, I never thought I'd stay at the same workplace for that long. Not that I don't like what I do or the people I work with. I do! But I assumed, like most people, that I'd be doing something bigger with my life. You know, like become a best-selling author, or possibly an actress who somehow manages to make movies while raising kids on a farm with her hubby. I didn't get my MBA for nothing, after all. But here's the thing. I'm listening to this book as two best friends relate their time ON The Office, and I see parallels to my time IN the office. We share quite a bit in common, actually. Things like:

Laughter. We laugh a lot at the Bank. I can't begin to tell you all of the funny stories that have occurred through the years. But let me assure you they involve a lot of intentional scaring, poop and fart jokes, and one of my favorites, incorrect use of grammar. Okay, that last one doesn't sound funny. But it's hard not to laugh in certain instances. Like when a serious discussion in the board room is happening and the top dog says, "They obviously don't understand the levity of the situation." (Believe me, skipping loan payments is not usually funny.) OR when you ask a colleague who is staring at your delicious sandwich and ask,"Do you want to bite it?" OR when a manager keeps saying how we need to antiquate new employees into our culture better. Maybe he was on to something innovative. Maybe antiquating would make staff feel more valued! Like on American Pickers!
Friendship. It's hard for me to write this bit without tearing up. Friendships at the bank are family. We have no better cheerleaders for each other at work. We celebrate big events together: new babies, birthdays, weddings, graduations, regulatory exams (when they're over, of course). As a matter of fact, most people at the bank don't want to take off for their birthdays for fear of missing out of some royal treatment. We find ways to celebrate! I clearly remember when my staff arranged a book-signing party for me. They had all gone online to purchase "Goodbye Def Leppard (I'll Miss Those Jeans)" and lined up to have me sign their books. And I was planning on GIVING them all a copy! This was probably the biggest press event I had for my book.

Make no mistake, we also commiserate together, through injury, illness and death. I'll never forget the time I miscarried as a group of us traveled to a bank seminar. Panic-stricken, I told one of the officers, a lady I admired greatly, and she discreetly called my husband and figured out how to get me to the hospital. She hugged me and let me cry on her shoulder. I will never, ever forget her compassion that day.
Good food. Bad perm.
Food. Sorry to pivot from that sad story so quickly, but this incredibly long post is intended to entertain. When I first started at the Bank, I was struck by the sheer amount of recipe swapping. I wondered if we were wasting too much time on food chat. One time, our very busy and very professional Cashier decided to put together a bank cookbook: "Bankers Make Great Bakers." I still have it! As a much older and wiser human, I can assure you that there's never time wasted on food chat, or food testing, or food devouring. Food brings people together. It's a deeply gluttonous token of love.
Service. Does anyone remember when Michael Scott organized a fun run for rabies awareness? Well, there's not a good cause our bankers won't support. We'll do anything for charity. Like build extravagant canned food displays. Or, take a pie in the face. Or, wear Iowa State clothing. Yes, even that.

Ann looks so cute as a Hawk!

The Ordinary. I'm sure many people think of banking as mundane. We work with...numbers. But important numbers. We protect money. We help people to buy houses. There's not an employee at the SCSB who doesn't believe in our mission. Yes, we come to a building filled with desks, computers, filing cabinets, copiers, notepads, etc. Boring stuff right? Maybe. On the last episode of The Office, Pam has the final monologue in which she says, "There's a lot of beauty in the ordinary things." I love this sentiment. Every time I go into the supply room to pick out my new color of post-its, I think of this.

Money, kids, and me. Oh my!

Also in the last episode, Andy Bernard (played by Ed Helms) says, "I wish there was a way to know you were in the good old days before you actually left them." What a thought. Could we possibly realize the joy we experience the moment we're in the moment? Yes, I think we can. We should, actually. I'm sure gonna try harder. Thanks to the wisdom of The Office. And the great place I work.

By the way, I'm making my hubby watch every single episode, every season. I'm bossy that way. And you know what? I hear him chuckling.

Regarded as another legendary bank party. If memory serves me right, we raised money for Alzheimers that day.
See what I did there?

Tales about Tails: A Day on the Kramer Ranch

2022-04-25T19:38:00.001-07:00

Our empty nest was pleasantly rumpled this past weekend! Not only were we reunited with our daughter and son, but we ran into a few other guests as well.

This story really begins with the loss of a dog in December –– a dog whose digging wasn't appreciated for it's ability to deter.

Fast forward through some cold and windy months in which the only yard work completed has been the removal of Christmas lights.

It's Saturday, April 23rd. The kids are home and the temperature indicates no winter coat necessary. It's our last day together as a family for a while. Everyone is campaigning for Dad's famous grilled steaks for lunch. The problem, as most of you can guess, is the wind. Not to be outwitted by the weather, Doug and Cole move the grill to our front stoop.

Doug's first move is to re-arrange one of my unplanted flower pots. So he does. And out comes a giant bird who has been gnawing on some dead earth worms. No one but Doug sees the bird, but it's described as tall, fast and scary. I have my theories as to the species. It takes a lot to make my hubby jump.

In the meantime, Alex and Cole are in the kitchen with me quoting movies and brainstorming cocktail concoctions while preparing potatoes. You know, "boil 'em, mash 'em, stick 'em in a stew."

Unbeknownst to us, there's commotion on the stoop.

Doug is cleaning corn husks out of the grill only to find something even scarier than a bird: a mouse. Speedy Gonzales manages to jump on the ledge with Doug on his tail. He finds refuge under my copper water hose pot. Doug lifts it to find the mouse...along with an unlikely mate: a bull snake. Not a bird. Not a mouse. A bull-freaking snake.

No need to discuss the fate of Speedy and snake, but let's just say only the bird escaped.

On to the next day on the farm: one kid has gone back to Denver. Cole and I decide to accompany Doug on his cow chores to admire the new babies, which of course, never disappoint. With the temperature dipping, Doug decides he needs to move his sprayer and tractor in the machine shed. Cole and I can help guide him as he rearranges equipment. We set up. Cole goes toward the back of the shed. I stay toward the front. Doug is backing up and I'm doing my job, watching closely and motioning him back. He yells something at me which I can't hear. I assume he's wondering if he's on the right track. I nod and keep waving him on. Then he yells something again. I'm thinking he's trying to tell me something beyond the task at hand.

"What?" I yell back to him.

Then I hear one garbled word from his mouth.

Skunk.

Skunk?

"There's a skunk right next to you!"

I don't look. I don't dare. I skedaddle my way out to safety in approximately 1.5 seconds.

Why Pepe Le Pew doesn't spray any of us? I don't know. Perhaps we already smell badly enough. Perhaps Pepe doesn't sense any threat from my helpful mannerisms. Perhaps Pepe heard about the mouse and snake and doesn't want to press his luck.

No matter. If there's anything we have learned from this past weekend, it's not about the importance of spending quality time on the farm with the family to experience wildlife. It's purely the fact that we need a dog.

And that we've raised a useless cat.

Viva Mexico!

2022-01-29T11:12:00.002-08:00

Any excuse to go to Mexico is a good excuse, right? A son's high school graduation (2019). Best friends find cheap tickets during pandemic (2020). A nephew gets married (2022).

Ah, Mexico! Turquoise water. White sand. Endless mojitos. The happiest of people. And no wind chill to worry about. It's quite paradis-ical.

Admittedly, I was a bit anxious about this year's trip. Not that I wasn't excited for Dillon to marry his sweet southern belle, but stuff kept happening. Flights were being cancelled. Our room status was questionable (our fault for our fickle decision-making). Shootings were happening on resorts. And, of course, there's still the whole Covid thing and making sure we could make it back to the U.S. God forbid we get trapped in paradise!

After sending many annoying texts to our kids to ensure they were prepared for the trip (Got your vax cards? Did you all take a rapid test? Don't forget your passports! Leave your fake IDs at home), I finally told myself it was time to quit worrying and have fun. And fun we did have. The wedding was beautiful with top-notch toasts. The spa treatment was heaven. The food was exciting! Yes, exciting! When knives are juggled, that's exciting.

But there were a few bumps on the trip. A little spat because I was taking too long to get ready the night we arrived. (I always take too long, but there's less tolerance after a long day in airports and drinks to be had.) Back to the bumps. Too much tequila for the tiniest girl in our travel party. A bladder infection for the oldest girl in our travel party. And a bout of nausea for the most allergic-ridden girl in our travel party. But we carried on like troopers!

Then Covid testing day arrived. The worry had been lingering in the back of my rum-infused brain, especially whenever I heard our son cough. As it turned out, my worrying was merited.

As we walked through the hotel lobby to the testing site, Cole seemed particularly nervous. Then he confessed. He hadn't really taken a rapid test before leaving AND he had actually felt like shit.

He was afraid we wouldn't let him go to Mexico.

Solid logic.

So, we waited and fretted to get our noses swabbed. Then they took us all back to a little dark room. It all felt very criminal. We lined up, passports in hand, and let the nurse poke our noses. Then we were led back to another little dark room to await results. A guy came in with purpose and walked directly to Cole. My heart fell. This was it. Cole was going to miss his first week of college, quarantined in a Mexican resort. His life was ruined.

As it turned out, the guy just wanted our passports and Cole just happened to be sitting there. And within a few minutes after my heart attack, the negative Covid results were all delivered. Hallelujah, let's go drinks more rum.

I'm not sure if there's a moral to this story. I don't think so, except maybe, just maybe things always work out. Even for the good-hearted liars.

A Christmas Greeting and Tribute

2021-12-25T06:06:00.001-08:00

This might be the first year since 1997 that I haven't sent a Christmas card. Let me just say this: I'm sorry you didn't get to open an envelope with the Kramers slapped into a Snapfish holiday template with a carefully selected sentiment. I could blame many things (including a lack of ambition), but I'm going to point a finger at the one culprit we're all so entirely sick of. Congress.

Kidding.

Actually, Doug and I got COVID right around Thanksgiving. Certainly, it put a wrench into that holiday and the few weeks after. But we were thankful we were able to celebrate a beautiful family wedding before we got sick. Almost the entire Kramer clan (including a very, very pregnant niece who lost her mucus plug and gave birth to a perfect baby girl a day later.) Our kids got to experience their first time being in a wedding party. Alex made a smashing toast as Maid of Honor. And Cole just got smashed. Cole's adorable girlfriend, Anna, also attended her first Shelby County wedding. It's been rumored that she regarded it as the best weekend of her life.

Mikayla and Adam's wedding was certainly a celebratory event of the year, because there's been a few health challenges in the family. And most recently, some heartbreak. But overall, we have much, much to be grateful for. In true bullet point fashion, here's a few highlights from 2021:

Alex sold her car. She made the adult decision to lesson her carbon footprint and use a bicycle to traverse the hills of Denver. And the extra snaps in her account has the added bonus of allowing her to pay rent. (And not to brag, but she made music editor at 303 Magazine.)
In addition to the successful completion of 1.5 years in college and working a job, Cole grew a mustache. (Again, not to brag, but it was nearly all filled in.)
Doug had a busy year with harvest, but was happy to have his wife take off work for a half of a day to drive a tractor for him. He also happens to raise the most lovely cows you could ever meet. They're practically pets whom I never think we should sell.
Stef drove a tractor. Doug still thinks she should keep her bank job.

As a family we vacationed in Colorado where our pretty daughter resides (thus, the traversing through Denver comment). It took Doug and I an hour to park in a lot we could see across the street from our hotel. Anyone who has driven in the 5-points area, will understand that the problem wasn't completely us. It was probably 75% us. 25% Denver street design. It was a feat. We also made our way north to quaint little Estes Park where we toured the Overlook, ahem, I mean The Stanley Hotel where we were equally disappointed and relieved not to witness any paranormal activity.

Doug and I continue to cheer on our beloved Hawkeyes, making a few weekend trips to Iowa City to cheer them on. Oh yeah––and to see our son. As has been the status quo, we become hopeful, then in an instant, our hearts are broken. I am speaking of the Hawks. Not the kid. We are happy to discuss the Hawks' travails and losses with our parents, who have known the joy and heartbreak longer than us. But they raised us to endure.

Speaking of joy and heartbreak, I must end this blog with a tragedy and a tribute. Our Percy took his last run down the highway yesterday. For the last twelve years, the little dog has filled our hearts with joy, laughter and love. Two days ago, we took this picture in front of the tree. It only took sixteen times for us to get Percy to sit still. But we did. And it will be our last. Yesterday, my husband quoted John Grogan as we were all grieving for the loss.

"A dog has no use for fancy cars, big homes, or designer clothes. A water log stick will do just fine. A dog doesn't care if you're rich or poor, clever or dull, smart or dumb. Give him your heart, and he'll give you his."

Rest in Peace, our stinky little barker. We love you.

Undressed

2021-09-21T19:21:00.000-07:00

Every Sunday night I step into my closet to plan my wardrobe for the work week. The outfits I pick are based on a number of factors: what meetings are scheduled, if it's after Labor Day, how high the AC will be running in my office, and, of course, how good my pedicure is holding up for open-toe shoes. Now, I don't hold myself strictly accountable in case I do something silly like plan to wear a polo with khakis on a day that's not a Friday.

This little exercise usually makes my mornings go a bit smoother. Even though there's no more pouring Fruity Pebbles for the kids, I do have a number of other duties to conquer in the morning: exercise, vetsulin shots for Percy, prayers, shower, makeup, Gayle King, etc. Sometimes there's a hitch that throws my schedule off. The dog pukes in the garage. The cat needs my love more than ever. The hubby needs my love more than ever. But the biggest hitch to my morning routine seems to be when an outfit doesn't come together. And, as you already know, this is after I've already planned it out!

I've never been accused of having OCD. Anyone who has opened my cupboards knows this. But I wonder if have a bit of a disorder when comes to attire. Take this morning for example.

Because I knew it was going to be a little cooler today, I was excited to wear my new plaid dress pants from the rubi j store (a charming boutique in DT Harlan, Iowa*). But when I put on the shirt I wanted to wear with said pants, I was sorely disappointed with the sight before me. A gut and a muffin top was all I could see. "What in the hell good did all this summer running do?" I said to myself. So, after berating my middle-aged self, I whipped it off to regroup. A voice from the bed (which has a clear visual into the closet) told me I should probably consider changing my bra as well. While I appreciated the suggestion, I didn't have time to reconsider my underclothes. I had a shirt to find.

Next shirt: Same color (off white). Slightly different style. Same result. Yes, the definition of idiocy is doing the same thing over again and expecting a different result. Thank you Mr. Einstein.

Next shirt: Orange, perhaps to celebrate the first day of fall? It sure seemed like a good idea until I put it on and became a pumpkin-pie-headed freak.

I began to panic, and went back to my original choice. Maybe I was being too hard on myself. I was not.

Finally, in the deep recesses of my closet, I found a cute dusty rose camisole that passed inspection. It did require a strapless bra (to go over my non-strapless bra) because it was a little low cut. Not a problem. Finally, it was ago.

I was off to work, speeding happily on M16 when I happened to look down and noticed my strapless bra slipping, slipping, slipping. It had fallen to my stomach. I had no choice. I had to zip back home and change into a different, more reliable strapless bra that Doug was quick to help me find. (Such a sport...)

Five minutes later...

I was back on to M16, happily speeding once again when I looked at the color of the ponytail holder on my wrist. Horrors. I grabbed a brown one. You see, all my accent colors were black. I glanced at the clock and made an important decision. I'd have to let this one go. Chances were I wouldn't even use the ponytail holder.

Now, I'm a fairly rational and somewhat intelligent person. I read the news and understand that there are issues in the world that matter and what I wear to work on any given day isn't going to help Haitian refugees.

But here's the deal. We are all just human. And sometimes we cling on to those little things that give us a sliver of creative control, even if it does take several iterations to get it right. I'll tell you one thing about it: my hubby never seems to mind.

*shameless plug for my mother's store

Ah! Family Picture Day.
That was a good day to plan an outfit.

The Meddler

2021-07-08T19:22:00.004-07:00

It was my turn to pick the movie. As some of you might know, we rotate who picks the movie in our house. Then we pick an actor out of a hat to narrow down the selection. I happened to draw Rose Byrne and was quite excited about the possibilities. Bridesmaids. The Internship. This Is Where I Leave You. Spy. So many good ones to choose from! But despite the 237 streaming services we pay for, all of those movies had a rental fee. (We'll pay hundreds of dollars in streaming services. But we draw the line when it comes to paying an additional $3.99 to rent.)

After an intense IMBD search, we found a movie called "The Meddler" starring Susan Sarandon as Marnie: a widow who moves from New York to LA to be closer to her daughter, Lori, played by Rose Byrne. As you might guess Marnie takes an extensive interest in her daughter's life... and just about anyone else whom she meets. Her daughter's friends. The genius at the Apple store. A patient at the hospital.

As we watched, I felt a little tingle on my neck. Marnie left several messages, every day, for her daughter. She tended to weave the topic of her daughter into any random conversation. She casually bursted into her daughter's home without knocking. (Why knock? She had a key!) And she always, always, always had advice to give.

I realized, without a doubt, there were some substantial pieces of me in her.

About the time this realization was setting in, Doug shouted out, "I could strangle her! She's driving me nuts!"

Well, okay.

It's been two years since Alex graduated college. Cole just finished his first year in college. I 'd be a liar if I said I don't look at Life360 daily. Usually a few times. I also have to coach myself not to text or call the kids with every fleeting thought that crosses my mind. And when they don't respond, I attempt to Snapchat that I find difficult and depressing.

It's not so easy to turn down the maternal chatter in your brain that goes something like this: "are they safe? are they safe? are they safe? are they happy? are they safe?" (I'm guessing the paternal chatter is lower in volume and frequency with a periodic blip of "did they get their oil changed?")

Back to the movie.

It becomes apparent that Marnie is navigating her grief by wedging herself into other lives. However, she is doing this in the most earnest and compassionate of ways. Eventually the term "meddler" seems inappropriate. It becomes a touching tale with a superb acting performance from the beautiful Susan Sarandon. In other words, I cried.

I don't ever remember feeling like Doug's parents or my parents were overly involved in our lives. Of course, there weren't cell phones in our early twenties. Looking back, I feel like they were perfectly involved, helping us when we needed guidance. But letting us live and make the mistakes that all young adults should make.

So, I'll try harder to give the kids their space, giving them advice when they ask or letting them know important stuff like when the new season of Ted Lasso comes out or how cute the cat looks on the counter. In the meantime, I'll focus more of my attention to the hubby.

I sure hope I don't drive him nuts.

A Tribute to Dad on Father's Day Weekend

2021-06-19T15:46:00.001-07:00

My father the second-born, only boy of five kids. I would describe my aunts (Dad's sisters) as vivacious–always ready to greet anyone with a hug and a kiss. I remember Grandma Shirley telling stories of family outings when the girls tore into anything of interest as little Ronnie walked around, hands behind his back, studying things. He was also the kid who needed to be coaxed into going back to school on his second day of kindergarten. Needless to say, my dad isn't a social butterfly, and not very inclined to greet people with a hug and a kiss. But I did learn a few things from him.

Lesson #1: Power of Laughter

Some of my early comedic heroes include Bill Murray, John Belushi, Gilda Radner, Dan Akroyd, Chevy Chase, and Ron Ronfeldt. In addition to laughing at the Coneheads, I laughed at my dad. He was uncommonly funny. Dry. A bit twisted. He didn't tell stupid dad jokes like "Three men walk into a bar...the third one ducked." No. He created games like "The Dead Game" and at-home versions of "Name that Tune." I won't explain The Dead Game, as it involves obituaries and a temporary reprieve of decorum. Name that Tune was a bit more innocent–a family tradition beginning shortly after I began piano and learned classics like "Mister Frog is Full of Hops." Dad could almost always name Mr. Frog in one note.

Dad didn't always love attending my activities (Overly-involved parenting wasn't really a thing in the 80's.) It never bothered me. But it was nice when he came to Senior Night when the football team and marching band were being recognized. As the athletic director thanked the parents for all of their support and dedication to the kids, he leaned over to Mom and whispered, "What instrument does Stef play again?" Now, that's just funny.

Lesson #2: Work is Good

I don't know any dad in this part of the world who doesn't try to impart a work ethic into their kids. Dad was no different with his only child–a delicate daughter whose preference was to stay inside and either read or play barbies. I had a lot of standard first jobs: mowing, babysitting, and the pinnacle of all first jobs in Shelby County: walking beans. At first I was excited to be on an exclusive crew of bean walkers and making the high salary of $3/ hour. It only took me about 30 minutes (at most) to tire of the bugs, heat and monster button weeds. But I did it. When I was asked, I did it. One summer, I seemed to be enjoying a reprieve of the fields. Dad took notice of my lazy summer days. One night at supper he mentioned that Forrest Adams was needing bean walkers and I better be ready to go the next morning. My heart sunk to the floor. Being the quick thinker that I was, I replied, "I can't! I have to exercise tomorrow." To be fair, I had just started on a new program. It wasn't a lie. Dad didn't scold me. He chuckled. And rather than feeling resentful, I felt, well, foolish. (I can't imagine if my husband, a true farm kid, would've told his dad he couldn't walk beans because he was starting a new exercise regimen.) It took some time, but eventually I began to understand the value and fruits of working hard.

Lesson #3: Humility

When my dad was playing football in high school, the coach pulled him aside before a game one night and asked him if it would be okay for the announcer to call out his son's name, instead of Dad's, in the starting lineup. The coach assured him that he would still start and play the whole game. But it would mean an awful lot to the announcer. Who was my dad to argue with that?

One time when I was was in grade school or junior high, I was bragging about how fast I was. (I was super uncoordinated, just fast.) Dad sat and listened. Eventually, he said, "I was pretty fast in school too." Ha! Of course, I didn't believe him. He was an old guy (probably around thirty) who wore work boots and jeans. So, he challenged me. We went out in the yard, he still wearing his boots and jeans. He gave me a head start, which I assured him I didn't need. But lo and behold, he kicked my ass.

I guess you could say my father is a "character" guy than a man of show. That's why he'd much rather be seen on an antique Indian motorcycle with hints of rust on the gas tanks, as opposed to riding a shiny new Ducati or even a brand new Harley. It's hard not to respect that.

My dad, protecting me from the fish!

The summer after I graduated from the U of Iowa (Bachelor's Degree in hand), I got a job detasseling. I had had a few accomplishments in my life by then, but Dad told me more than once, how proud he was of me for doing that job. It was humbling. It was hard work. But fortunately, I knew how to laugh. All gifts from my father.

Of course, I learned many more things from Dad...things like driving a stick shift. But my favorite lesson of all from him? Love comes in all forms. He might not be a big hugger. But when I stop in for a visit over lunch and Dad shows me his tomatoes or a funny YouTube video, I feel his love for me.

Happy Father's Day, Dad!

Love ya to pieces.

Getting Dirty

2021-06-05T19:09:00.003-07:00

By guest blogger, Alex Kramer

A few weeks ago, I had the radical idea that fully submerging my hands in soil would solve all my problems. This stemmed from a romantic daydream of working and living on an olive farm in Italy, listening to records and writing music in my free time. But I don’t live in Italy. I live in Colorado. And despite growing up in a cornfield, I rejected any notion that I might enjoy working with the land. I was too punk for that. Nowadays, I tend to reject the notion that to be one thing you can’t be another. So I took my tattooed, blue-haired, semi-city-fied self out to the farm — Esoterra Culinary, to be exact — and prepared to be schooled.

It wasn’t my dad’s farm, that’s for sure. Mark, the man that owns the farm, and his young daughter (probably 7 or 8), greeted me with raw fennel to snack on and a tour of all the produce they grow — rows of chicory, raspberries, tomatoes, sunchokes, and so much more just starting to sprout, seeking the spring sun and rain. It was the lay of the land, if you will. Then they put me to work.

For 3 hours, I hung out pulling bindweed and planting peas in the mountain heat and morning breeze. Amongst plants I can’t remember the names of, I got dirt successfully wedged in every crevice of my hands. Mark’s daughter told us about her future plans to open a raw food restaurant with her friend — she even made us a plate by cutting greens straight out of the ground so we could sample her work (shockingly, delicious; the girl knows what’s what). She showed us her mom’s sundress and told me she would like her hair to be a rainbow. I think it would suit her.

I told you I originally wanted to put myself in this foreign situation to solve all my problems. Those problems include a need for movement, a stressful job/boss, and a long-pushed-off eating disorder. Eating disorders, actually. I have such a complicated, tumultuous relationship with food that’s been exacerbated by anxiety, depression, and life circumstances for years. It’s been festering in the heat of my life. All these things swarming along inside my head have external effects — and food became a battleground. After years of negative thoughts and a fair amount of repression, I didn’t feel like hating myself anymore. I went back to therapy and was honest, am continuing to be honest. I’m volunteering at a culinary farm that’s already begun changing my perception of food. Something happens when you eat vegetables straight out of the ground. There’s a new appreciation knowing exactly what’s keeping my brain thinking and my heart pumping. I understand why the bunnies like it so much.

Everything that I was, that’s been done to me, and that I’ve done to myself is a past-tense. The future is as green and fertile as the pea shoots (hopefully) coming out of the ground.

The next morning: Sunday. I’m writing this in my pajamas, listening to Muddy Waters and watching it rain by the window. I am sore in places I haven’t felt since soccer but daydreaming of the flowers that will come from the rain. And despite the mosquito bite on my face and the large strip of sunburn on my back, I am already looking forward to next Saturday.

Alex. True Blooded Farm Girl.

A Toast to Thirty Years

2021-05-30T18:15:00.003-07:00

Thirty years ago, on Memorial Day weekend, I met the love of my life.

I had just graduated from the University of Iowa and was home for the summer. I needed to make a little money and save a little money for grad school in the fall. I didn't hide the fact that I had a bit of heartburn over coming back to Shelby County. The heartburn went away in a hurry. As it turned out, Doug Kramer was my Tums.

Two grown children, two dogs, and an abundance of cats later, I look back on these past thirty years with wonder. How did we do it? How did we manage to be a couple that still talks to each other? To be fair, our talking ratio is usually 70/30, with me doing the lion share. But it's been that way since day one. It works for us.

Anyone who's married knows that it's not all sunshine. This realization actually comes as a shock when you fall in love and you're certain your partner can do no wrong. I distinctly remember my mother telling me something to this effect before our wedding day. I nodded, but smiled to myself thinking, but doesn't she realize I'm marrying Doug Kramer?

Through a few ups and downs, with the downs basically surrounding cow incidents, we now find ourselves in that state of "I'm so glad I ended up with you." I've been thinking about this and boiled down the keys to our happy marriage to five primary tactics. For what it's worth, here they are:

Do nice things for each other. A no-brainer, heh? You'd think! But it's pretty easy to rely on only birthdays and anniversaries to do this. And when kids come along, most of the giving energy is focused on them, if you intend to spoil them like most parents. But nice gestures don't have to be big. The smallest of gestures are like little happiness pills. For example,

I'm going to the kitchen, can I fill your water? Or
I'm going to the liquor store, do you need anything? (Doug loves buying me alcohol as much as he likes buying it for himself.) Or
I'm going shopping, can I pick you up some new shoes? (I love buying Doug shoes as much as I like buying shoes for myself. Almost.)
Be willing. I'm not talking about sex, entirely. But we certainly would've missed out on experiences if we wouldn't have melded our lives together. I never would've understood the powerful feeling of driving a tractor, like I did that one time. And he never would've realized the joy of having a cat who likes to eat chips off the counter. Beyond tractors and cats, I truly have a fondness for sports. And sometimes, just sometimes, Doug will be the first to crawl into bed and open a book.
Remember why you fell in love. Modesty, cuteness and sense of humor. Whenever we get a little snippy with each other, I force myself to remember those things that made me fall in love with him. I also do something else. This might sound a little strange, but I don't think about Doug being my husband. I think about him as someone I'm getting to know better and a child of God. I realize that he has his own fears and vulnerabilities. It makes my love for him grow deeper.
Consider the tone. Jerry Seinfeld once said, "I didn't know I would be discussing the tone of my voice with my wife. I thought it was a marriage. Apparently, it's a musical." For some reason, it's easy to be condescending to the people we love most. It's never right, but a spouse and a child always seem to be fair game. And it's toxic! So, I tell Doug to call me on it if my tone becomes impatient with his computer questions. And he understands that he might need to muster up the happiest tone he can while repeating directions to a cornfield five times to a person who's directionally challenged.
Movie Night. Obviously, this is probably the most important aspect to our happy marriage. Doug and I have fairly different preferences when it comes to cinema genres. If we could find a movie that stars Steven Segal as an 18th Century poet, we might have a consensus. But that movie hasn't been made yet. So, we rotate. Thanks to Alex, we now have a new method in which we draw a random actor out of a hat and choose a movie that actor has been in. Not that there aren't a few sighs after a movie has been selected, but for the most part we see a nice variety of killing and poetry.

So, that's it! I love who I ended up. I love the children we created and raised. And I love the home and lives we made together. To the next thirty years...and beyond.

Summer of 1991. Happy Doug.

Summer of 1991. Happy Stef

In Centerfield

2021-05-19T19:03:00.003-07:00

Softball. Baseball.

Those were the only youth sports when I was young, that I remember anyway. When I asked Mom if I could go out for softball, she convinced me, in that loving tone of hers, that softball was probably not my sport. As it turned out, "my sport" ended up being piano. With my father being a motorcycle guy, and a mother who had her fill of chasing older brothers' fly balls her entire childhood, I grew up knowing very little about America's pastime.

Then I met Doug. He told me he played town team ball. I said, "Oh! I'd love to come and watch you play softball sometime!" He was quick to set me straight. "Baseball. Not softball. Baseball."

Now, I wasn't completely clueless. I had attended a few high school games. But the summer of 1991 was my first real education of the sport. Admittedly it started off as an excuse to watch my cute new boyfriend in his uniform. I'd drag my high school buddy, Jill, along. (Her Mom did not talk her out of playing softball.) Jill taught me terms like "warning track" and "tag up" and "full count" and "cleanup hitter." I learned a lot that summer! Most notably? How a slice of lime completely enhances the taste of Bud Light.

Fast forward a few years, beyond Doug's town team baseball days. Doug taught me more as we watched and attended MLB games where concessions of hot dogs, popcorn and nachos trumped all the Michelin restaurants of the world. By the time we signed our kids up for tee-ball, I knew important things about the sport. Like the Yankees were the devil.

Little League was our first foray into "extra-curricular" activities for our children. It didn't take me long to adopt the mindset of every parent who watches their kid play a sport for the first time. You know the mentality: "My six-year-old clearly has talent! Is it too early for colleges to be scouting?" By Middle School, both of our kids were done with summer ball. They had other pursuits.

But we remained a baseball family. Every year, we religiously watch baseball classics: Fever Pitch, Major League, Bull Durham, Moneyball, 42, Trouble with the Curve. (There are more we don't catch every year, for all you Field of Dreams fans.) The baseball formula works beautifully in cinema. It's sooooo feel-good! And it provides us a plethora of lines that speak to life itself. "Careful kid, they'll break your heart." or "How can you not be romantic about baseball?"

Some of my favorite family memories took place in Kaufmann Stadium (Kansas City), Target Field (Minneapolis), Busch Stadium (St. Louis), and at the stadium of stadiums: Fenway Park in Boston. The Green Monster where the soundtrack of the Dropkick Murphy's doesn't leave your brain and fans loiter to celebrate well after the game has been won.

There are many things to love about this game. Some say it's too long. Too slow. Too boring. But the pace of the game and the patience required to watch is one of the best things about it. For a person who can rarely sit still and has five million things jumping around in her brain, baseball is the best. Watching and waiting for a hitter to smash the ball out of the park forces me to do something I rarely do: be present and live in the moment.

During harvest, when Doug is in the fields and the kids are gone, I turn on the TV to listen to a baseball game. There's something soothing about the dull roar of the crowd and the smooth voice of the broadcaster announcing "the 2 and 2 pitch." And when there's a perfect catch, a strikeout ,or a grand slam, I cheer with delight! Because we all need something to cheer for that's not political or divisive, even if you happen to cheer for those damn Yankees.

Plant This!

2021-04-27T18:33:00.002-07:00

My mother had a vegetable garden throughout my childhood. The best part, as I recall, was the snapping of green beans before throwing them into a boiling pot. Of course, I'd sneak a few raw ones. The crunch was certainly more satisfying than the unsalted, uncooked taste of those green, velvety beans. When Dad suggested I make a little money by taking over the garden and selling the produce at the Farmers' Market, I quickly became enthused. Mom's reaction was a bit more sober.

It made sense that I take over the garden. After all, Mom worked and my babysitting jobs didn't occupy my entire summer. Of course, I would weed it! Of course, I'd keep up with the picking of radishes and carrots!

Dad usually had a few money-making schemes for me. Once, he built hutch to raise rabbits. He recognized the fast-growing market for rabbits in Kirkman. But fortune was not on our side. We quickly learned that the phrase "breed like rabbits" was a big, fat lie. Not only did our rabbits NOT breed, but they died. Maybe we just lacked the skills of a proper bunny whisperer.

Dad also drew Tippie the Bird for me several times in attempt to win that big cash prize offered to the best artist under the age of 18, as advertised in the TV guide. That only landed us an invitation to attend art school. No cash prize. I always wondered how many kids were kicked out of that school once they realized the parental sketching involvement.

When all else failed, there was always a farmer's field to walk. Since Dad never acknowledged any of my valid excuses (such as my strict exercise routine), I assumed growing a garden might relieve me of the awful job of pulling button weeds from a soybean field.

So, it was a plan.

This is what I envisioned. Still do.

No matter what the age, planting a garden is exciting. It seems so... noble! Carefully laying the seeds in the freshly hoed ground. Watering the rows just so, making the dirt a deep, rich brown. Then waiting and waiting and waiting for that first sprout. When it does, it's magic.

Anyone who grew up in Kirkman knows how easy it was to get distracted. My two best friends and I had things to do (beyond exercising), such as keeping up on Young and the Restless and General Hospital. We were also called to listening to the groundbreaking albums of Joan Jett, Michael Jackson, and The J. Geils Band. (It wasn't so easy to keep up with pop culture in the days of no cable and no Internet.) No matter, it's no surprise it didn't take long for the garden to go to hell, just as the sage in our family had predicted.

Well, I'm a bit older now. I've dabbled in flowers and vegetable gardening throughout the nearly 27 years of our marriage. Sure, I've had some failures. But I've had a few successes as well. The thing I like about this particular hobby? For every fifteen failed projects, it only takes one success to make you feel like an accomplished master gardener. One beautiful lily bloom is all it takes to offset your six failed tomato plants.

I finally convinced Doug to till me a garden again. I've been asking the last few years, but he would usually give me a similar reaction as my mother did all those years ago. Either I wore him down, or he was tired of my never-ending list of house projects now that we are full-fledged empty nesters. The last time I had a real garden was back at the old house when the kids were little. Alex would sneak the fresh strawberries from our patch, just as I did the green beans. Cole was too young, but I doubt I could've convinced him to try a vegetable or fruit from the garden––unless of course it would've tasted like a cheeseburger.

So, here I go. The new garden is half-planted. My enthusiasm for this project is over the moon. Who knows if anything will grow? We can be fairly confident that weeds will grow. But I hope, hope, hope I can deliver a few fresh green beans to my mother.

Wish me luck!

A rare pic
of the kids amidst flora...note the gardening Crocs.

Something to Believe In

2021-02-24T16:32:00.003-08:00

I'm a Hawkeye. My mama raised me that way. I married a guy who claims to be more of a Hawk fan than me even though I actually graduated from there. He argues that his emotional outbursts during games are proof of his loyalty. Just because I don't have as much testosterone to incite anger doesn't mean my heart isn't on the verge of exploding every time I watch our black and gold competitors! No matter, we do agree that we are quite blessed to have two children who pledged themselves to Herky the Hawk, giving us every reason to trek to Iowa City. (We're also blessed that our kids are healthy and smart and beautiful and yadayadayada.)

My fandom has regained a certain momentum since we no longer have kids to watch from the stands. (Kids that we birthed, I mean. You know, the kind that allows you to leave work early without judgement from others.) Mostly, I like to watch the Hawks. But I really could cheer for just about any team and any sport, except the Yankees (obviously). At this very moment, I happen to be watching women's soccer, as I'm sure most everyone is. Go USA! After experiencing that period in 2020 that confined us to Netflix, Prime Video and the Food Network, I really, really appreciate watching live games. (Doug would argue that replays are better, as long as you know that Iowa has already won.)

The other night I was talking to Alex on the phone, while watching a basketball game. I had to confess this as I was making "OH NOOOO" responses to positive things she was telling me. Doug was gone to a meeting, and my daughter was like, "Wow Mom. I have to give it to you. You're watching basketball and you don't have to?" But here's the deal. I like watching sports. I have always liked watching sports. I learned at a very young age that I was too uncoordinated to play just about any sport I tried. I was (am) a horrible athlete, so I'm terribly fascinated by people who know how to do things like catch a ball. They make it looks so easy!

Most recently, I've become completely absorbed in college basketball, watching any "Big10 Journey" that features an Iowa player. It's hard not be a cheerleader for just about anyone when you watch a kid who grew up dressing up like Spiderman and fighting with lightsabers (much like your own kid). It's even harder not to form an attachment and deep empathy for that same kid who has fought cancer. I dare you to watch this and not become a Hawkeye fan. Come on you ISU fans, watch it....

It's been a rough year, as we all know. We're edging toward March Madness–the month we were deprived of last year. It was a dark and sad and scary month. And while we're not out of the woods yet, I encourage every one of you to sharpen your pencils, pick a team, any team, and get yourself ready to complete that office bracket. Forget about all the strife in the world and let yourself get lost in the games. And most of all, find someone to cheer for. Sure, the team might break your heart. But then again, they might not. And there's always next year.

Bleeding black and gold...

The Grocery Store Chronicles

2020-12-07T18:28:00.000-08:00

It's that time of the year! When trips to the grocery store are fast, frequent and furious. (Well, okay, perhaps the entire year of 2020 has embodied the fervor of holiday grocery shopping.) Whether you're a Hy-Vee or Fareway fanatic, these stores are the place to be. A home away from home. The place to grab your milk. The place to let Eddie or Joe educate you on all things meat. The place to crash carts with the same person over and over again as you zig zag through the store trying to remember where they moved the Parmesan cheese.

As a kiddo, the grocery store was a magical place that earned me a Kit Kat for being good. Or if things weren't going so well, a threat of getting sent to the car. Sitting in the car wasn't only an acceptable form of punishment in the 70's, it was condoned by mothers who really had no escape.

As a teenager, the grocery store was quite possibly the worst place to be, especially if I had to tag along with parents. Much to my dismay, Mom would usually pick out the lane with the cutest grocery bagger. I tried to play it cool, even as she offered me the Kit-Kat for good behavior.

As a college student, the grocery store was a wonderful place again, especially if I was with my parents who were always generous enough to subsidize a cart full of Ramen noodles, and a few Kit Kats for good measure.

Then I landed my first job after college. I knew I had really made it when I could proudly glide right past those Ramen Noodles wearing my heels and a smart blazer.

When I became a parent, admittedly the grocery store lost its magic. Getting groceries with any child under the age of 8, wearing heels (smart blazer or not) is simply hell. No longer was it acceptable to send kids to the car for bad behavior. And Kit Kats were hardly a bargaining chip. My kids were the masters of manipulation. Getting a Kit Kat was merely child's play for them. If we didn't exit the store without at least an additional $50 worth a crap, I could safely assume they were ill.

I clearly remember the day I was able to get walk into Fareway without the kids. Handel's "Hallelujah" greeted me as I walked into the door. The heavens opened and golden rays of lights shined brightly over the produce as I was able to actually deliberate on which apples I wanted to buy.

As I tiptoe into this brave new world of empty-nested-ness, one thing has becomes clear–especially during the pandemic. Our grocery stores are treasures. One week after the Kramer family garbage disposal (aka Cole) left for college, I spent $300 on food for Doug and me. I was well-aware we had no kids at home. At first, I thought perhaps I was either channeling some guilt for not having enough snacks at the house for the kids (as I was often reminded of) or guilt from feeding our family too shittily throughout the years in the name of convenience (potato chips as a veggie type stuff). But I think more than anything, I was just relishing.

Someone mentioned to me that it appears we're starting to settle into this new world of no kids in the house. Perhaps my grieved expression has faded a bit. Not that I don't miss our kids terribly. I do. But it has occurred to me that I could and should relish more moments that don't involve the kids–like spending time watching Jerry Seinfeld with my hubby, listening to a friend at work, sending funny texts to my parents, or staring at the meat counter debating whether to try the salmon or the cod.

For me, here they are...cat and dog included: