Piques n' Peccadilloes

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2012-01-03T22:56:00.005-05:00

Crash and burn. There was no phoenix rising from the ashes of my hard drive last week, though I seeded them with curses and watered them with tears. There was no sympathy from my tech-wiz housemate. “Back up. Back up. BACK UP!” Still, I reserved the right to cry over spilled milk….and lost blog drafts, pictures of my cats and important benchmarks in my childrens’ lives....for at least 30 minutes. I then pulled myself up by my bootstraps, shouldered my purse and headed for BestBuy.

I’ve moved on. This blog comes to you from my new HP Pavilion dv7, compliments of BestBuy and my Christmas bonus (God bless my boss, the Good Santa). Next payday I’ll pick up some portable storage and train myself to BACK UP!

But I worry. What if my real hard drive crashes; the one between my ears? All those files that are ME, locked forever somewhere between my operating system and my hardware. Seriously! That happens to people my age and it’s not pretty. No amount of chlorine in the gene pool protects you from old age or strokes.

I painfully remember watching my parents forget. First it was which bills had been paid. Then it was "Which direction is home?”, “Which child are you?” and finally “Who are you? Stop brushing my teeth so hard.” It was terrifying for them and heartbreaking for us. How I wished I could run to the electronic shop and buy them an upgrade.

So how do you back up life’s hard drive? No use backing it up the Cloud. That’s where it all ends up anyway. Or maybe that’s a key! We blog and Facebook ourselves into eternity hoping that if we suddenly can’t recognize ourselves, someone else will; someone who knew and loved us when we could still remember.

My oldest sister took up the mantel and kept family photos, cards, letters and scribblings, organizing them with great tenderness into heartwarming coffee table works for generations to come. She has decades of Christmas tree ornaments with stories for each. As we gather around June’s memory tree in the glow of a million tiny lights, she "remembers" our family back to life and we’re home again. The magical thing about those stories is the way they pull out the best of family life… the love… and allow the scary things to get tangled in the tinsel. That is how baby boomers preserve what would be lost.

Today we blog our treasures or post photos on our Facebook wall. As the concept of the family unit disintegrates, these postings can be enjoyed by distant family and a world of strangers looking for scraps to quilt together some comfort for what they've missed.

Knowledge and technology are changing so quickly and life is lived at such a furious pace, I’m afraid that the world to come will be built on the shifting sand of the moment, lacking the rich soil and deep roots of yesterday.

Going forward, find a way to back up.

The OO in smOOth

2011-12-17T01:09:00.006-05:00

Pull up a chair girls. Fellas, listen and learn. You may get some interesting gift ideas before this is over.

The cosmetic industry is a global concern worth about $13 billion. Suffice to say, vanity is alive and well, no matter how old you are.

Personally, I’m not a big make-up gal. On me, less is best. But I’ve got a thing for soft, smooth and scented. Skin that is. I figure lotion, razors and fragrances make up 80% of my cosmetic budget. As a young woman, when I could least afford to, I tried most of the really expensive options. Today I get the same results for a fraction of the cost so I thought I’d pass along some findings after decades of personal research. Keep in mind that this was not a clinical study and I can be a cynical fuddy-duddy.

Being Friday (my favorite day of the week), this morning’s ablutions were indulgent. A little conditioner for the hair, Dead Sea rubbing salts for hands, feet and legs, a new razor for what needed shaving, my nifty exfoliating gloves for everyday….everything, followed by my softest, thickest, oversized towel. And, an extra 10 minutes of hot water. Luxury takes time, and on Friday, I’m worth it. I finish off clean and smooth with a spritz of my favorite fragrance in a palmful of unscented lotion and enjoy the sensation of all over yummy.

I do my best thinking in the shower. Some people sing….I think. It’s better for my apartment environment. It occurred to me that I probably wasn’t the only 9 to 5 woman needing to jumpstart her week-end. I work hard for my money, so I’m going to treat me right. And, I’m going to share….for free….my low budget, time efficient, at home recipe for “touch me” skin and "follow me" legs.

You will need:

· exfoliating bath gloves $1.50- Amazon

· sea salt scrub $14.69- Amazon

· good soap $4.58- Amazon

· triple blade disposable razor $3.57(4 pack) - Amazon

· favorite fluffy towel

· quality face cream $19.99- Amazon

· quality unscented body lotion $5.99- Amazon

· favorite perfume I use Pink by VS Indulge in your favorite

· steamy, hot shower

30 minutes of “you” time

Remember! These investments will pay off for months!

Step into the shower and out of your mind. Just think soft and clean and sleek. Slip on the gloves, get them moist then scrub with the sea salts. Go gently until you get a feel for how much scrubbing your skin can take. It should tingle, not sting.

The gloves and the salt will sluff off dead skin. Ever wonder about that crud that gums up your new razor when you shave your legs? Dirty, dead skin. Get that stuff off there before you grab that new razor!

Don’t neglect your feet, knees or elbows. Rinse, then wash gently, lathering everything up with natural soap.

Shave the legs last. Lather ‘em up one more time (gloves still on!) with one more scrubbing. Now that new triple blade razor will glide and leave you with the silkiest legs you’ve ever had. You’ll avoid nicks because you’ve removed the tough, dead skin; hydrated your new skin; softened the hair shafts and opened the pores.

When you’re smooth everywhere you want to be, just stand under the water and rinse the old, dead you right down the drain. Prepare to cuddle yourself dry in your favorite fluffy towel and get ready to slather yourself with lotion. Put a liberal squeeze in the palm of your hand and spritz with a bit of perfume. A little scent goes a long way. Mix it in your hands to set off the fragrance, then just get after yourself. Don’t skimp. I guarantee you’re going to feel way too sassy to go to work! But…you will go to work …sassy. And you’ll feel that way, 9 to 5.

Save your face for last. Apply the face cream lightly, rubbing it in with small circles. Let it absorb while you select your favorite Friday wardrobe and appoint the jewels you want to compliment your look and feel. Find your flirtiest shoes. Add your make-up of choice. It’s going to be a delicious day!

So fellas, if you made it through this far, and you paid attention, you may have the knowledge and insight to put together a very inspired Christmas basket, with instructions. With enough savey, you could pull off a pretty interesting clinic with your girl on Christmas morning.

That would definitely be the OO in smOOth!

Don't forget to enjoy the music links!

Grinch TV

2011-12-14T23:47:00.003-05:00

As long as I’m coming out of the Grinch closet, I may as well dump on Television; one of my pet peeves.

I have two rather large flat-screens in my apartment, but I don’t subscribe to cable, except for internet service. I have a DVD player and a ROKU box for streaming.

I endured so much channel surfing and "words from our sponsors" while my kids were growing up that I gleefully refuse to pay for 104 stations of unreality shows, sarcastic sitcoms and bad commercials. I've learned to entertain myself.

Life is real enough. Watching actors pretend to be stressed and clever just isn’t stimulating. I’m not amused by sarcastic, humiliating dialog that suggests I laugh at another’s shame. I could knock on every other door in the neighborhood and catch the real deal.

With the money I save by not contracting with the cable companies, I‘ve built a respectable collection of great DVDs that I enjoy enough to watch over and over. I pick out one that fits my mood, pop it in the DVD player and watch my favorite actors and characters fall in love, find themselves, have an adventure, or brave danger and risk without 15 commercial breaks that suggest I crack open a beer, eat a bag of chips and order pizza delivery.

I like choosing a movie, flopping on the bed with the cats and watching it without distraction. When one of my family phones from afar or my bladder suggests a trip to the throne room, I have this great “pause” button on my remote. I can kibitz with my kids, take care of business, wander through the kitchen for healthy snacks…or not, and still get back to the movie before I’ve forgotten the plot. If I get sleepy, pause still works. I can pick up where I left off tomorrow. I like choosing what I watch and controlling how and when I watch it.

So I’m a control freak? Maybe I am. So much of life is out of control that it’s nice to know I have some power over my entertainment, my snacks and my sorry bank account.

I had a sweet thing going with Netflix for a while that let me watch streaming movies for free and fill in the blanks with new features I wanted to see on rental discs delivered to my door. Really sweet. But alas, it was too good to last. Netflix got banker-flu and decided they could squeeze a little more blood from my stone by splitting up the packages and making me pay twice. Not gonna happen, Netflix. I dropped the delivery movies and kept the streaming. Now it seems that Netflix purposely puts fewer new or highly rated movies in the Instant Play queue. Netflix is living its final days in my house. There are other options out there…..and I still have a great collection of personal favorites right in my living room.

I don’t have a copy of How the Grinch Stole Christmas, but I can buy it used on Amazon for about what I’d pay to rent it from Red Box and with my Amazon Prime free shipping, it’ll be here in two days…..like Netflix. Then I get to keep it for next year. Amazon Prime also gives me free streaming on a small selection of movies.

Cable companies and Netflix are really scary Grinches. I’m still fairweather friends with Amazon but……that mean Grinch green is a greedy thing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

… As the Grinch took the tree, as he started to shove, he heard a small sound like the coo of a dove.

He turned around fast, and he saw a small Who. Little Cindy Lou Who, who was no more than two.
She stared at the Grinch and said..Santie Claus, why? Why are you taking our Christmas tree? Why?
But do you know, that old Grinch was so smart and so slick, that he thought up a lie and he thought it up quick.
Why my sweet little tot... The fake Santie Claus lied...
...there's a light on this tree that won't light on one side. So I'm taking it home to my workshop, my dear.
I'll fix it up there, then I'll bring it back here.
And his fib fooled the child. Then he patted her head, he got her a drink, and he sent her to bed.
And when Cindy Lou Who was in bed with her cup, he crupt to the chimney and stuffed the tree up. Then he went up the chimney himself, the old liar, and the last thing he took was the log for their fire. On their walls, he left nothing but hooks and some wire.
And the one speck of food that he left in the house was a crumb that was even too small for a mouse…..

from How the Grinch Stole Christmas - Dr.Seuss

a noeL

2011-12-13T20:40:00.002-05:00

I got a little family push back on the Grinch Flinch. Understandable, I suppose.

I’m a Christmas Eve baby so maybe it’s blasphemous for me to be a Grinch.

I can’t flash my driver’s license without hearing, “Ohhhhhhhh….you were born on Christmas Eve. Do you get gypped?” It’s exasperating! NO! I’ve never been slighted on my birthday.

My Mom? Now SHE got ripped off. While others wore party dresses, sipped eggnog and listened to carols, she wore a backless hospital gown, sucked on ice cubes and tried not to scream. Nice! Instead of Santa’s “Ho Ho Ho” on the roof top, she heard “Push, push…PUSH” from the doctor down south. REAL nice. While other moms woke before dawn Christmas morning to fill stockings and arrange gifts under the tree, mine was having her vitals checked and changing the diaper I’d filled.

My four older siblings got the short end of the candy cane, too. They woke Christmas morning without their mommy and all her special Christmas charm.

I, on the other hand, got life. I got a patient, loving mother, an adoring Dad, four instant playmates and a birth date no one would forget.

Christmas Eve became the family holiday party and I was always Queen of the ball. Because some of my more deluxe gifts were combo Birthday/Christmas packages, I got to open cool stuff while everyone else counted hours ‘til morning. To ease the other children’s angst, Dad and Mom would choose one gift for each from under the tree to be opened on Christmas Eve. Just one. Aunt Kate would mail me a birthday card and a $2 bill in December, followed by a ½ birthday gift on June 24^th. I loved getting that special package!

There was some debate when choosing my name. Dad was sold on Noelle, Mom wanted Leona, after her mother. Mom won. But Dad always insisted he’d gotten his way, too. Spell Leona backward and you have a noeL. And that became my special Christmas nickname with Dad. He would say to me, “Happy Birthday A-noel.”

My oldest sister still tells me that I was the best Christmas present she got in ’54. Especially sweet, since as the oldest female sibling, she was pretty much my nanny. Thanks Junie Toons! You're wonderful!

My younger, older sister told me today that I was chubby and adorable when I came home from the hospital wearing a tiny Santa hat. Okay. Thank you ….I think. Neither of those adjectives apply today; it’s more like skinny and ahorrible! But thanks for loving me anyway, Sis. You're wonderful, too!

I've always gotten everything I wanted for my birthday; love.

I stopped counting birthdays long ago. These days, I’m happy that mine falls at the height of Holiday chaos with less chance for a fuss and zero options for surprise parties. It thrills me that I’m no longer asked for my ID when buying a cocktail, cutting down on the unnecessary birth date sympathies.

Does that make me a Birthday Grinch, too? Maybe, but I’m a thankful Grinch!

Vly Road Rescue Review

2011-12-10T23:41:00.001-05:00

From our house to yours....Celebrate the Season!

Elf Yourself at http://sendables.jibjab.com/

Grinch Flinch

2011-12-10T12:53:00.008-05:00

I’m a certifiable Grinch, steeped in decades of kamikaze holiday shopping, post-Santa returns and credit card debt. What disturbs me isn’t the holidays, but the holidaze. In recent years, I’ve survived the season by shopping online, giving gift cards and utilizing a Christmas Club account at my credit union. From Halloween to New Years, I avoid malls and shop, if necessary, at the crack of dawn or during Letterman.

While traveling for work this week, I found myself in a 3^rd floor hotel room with a view of the region’s premier shopping Mecca. Zipping off my favorite knee-high, 4.5” heeled boots after a 12 hour day, I glanced out over its parking lot….a seething hornet’s nest of crazed shoppers and frenzied drivers trying to escape as Mall security bolted the doors. I called room service back, added a double on the rocks to my dinner request and pulled all the drapes. I slept with nightmares of Bad Santa pinning me in a Macy’s dressing room as Bank of America cackled Ho-Ho-Ho outside the door.

I woke exhausted and peeked through a slit in the curtains. Empty! Except for the early fringe of mall employee cars, the lot was clear. If I spritzed through the shower, skipped breakfast and checked out with no make-up I just might make it out alive.

But I’m a rational Grinch. How bad could it be if I just popped into the mall early….before all the real crazies arrived. After all, Bad Santa was just a movie, my BoA card was locked in my file cabinet at home and there were a couple of hard-to-shop for people still giftless on my list. Irrational rationalization.

I nabbed the first parking spot next to “handicapped” and breathed the shopper’s prayer. “God grant me the serenity to accept deep discounts while counting my change; the courage to exchange the things I buy before I find what I really want; and the wisdom to know the difference.” Locking my Grinch garb deep in the trunk, I strutted like Jessica Simpson as timely Mall security flung open the jaws of debt......just for me. 90 minutes later and half a paycheck lighter I shielded myself with overstuffed bags against the incoming tide of suckers, making a beeline for my car.

As I sat at the exit traffic light feeling bruised but victorious, I congratulated myself for finishing off my holiday gift list without buying new “Jessica” shoes for myself. My prayer had been answered. Then a little voice in my head whispered a line from one of my favorite Jack Nicholson movies, As Good As It Gets. When asked by his publisher’s receptionist, “How do you write women so well?” romance novelist Melvin Udall sneers, “I think of a man, and I take away reason and accountability.” I think holiday retailers saw that movie, too.

Living the Leftovers

2011-11-25T12:16:00.003-05:00

After decades of delightfully overstuffed Thanksgivings spent baking, cooking and cleaning, followed by pre-dawn combat shopping on Black Friday, today is new day.

No turkey and fixings yesterday. No swarming masses wandering through the kitchen, blithely lifting samples and moaning. No parades or football games blaring in the background.

For the fun of it, throughout the day I leisurely baked a loaf of bread and a couple potatoes for stuffing, made a small apple crisp and steamed some asparagus, before throwing in a marinated beef tenderloin roast as an early evening meal for two.

I enjoyed numerous turkey-rescue cell phone clinics with my Phoenix son who’s bird didn’t thaw in time. A simple “Happy, happy Thanksgiving” text from my traveling daughter made me smile, inside-out. I sat down in an Austin dining room, via my Droid X, with my first-born twin as he thanked another mother for including him in their feast. My darling red-headed son who lives locally dropped by for kisses, hugs, leftovers and a laughing walk down memory lane. I played at some internet shopping and online Scrabble, and then wandered to bed sometime after midnight. I slept indignantly late this morning, long after mad merchants flung open their doors and cash registers to bloated, sleepless bargain hunters. Been there. Done that. Today I am sleepy and full…..with thankful memories.

I will eventually shower and dress before taking a precious package to UPS for shipping to my great-nephew, Coleman, whom I’ve never met. It’s not a Christmas package, but a thanksgiving gift. The little box holds a cherished memory; a small, hand molded clay challis with his great-grandpa’s name scribed on the bottom. Running John, as he is fondly remembered by his heirs, won the treasure in one of his many 10K races, somewhere in Arizona. He is also remembered for his giant heart, gentle manner and humble nature.

Dad was an avid runner. Beginning his trek in his 50’s when most choose to slow down, he completed many 10Ks, half-marathons and full marathons before his shoes wore out; his shoes, but never his soul.

Coleman runs in his great-grandpas footsteps, though he never had the opportunity to train at his side. He is thankful to run with the stories passed to him by his family. For a school assignment on an ancestor who influenced his life, he is preparing to share his running heritage with his classmates. The humble trophy will bring memories to life and Dad's spirit will stand proud and smiling beside his great-grandson as he passes the baton.

Thanksgiving is a condition of the heart. It’s a timeless tradition of remembering the price and preciousness of the past, celebrating what has been given, and endeavoring to make a brighter tomorrow. It's the living leftovers.

Twice Thankful

2011-11-22T21:02:00.005-05:00

“In everything give thanks….” 1 Thessalonians 5:18a

Seems appropriate for this week.

What makes this verse doable is the word “in”. Notice it’s not “for”.

I am not thankful for the pneumonia that’s made my life hell for the last ten days, but I’m very thankful in the feeling better. I’ve been thankful in my misery for a good doctor, modern chemistry, a compassionate boss and good health insurance. Misery can make you mindful and mindful can make you thankful.

I am not thankful for moving to a new work cubby on my first day back from the edge of death. I’ve worked hard for 3.5 years in Area 10 and it took me all day to downsize and off load to Area 11. But I give thanks in my angst for the efficiency engineers who reshuffled the deck and, by default, forced me to weed out my files, dig through my drawers and reorganize my workspace. Note to self, “save” more, “print” less.

And then there was the “just in case drawer.” Disturbing: nine packets of sweet ‘n sour sauce, two fortune cookies, a ziplock bag of unlit birthday candles, one set of jewelers tools, an eyeglass kit, Band-Aids, Neosporin, toothbrush, toothpaste, dental floss, deodorant, nail clippers, a mending kit (minus the needle), breath mints, three On-The-Go iced tea packets, a Planter’s peanut snack pack (stale date 9-2008), Rolaids, Tylenol, cellophane gift bag with curly ribbon (gift missing), two marbles, a lint roller, one Dove chocolate heart and keys to something. Great! If we’re ever snowed in and lose power on a Friday night, I can survive the week-end in Area 11. Hoarding makes you mindful and mindful makes you blush. New note to self, don't save just in case. Loose your marbles early.

I give thanks I didn’t die of pneumonia and force my co-workers to sort out Area 10. I shall thankfully endeavor to live green in Area 11.

The Other Shoe

2011-11-15T20:28:00.001-05:00

"There was an old woman who lived in a shoe.
She had so many children, she didn't know what to do;
She gave them some broth without any bread;
Then whipped them all soundly and put them to bed."

Four, four and under; that was the count when my last was born. I started with a pair; twin boys, followed by my third son 20 months later and my daughter in another 21. It was a very busy shoe, so I adapted the famous eighteenth century nursery rhyme to fit my particular "shoe" style.

There once were four children who lived in a zoo.
Their mother? Alas, she had not a clue.
So she tortured with tickles each night before bed,
And threatened to beat them but kissed them instead.

What is a mother to do? Children don’t come with instructions. They don’t fit, they’re always untied, they won’t heel, their tongues are always wagging, they’re rarely in step, they create blisters and you can’t return them. No wonder I have shoe issues!

My advice to mothers? Buy the most comfortable sneakers you can find, teach your children to bake bread and make soup, tickle whenever possible and don’t blink. The shoe will be empty too soon.

Out to sea

2011-11-11T17:29:00.004-05:00

I was going through some favorite memories that never fail to make me laugh. One of my favorites includes my younger, older sister, Emma Jay. Just typing that nickname brings on a grin.

She and I had a beach day with her kiddos when they were small....and we weren't. Unfortunately, the rafts were also small. And slippery. We took great pains to shipwreck each other repeatedly and laughed so hard we should have drown. As sisters will, we exchanged mock insults and blamed our gene pool for how we looked in our bathing suits. New nicknames were assigned. Emma started it by calling me...with unnecessary volume...Eleanora Elephant. With a fine dunking, I christened her Hennrietta Hippo. Hey, I give as good as I get. I'm the younger sister. And...because I always liked to have the last laugh...I wrote this poem, just for Emma Jay, aka Henrietta.

Henrietta Hippo took
a venture out to sea

upon a raft but large enough
to keep afloat a flea.

Henrietta then did sink,
but by some quirk of luck
came Eleanora Elephant
astride her rubber duck.

Henrietta grabbed ahold
of Eleanora's tail and
by a mild pass of gas
to shore the two did sail.

Beauty is only skin deep.......

2011-11-09T20:40:00.001-05:00

....but ugly goes all the way to the soul.

Nothing annoys me like arrogance. Nothing moves me like humility.

On my way to work the other day I stopped at my corner mart to grab juice and cold medication. When my turn came to cash out, a flashy woman in a business suit slipped in front of me with her coffee and a plastic smile. “I just need to pay for this.” Really? Did she think the rest of us were in line for rebates? She fumbled for her money, tossed a dollar on the counter and said, “Keep the change,” as she swished out the door. The young cashier actually blushed. “I’m really sorry. She does that every morning.”

I’m not big on confrontation, but I was actually hoping she was still in the parking lot when I left. Just as well. Calling her out would have made me late, but maybe I could have sneezed on her.

That same day, I stopped at the grocery store on my lunch break to grab a few things. A few became too many and I bobbled my purse rounding the aisle cap. When I managed to stop and see what I’d lost, an ancient gentleman was coaxing my lip gloss from under a display. Before I could thank him he said, “It’s a good day, missy. I can still help.”

Pretty is as pretty does, my mom would say.

8.5

2011-11-05T23:43:00.000-04:00

Act your age, not your shoe size. I remember my mom saying that to me when I would meltdown over something irrational. She had a tendency to repeat herself….or maybe it was me. At any rate, the admonition stuck and even today, I hear her in my mind reining me in. Unless there are shoes involved.

I figure I’ve run 6.7 laps around my shoe size by now and frankly, I’m tired of acting my age, especially when it comes to shoes. So I don’t. I wear an 8.5 and I am 8.5 when I’m within sight of Macy’s shoe department, a Zappos’ link or the Victoria's Secret boot catalog. I am safe nowhere.

According to a child psychologist, the average 8.5 year old girl is explosive, excitable, dramatic, and inquisitive.

She:

· Possesses a "know-it-all" attitude. I’m a shoe expert. I know which ones will hurt more than they’re worth, but I’m curious. Would a half size larger and some cushion insoles balance the equation? I know that a platform style will allow me to add an inch to the heel and not break stride. Is there an over-the-counter remedy for nose bleeds?

· Is able to assume some responsibility for her actions. My Macy’s account is in my name. I never ask anyone to pay the mortgage on my shoes, but really? 23% interest and $7 for shipping? That’s just not right!

· Actively seeks praise. If I’m shopping with girlfriends, a raised eyebrow will suffice. When shopping alone it’s drama over dignity. The sales rep will do. “So. What d’ya think? Don’t these look great?” Works best if they’re getting paid commission.

· May undertake more than she can handle successfully. Well for crying out loud! I only have two hands and I’m wearing 5” stilettos! I crammed four of the shoe boxes in two bags with handles but I can’t balance the other three all the way to the car. Hey lady, I’ll give you $20 to rent your stroller for five minutes.

· Is self-critical. What’s the matter with me? I’m such a klutz. Jessica Simpson could do this.

· Recognizes the needs of others. I’m sure there are women out there who have only one pair of shoes. So sad! I’ll take two old pair out of my closet when I get home and put them in the Salvation Army drop box tomorrow.

I can be 8.5 for the duration of the shopping trip, but when I get home, I’m happy to act my age and soak in the tub with a double vodka tonic.

As my mother got older she would say that age is just a matter of mind. If you don’t mind, it don’t matter. I get it, Mom.

Fantasy for real life

2011-11-03T21:45:00.000-04:00

Recently I indulged in some great girl laughter watching Comedy Central roast veteran, Whitney Cummings’, “Money Shot.” Funny, funny, funny….but don’t put it on your Instant Play queue if you have delicate preferences. I reference her merely to give her credit for making me think….and laugh. Thanks Whitney.

She suggested that women are ill equipped to handle reality because they are raised on fairy tales and referred to as Princesses. There’s probably more than a little truth in that premise, but looking back at my early Brothers Grimm, Aesop and Disney tutors, I realize they prepared me to survive reality.

There's wifedom. You absolutely must have princess training in order to be Queen of that kingdom. And, there’s a reason why they call it motherHOOD. You’re managing a band of outlaws who charmingly rob your heart blind. My four hoodlums are grown and gone, but they still hold me hostage.

And so, my kitchen tale.

What happened in my kitchen
is a fairy tale, yet true;
magic, old and wonderful.
magic bright and new.

King and queen and bold prince dined
with wizard, thief and slave
on Twinkies, Tarts and Domino’s
and sometimes we behaved.

King Arthur and his football knights,
at the table, round,
ate chicken wings with fingers while
grand stories did abound.

Merlin mixed his magic there,
grew crystals in a lid,
to conjure up a Science "A"
and earn a contest bid.

Cinderella scrubbed the floor,
each inch on bended knee.
Lost her glass stiletto there
on prom night after three.

Prince Charming in his underwear
slew dragons in the dark,
deep within the pantry,
while munching Almond Bark.

Robin Hood was known to raid
the cabinets, on an eve,
of fish and chips and amber ale
to ply his band of thieves.

A husband and four children,
plus a multitude of strays,
with joy, inside these kitchen walls,
so humbly did I raise.

Now I sit here many nights,
with moonlight on my face,
and smile through teary mem'ries in
my kitchen filled with grace.

And I live happily ever after.

Pique Banking Hours Saturday 11/5/11

2011-11-02T20:36:00.000-04:00

What’s all this buzz about dumping your too-big-to-fail bank and joining a credit union? More like a cacophony of 57,000 fed up consumers with chainsaws. Saturday, November 5^th has been dubbed Bank Transfer Day and it’s making headlines everywhere.

I’ve been a credit union member for half a century. As a child in the late 50s, my dad took me to open my first savings account at the credit union affiliated with his employer. Once a month he’d take me in to deposit some of my allowance. I could barely peek over the counter. The teller would count my little pile of coins, note the deposit, enter any interest and calculate the balance…by hand… then loudly stamp my paper passbook. Clu-CLUNK! It was great! At five years old, I considered“interest” the lollypop that followed the stamp. The teller always remembered that I preferred orange and little sis liked grape.

While raising my family, our credit union financed every car we owned and helped us save for the holidays by direct deposit to a Christmas club. They didn’t offer mortgages, but they helped with home improvements, and yes….the kids got lollypops.

Today I do my banking online or on my phone. If I do have to venture into a branch or use the drive through, they greet me by name. I haven’t seen any lollypops, but I’ve occasionally strayed off with one of their pens. My credit union’s field of membership is open to anyone who works, lives or worships in my community. I enjoy direct deposit, free checking, interest bearing savings, a credit card, and a debit card (no monthly fee) that I’ve used across the country and in a foreign land. Disneyworld counts, right? When my tired, old Pathfinder finally calls it quits, I’ll find my best interest rate at my credit union and they’ll make sure the trauma of taking on monthly payments for the first time in 15 years is as painless as possible. If I ever decide to buy a home, they can handle that, too.

It’s a good banking gig for me. But there’s something else about my credit union. It’s a cooperative. As a member, I have a say in how it’s run and who oversees it. When I retire, maybe I'll run for the board or the supervisory committee. Because its board of directors is made up of volunteers, none of my money winds up in their pockets. Instead, my credit union pays me dividends, gives me lower rates, fewer fees and invests in the community I live in. I feel pretty good about that.

I’m glad I won’t be spending my Saturday moving my money.

Treat Piques 'n Peccadilloes

2011-10-31T20:10:00.000-04:00

Okay. I’m going to step in it. Halloween irks me. So how about I leap-frog right over Halloween and get a head start on Thanksgiving.

This Halloween, I’m thankful that….

· I live in an off-the-road, upstairs apartment with two sets of steep, wooden stairs on the dark side of the building. Pretty sure I won’t have any costumed company, but I think I hid some Reese’s® PB cups around here somewhere….just in case;

· my kids are grown so I won’t wake up tomorrow with a belly ache because I ate all the candy they didn’t like. There are starving people somewhere in the world and I can’t throw food away;

· I’m not a teacher and won’t need extra sleep, Xanex® and a Kevlar® vest for the next week so I can manage a room full of sugar charged students who bring gummie bears, chocolate kisses and Dum Dums for snack and lunch then throw up in the middle of recess;

· with the money I didn’t spend on four bags of Halloween candy I bought some vitamin C so I have a chance at not catching the next bug that the sugar disabled kids will start passing around next week, and Puffs® with lotion in case the vitamin C fails;

· I have friends on Facebook who will post great pictures of their costumed kids and grandkids that I can ooooo and ahhhhh over, because they truly are adorable;

· I have childhood memories of wearing my brother’s Pop Warner sweat infused football gear from door to door, dumping my loot out on the bed and swapping favorites with my sister;

· my sister didn’t like SweeTARTS® and I didn’t like Twizzlers®. She was too young to know that a giant SweeTART® was worth more three Twizzler® and I never told her;

· my mom kept Anbesol® on hand for the canker sores I inevitably got from eating too many SweeTARTS®;

· giant SweeTARTS® will be on sale half price tomorrow at the corner drug store and they open at 7:30. I should still be able to make it to work on time;

· you may outgrow the tradition but never the memories.

A Pique at tomorrow......

2011-10-30T23:57:00.000-04:00

In opening this blog, I won’t get personal out of the gate. I’ll leave the little human quirks for after we get warmed up. I’ll just take on Mother Nature today. Mother Nature and litter.

I’m not easily irritated, nor am I prone to negativity, but sometimes it’s the wee things that tweak my tail. Like an October snow storm and the giant unkempt Catalpa tree just off my deck.

October snow is wet and heavy and Catalpa is in a state of partial undress. Her large remaining leaves and long, woody pods did not take kindly to the sticking weight, so she has been thoughtlessly tossing them onto my deck. Large yellow hearts like last year’s valentines and seedpods reminiscent of Edward Scissor Hands fingers layered in several inches of wet, white slush soured my morning outlook and sent me back to bed with my cup of tea.

But the truth is, the falling snow in the night was haunting and magical. As it coated the leaves and branches around the deck, the limbs bowed low over the railing, like Monsters come early for Trick ‘r Treat.

Now….I’m not saying I had a cheery heart cleaning up Mother Superior’s slop or Catalpa’s litter, but my heart began to soften when I recalled dragging myself up the stairs at the end of a warm June day to see Catalpa tossing deep shade like a graceful Queen of Hearts, dressed to the nines in fragrant pink and white blossoms that smelled like heaven and felt like velvet. Her dress was so full and green that you had to look closely to see her gnarled limbs and branches. Magnificient!

As summer unfolded, the bumblebee that had gnawed its home under a corner deck rail made daily trips to gather from Her Majesty’s crown of blossoms. The squirrels played early morning tag in her limbs. Birds and honey bees held concerts in the afternoon. At dusk, Cicadas scratched out the high notes for firefly ballets in and out of the deep leaves.

With Catalpa in full regalia from June through August, the road way in front of the house seemed further away, the human noise was muted and the birds were always singing. Sitting on the deck in shorts and a tee was perfection.

So. Maybe I’m not irked that Mother Nature litters early snow on my yard and car….or that Catalpa tosses her worn-out heart leaves and woody seed pods on my deck. Maybe I’m just piqued that it will be so long before Summer returns.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and memories keep tomorrow near.