Of All Things, Why These?

I could live without potato chips. I have. They're bad for you anyways, all that oil and salt. I could also live without French fries. Those would be a real test, especially if they're fried in really good fat, like beef fat. But I could do it. I enjoy vegetable sides as much or more than fries.

I could live without raisins, or prunes, or wine. I could live without oranges or orange juice. I'm not particularly a citrus fanatic. I can, and have, completely ignored coffee, although I enjoy the smell. I do not need large doses of caffeine to get me going, nor do I want to be addicted to it.

So with all those things I would be fine with were my body to reject them, of course it instead picks things I love eating.

Milk, ice cream, whipped cream. I can no longer consume these items without severe pain, but I do it anyways. Milk with my cookies, ice cream when I find a to-die-for flavor, whipped cream when I damn well want it. Let's face it; the soy, rice and coconut substitutes are okay in a pinch, but they just don't approach the richness of real milk for me. I never curse myself or my choice for my pain. I curse my stomach and intestines.

Vinegar, tomato sauce, acidic foods. These cause as much pain as the dairy, sometimes more if I consume a large amount (salad with spaghetti in marinara anyone?). Malt vinegar on fish and chips was pure heaven. I loved vinegar so much I could almost drink it straight. Not anymore. And no tomato sauce? Please, I was raised on barrels of homemade tomato sauce in my half-Sicilian home. How dare you, Intestines! I swear I'm going to rip you out and replace you.

Spicy food. Salsa, red and green chili,  hot and sour soup, spicy szechuan anything. I love it all, the hotter the better. Damn the torpedoes, I'll still eat it. But now I have to take a stomach acid reducer beforehand just to survive.

Every year something gets crossed off the list. Not something I couldn't care about anyways, it's always something I love. When I complain I'm told "ït's part of getting old". No it isn't, it's part of your body just plain betraying you after years of faithful service. Even though I never drank much caffeine to start with I now cannot have more than half a 12 ounce Coke or Pepsi without problems. But it wasn't something I loved, so it isn't hard to let go of that.

And yes, I know and sympathize with those a lot more unfortunate than I, who have chronic diseases that don't allow them to enjoy foods they loved too. But I don't have a disease (that I or my doctor know of), I didn't start this way.

Is it too much to ask to be able to enjoy a small cone with your kids at the local Dairy Queen? I want my food back, dammit.

Sugar Scrubbed

So of course I couldn't mention it without then having to make it. At 10:30 last night I was whipping up some Brown Sugar Scrub Soap, which used a goat's milk base, some real brown sugar, and some cocoa butter. I also own Brown Sugar fragrance oil, which I generously added to the mix.

I love real cocoa butter because it comes in these creamy-colored chunks that smell like chocolate, and it melts on your skin on contact. Just really luxurious. Of course the low melting point makes it difficult to work with when it is hot out like last night. I had a deal of a time getting it cut and off my fingers into the melting cup.

I like real shea butter too, and it also melts on contact, but it doesn't have that lovely aroma. Still, if you're going to superfat melt and pour soap, you can't go wrong with either of them. You just can't add too much or your soap turns into an oily mess.

You can see flecks of the brown sugar and that's just fine....it's supposed to be scrubby and silky. And it smells warm and caramel-like and sugary, almost good enough to eat. In fact it's a touch too sweet and next time I may tone it down with something. But for now I'm going to test run it tonight in the shower and see if I can get my husband to complain that I smell like "spilled ice cream" (he doesn't like sweet food-scented candles and protests when I buy them that they smell like spilled ice cream, way too sweet).

Hey, I'll take "spilled ice cream" smell over "sweated all day in the hot sun driving my car with the broken A/C" smell any day. Must be a girl thing.

Bursting Bubbles

Yes, I am still writing for my blog. Heat and a general unsettled-ness over the past few weeks left me unwilling to put my then-thoughts down....it really would not have been good reading material. Self-recrimination, unhappiness, and occasionally despair might make for a decent movie if you throw in some CGI, car chases and an arc with Important Life Lessons, but in everyday life it's just grindingly boring.

I credit my eight year old for pulling me out of my inertia, at least temporarily, and reigniting the urge to create in me. It has made me dig out old books and supplies, surf the internet looking for classes, and consider how best to handle hazardous materials in the presence of children and animals. Just seeing the excitement on his face was worth it. Soapmaking, I forgot how much I like it.

From my (embarrassingly large) store of scents, he chose coconut, to match his commercial shampoo. He then considered the supplies before him and chose the shea butter base. Then he was allowed to observe as I cut the base into pieces, melted them in the microwave, added the scent (I added a few drops of Butter Vanilla with the Coconut for some nice sweetness and depth), and poured it into the molds. I had enough for my elder son to have some, since he wandered into the kitchen last minute and begged for some soap too.

When the soaps popped out of the molds a couple of hours later, his whole face lit up. "Can I take a bath NOW, Mom?"

Yes, yes you may. Have at it, and enjoy. He had so much fun he lathered himself three times. Afterwards he came bouncing down the stairs and asked me if he smelled of coconut. Of course he did, which delighted him.

Yesterday he asked me for Strawberry scented soap, since strawberries are his favorite fruit.

This time he selected the Goat's Milk base for some creamy luxuriant lather. This kid is all about luxury. So of course I added powdered goat's milk in bubble-inducing glycerin, a few drops of red colorant, and a dash of exciting sparkle powder (you can just barely see it in the pic) to wrap it all up. The strawberry scent I kept single-note, for juiciness.

Another hit, another bath. Three latherings. I've never heard of a kid who loves bathing so much. The bathroom smells like coconuts and strawberries.

I'm wondering what will happen when I make my brown sugar scrub soap again.

I Did This

I grew this.

In my garden. And there is another on the way. I am also nursing along a single bell pepper, which is looking good but growing slowly. The tomatoes have been given up for dead; after the plant repeatedly struggled to grow any larger from the day I purchased it, it finally decided this whole corner-of-the-garden-bed thing was not working out and gave up the ghost. I generously watered and fertilized it, and there was no indication of insects or disease, so I can only conclude that the soil in my garden bed is death on tomatoes and plow in some peat moss for next year.

Tonight I did the shopping and cooking for dinner, and conquered fish. Spicy cornmeal breaded cod with a tortellini and broccoli salad in balsamic vinaigrette. The 500 degree oven was tough to endure in 90 degree weather, but since the fish only had to bake for 12 minutes, I toughed it out. It was worth it. Even my super picky eldest son gobbled down two pieces, although the salad was a pass after the shock of the vinegar. Odd that he can eat a whole bag of salt and vinegar chips and make his mouth numb, but the sweeter taste of balsamic made his face pucker up like a prune.

It's a small thing, but I love cooking and making good food, and growing food in my garden. I have done this. I have fed my family. I can.

This helps ease the upset of still not having a job after four months looking, pursuing, and interviewing. I can do anything I need to with skill and confidence.

And if I'm still in my house next spring, I WILL be growing tomatoes.

I Want a Hammer Like That One

It's been incredibly hot here for the last few days, but unlike last week it hasn't rained each night to mitigate the swelter. With our swamp cooler broken we've been living with just fans, which makes our upper floor bedrooms just barely tolerable for the night. It's nice and cool just before dawn, but then the sun comes up and starts the scorch cycle all over again.

Imagine my delight when I saw a few flashes of lightning  as I was going to pick up the kids from day camp yesterday afternoon. By the time we got home, the wind was picking up and some big drops were falling. This rain turned out to be far from torrential, but it brought some blessedly cool air and a nice breeze for awhile.

While the storm was relatively small and fast-moving, it was noisy. It wanted everyone to know it was passing through. I managed to catch some video of the lovely light-play, but the blog servers don't want to let me upload it, boo.  If I can get it to work I'll post it here, but for now the noise and light show is stuck on my camera for only me to enjoy.

Thor was definitely happy though, and wanted us to know it. Thanks for the breeze Thor!

Edit: Here's the video. Enjoy!

Back to the Future Again

So in the last week, we've shown the kids Back to the Future parts two and three. They had already seen the first one a couple months or so ago.

Of course they loved them both, although the third received a more enthusiastic response than the second, likely because it was less confusing. I'd have to agree on that score. For me, the best parts were one and three. Two was essential to set up the situation for the third part, but it seemed somewhat hastily done, and there were so many twists and "here's a scene from part one but from a different angle" that the story quickly got lost in the shuffle. The story was not as strong as the other two to begin with, and all the camera trickery muddled it further.

That being cleared up, it's a tough choice between one and three for me. Part one is a classic and paved the way, with many iconic scenes such as Marty being blown off his feet by the giant amplifier Doc made for him, the DeLorean leaving twin trails of fire as it sped into the past, and Doc's cries of "Great Scott!" at every twist and turn.

Part three was a funny homage to spaghetti westerns and just plain visually entertaining in the sets and costumes. I loved the fact that Doc built a huge contraption in the blacksmith's shop that turned out to be a refrigerator that made one ice cube at a time. The idea of pushing the deLorean with a steam engine was brilliant, and turning the engine into a time machine? The sheer beauty and genius of it at the end of the movie was the perfect final piece to the puzzle. I even wonder if the current Steampunk craze might not have started by us young adults of the time oohing and aahing over Doc's crazy inventions, and that final scene of a tricked-out locomotive sparkling all over with lightning as it zapped off to some unknown past. It certainly inspired me to read more Jules Verne.

It did not escape me that the fuel for the time circuits for the time machine went from plutonium (stolen from Libyan terrorists) to a garbage-fueled fusion reactor, back to one of the simplest forms of energy, steam. The internal combustion engine for the deLorean time machine always ran on gas, although by the time Doc converted the locomotive, it ran solely on steam. Complications reduced to simple elegance. If all we're trying to do is create steam or heat anyways, why not keep it simple? It was a subtle but wonderful thing to put in the movies, I think. Perhaps a dream for the future.

At this point I don't expect my kids to be too attentive to the underlying message, but I hope in some subliminal, impressionable part of their brain it sticks. The idea that you can take control, and change your outcome, at any point in your life. Too many times I've thought myself stuck until I ignored the whispers of the past and took that leap.

As Doc said, your future isn't yet written. It doesn't have to be so tangled up with the past. Choose the best one you can, and write it for yourself.

Will Work for Chocolate

I think it would be a dream to work in a chocolate factory. Not the kind of candy you get off grocery store or corner store shelves. Something slightly more upscale, like Godiva's or See's. Some of you are probably laughing at that comparison, but once I found See's, Godiva chocolates were just same old same old (Ok, not their chocolate-covered strawberries. Those are always phenomenal). And it's because of one flavor.

See's brown sugar buttercream.

Covered in dark chocolate or milk, this thing has made me its slave. I have scoured the internet for a recipe for a brown sugar buttercream filling I can make for myself, and have yet to find one. I fear I may have to become a chocolatier just to reverse-engineer it for myself. Not that I'd find that a hardship by any means, but I'm a little short on cash for classes.

Combined with the chocolate coating, this filling is very close to taste perfection for me; I could eat a whole box and not grow tired of it. Coming in a close second is the solid brown sugar filling; no cream (or less cream) involved. Yum. I enjoy soft centers the best of most types of filled chocolates, although I will eat nearly any type. I'll even eat coconut-filled chocolates although I despise them. I can't very well waste the chocolate enrobing the vile stuff now can I? If I happen to bite into one by accident, it's grin and bear it and chew and swallow it quickly, followed immediately by a tastier one. Orange or lemon or possibly strawberry filled.

Nuts add a nice variety now and then, and chewy caramel is alright, though I place it one step above coconut if it's very chewy, as in jaw-breaking, tooth-filling-destroying chewy. Soft caramel can be divine, and I only recently discovered salted caramels. Mmmm.

Chocolate lovers can get pretty passionate about their centers, I've found. I was insulted to overhear a classmate in college going on and on about how soft centers were disgusting and only chewy caramels were good. I've heard strong arguments for nut clusters and toffee centers too.

But still, the fillings are only as good as the chocolate enrobing them. If I'm willing to eat a coconut center just to avoid wasting the chocolate on the outside, it's good chocolate. (And no, I will NOT push a thumb into the bottom of the chocolate to see what it is, then put it back if I don't want it. Barbarians do that. It's chocolate for god's sake. EAT IT.) You don't have to pay extravagant prices for great chocolates, just hunt around a little.

But all the brown sugar buttercreams are mine.

Flying Birds....Excellent Birds

With two days of thunderstorms rolling through, the lawn is getting lush and my squash plants are going crazy. I worry that my house will allow some water into the basement somewhere, as it did last summer during a white-out of a downpour, but that hasn't happened yet (cross fingers).

Yesterday my husband and I practically had to row the truck out of downtown Denver when the streets hosted a flash flood after a strong storm. I'll chalk that one up as an adventure, like driving through Iowa on a pitch black night through an intense thunderstorm.

But lush vegetation is unfortunately not the only blessing of lots of rain. Mosquitoes and other bugs are buzzing around like crazy, getting in the house and generally upsetting my appreciation of the weather following a severe storm.

As I was driving up to the house today, having picked my kids up from their day camp, I was greeted to what I at first thought I had seen before; a flock of birds wheeling and diving in the sky above the cul de sac. I looked for the hawk that must be disturbing them. Nothing. Then I noticed they were diving, rising, and diving again in circles, over and over, about twenty of them, way too low to the ground. I pulled slowly into the driveway and watched, fascinated, as they didn't scatter from the car. I opened my window, and the sun picked out for me what I had missed before....a ton of bugs rising from the grass. Most of them appeared to be mosquitoes. The birds were eating them. I even saw a dragonfly buzzing boldly among the birds busily eating his own fill of the smaller bugs.

Well hell, you could have knocked me over with a feather, as they say. I told the kids to be slow and quiet getting out of the car but I needn't have worried. The birds were feasting and wild cats wouldn't have driven them off.  I caught some of it on my camera video, but the flock had cleaned most of my front yard by then and were starting to disperse. Still, I've never seen them just swoop and dart in my front yard over and over before. Thanks for cleaning my yard, birdies! Come back any time!

So of course this scene reminded me of this song. I love Peter Gabriel and Laurie Anderson.

Next Time I Take The Canoe

So my husband and I had an appointment in downtown Denver today, about a half hour from our house according to Mapquest. When you come to Denver you find out that "everything is a half hour from everywhere else", and apparently Mapquest has bought into that too. Yes, really.

But naturally since there's traffic you have to add a good twenty minutes at bare minimum to the Mapquest directions, so it ended being about fifty minutes there. A half hour, plus traffic.

While we were in our appointment, the storm struck. A severe storm, that dropped more than two inches of rain in less than an hour. We were lucky enough (or not) to get out of our appointment at the height of the rain.  Since the truck was parked right around the corner from the entrance we decided to run for it. It was heavy rain, but it didn't look too bad. We aren't afraid of a little wet. Halfway across the lot (which was about a thirty foot stretch from door to truck) I stepped in a wash of water up to my ankles. The parking lot was flat, with no dips in the asphalt. It was just a river running across it. Three steps later and a gust of wind blew a wall of water sideways over my entire body. I couldn't have been wetter unless I had jumped in a pool.

That was the start. Out in the street it was bad, and it got worse. Traffic was bumper to bumper and half drowned. It was moving at less than 5MPH. At first it was just us and everyone else trying to survive the drumming rain. Then, someone's car overheated in the lane ahead of us. We shifted to the right and crawled on. Then, someone else's car just stalled in the middle of the street. We shifted again and crawled on.

It took us an hour and a half to make two miles, and in the last bit of those two miles, the police blocked off two of the three lanes because a huge lake had swallowed half the block. There was uprooted bushes, bricks and loads of dirt everywhere. I've seen street flooding before, or thought I had, until this. Luckily we were in the truck, but at times I was doubtful we could even make it in that.

Yes that guy is up to his knees in water.

Did I mention we still had our kids to pick up from their day camp? We were nearly an hour late, but luckily the counselors were having their weekly staff meeting and were cool with it.

Apologies for the blur, it was a camera phone and we were moving, just a bit. That's two swamped lanes of road, looking across to the house. The police blocked off this stretch.

Even after we made it on to the highway we saw a stalled semi in the middle lane, a stalled van a guy was trying to roll off to the side with help, and another two or three cars to the sides with hazards on. It was a wet war zone out there.

Thankfully we all made it home in one piece, a little waterlogged and stressed out, but otherwise safe. The flash flood warnings coming from the Weather Channel app all helpfully said DON'T DROWN. Y' think?

Anyone know how to build an ark?

And There's Gonna Be Fireworks...

I just adore fireworks. There's something about the combination of loud, booming sounds and sudden, brilliant colors against a dark sky that is just thrilling and awe-inspiring to me. I always see something different, I'm always hoping for more and bigger, and I'm always disappointed just a little when the show ends.

I've never been to a large city's fireworks show...Boston, New York, etc., although I've seen them on TV. I can appreciate the magnitude of the show and the symphony playing in time with the fireworks is an amazing thing. But it's better in person, when you're sitting on a blanket under the open sky, and dazzling blooms of fire open up right over your head.

From the time I was really small my sister and I had the luck of having a local fireworks show happen every year in the park right across the street from my grandparents' house. Every year we'd set up our blanket between the trees, staking out a great spot and rubbing in the bug repellent, and yelling with delight at each boom and flash of light. These days you need a chair, and you need to aggressively defend your stretch of sidewalk or you're liable to get a car trying to park in front of you and cut off your view. The park fills to overflowing with excited families and vendors selling garishly blinking necklaces and toys. But even these kid-attracting bits of flashing plastic pale under the extravagant colors and noise of the fireworks show. They've even started playing John Philips Sousa marches during the show now, which adds even more fun as far as I'm concerned. I love a good loud marching song, but they're odd and out of place unless you're in a big parade, or watching fireworks. Then it's so perfect I practically get goosebumps.

I haven't always been able to make it to local fireworks shows when I haven't been back East. But when I can hear the thumps of the blasts going off I'm liable to run from window to window, or out of the house into the street, looking for the colored fire in the sky.

As a teenager I spent a few Independence Days on the beach with my father and other "adults", setting off illegal fireworks. We had to be careful the police beach patrol didn't catch us in the act; one year the owner of said fireworks, (a huge amount of them too) spent weeks wiring all of them with slow match to large plywood boards. At zero hour the three boards were hustled out to the beach, just above the waterline, set down, and one end was lit. Oh the cops showed up pretty quickly alright, but what they found was a series of fireworks wired together and a bunch of cheering and hollering adults standing well back enjoying the show. No one in the act, no one to arrest.

We didn't always plan it so well. One year, absorbed with lighting off buzz-bombs (a personal favorite), my father and I were unaware of the beach patrol walking right up behind us. Oops. I had the lighting stick in my hand, and then a flashlight in my face, but they didn't arrest me ( I think I looked too young to bother with), they arrested my father right in front of me. They even slapped him in handcuffs, which was interesting to a seventeen-year-old who had never seen an arrest up close. My stepmother was not pleased at having to bail him out of jail, but my father and I giggled like idiots over it later. What we learned from that was: do not alert said beach patrol by "testing" a ginormous string of firecrackers longer than most people are tall in broad daylight before the main event. It tells them where to come looking at dusk later.

I have instilled a love of fireworks into my kids. They yell and cheer for the biggest blasts and groan with disappointment when it's over. Last year they got to sit in the same place I used to when I was a kid; across the street in grandma's yard. This year we're far from my family on the East Coast and we'll be watching the local show. But I know we'll all be doing the same thing, miles apart. Enjoying the tattooing of the evening sky with fire, celebrating our freedom.

Happy Independence Day.

Summer Sizzle

The summer solstice passed nine days ago, and yet it didn't feel like summer to me until this week, with three days that were so hot that I carried a bottle of water with me in the car just to go to the grocery store (it's a ten-minute trip).

The kids are at summer day camp, and they picked this week, out of sheer luck, to have their "Swim Week" theme. Three days of outdoor swimming at various water parks. My youngest picked up a sunburn on the first day, another herald of true summer for me. It just doesn't feel like the season yet until that familiar sting of roasted flesh zaps me between the shoulder blades or whenever I wrinkle the skin of my nose. Yes, I know sunburns are bad. My family carries 50+ SPF sunscreen and uses it liberally. The camp counselors couldn't get my youngest to get out of the water enough the first day to be able to slather him with enough lotion, so he got burnt on the shoulders. But the next day he was out every fifteen minutes for more, so his sunburn didn't get worse. I've also been covering him with aloe after-sun gel when he gets home, which he loves. Hopefully he won't be leaving little bits of skin all over when the burn begins to peel.

I am amazed at what my sister and I did as teenagers, when going to the beach. First of all, thirty years ago (ouch) there was no SPF 50+. I think I remember the top SPF at 10. Maybe 15 in the latter part of the 80's. But did we use that? Oh hell no. 10 was for rookies. I remember buying a mahogany-colored translucent bottle of "deep tanning oil". SPF? A mere 2. Nothing to get in the way of a good, dark tan. This stuff was oil. No whiteness to it at all. It was like rubbing the cooking oil on a turkey before shoving it into a roasting hot oven. And we roasted, oh yes.

We never got sunburns bad enough to blister, but they were definitely pink to red, and warm water on it made it sting like crazy. Aloe gel was nice and soothing, and so was Noxema cream. And then came the peeling. The trick was to see who could get the longest unbroken strip off themselves before it ripped. Gross right? It should have been, but it had the same fascination for us as covering your hands in a thin layer of glue, letting it dry, and then peeling that off (What? You've never done that? You missed out).

I never remember burning as a kid. Maybe once, when I was six. And it was pink for a day, then turned brown. As kids we were brown before the summer was a week old. And not even a blush of pink the rest of the summer. As I got older, I noticed I burned more, and worse. So the SPF rating began to climb on the lotions I bought, until now I use SPF 50+, and reapply it often if I'm out for long. Has the sun gotten brighter? Hotter? I don't think so, although some might argue with me. My theory is that, as kids, we were in and out of the house constantly as soon as it was warm enough. I was 12 before the video game craze really started, so I had years of entertaining myself outdoors before the lure of a candy-colored screen and a difficult level kept me in. This constant inside-outside (Stop slamming the screen door! Stay in or out!) allowed my skin, and that of my sister and cousins, to slowly acclimate and darken, so that little sunscreen was necessary unless we were spending a day at the beach. Even then we only needed SPF 6 or 8.

I imagine my string of mid-level sunburns will come to haunt me some day, making me regret that ridiculous deep tanning oil. But I will forever associate that familiar sting with true summer, even as I try to never feel it again.

Summer summer summer....

A Matter of Taste

Where do we get our liking for particular foods from? This question popped into my head after a discussion tonight with my husband, in which our kids' eating habits came up.

I frequently say I got my sweet tooth from my maternal grandfather. He gave it to my mother, who gave it to me. All three of us could certainly pack away the pastries, ice cream and chocolate (and, maddeningly, stay relatively thin).

I also love raviolis and pizza, spicy foods, and foods of different cultures; Mexican, Chinese, Indian. Yes I realize "chinese" food in America is American Chinese and not "real" Chinese food. But you will never get me to eat chicken feet or jellyfish. Eating that stuff is just Not Right.

Where do these individual likes and dislikes come from? My kids have a very narrow roster of what they will eat, although they have surprised me on occasion. Chicken nuggets, pizza, hot dogs, all make their list. Nasty stuff. My eldest adores pasta but the youngest hates it. My youngest inhales fresh fruit but the eldest rolls his eyes at you in reproach if you so much as mention there are fresh strawberries in the fridge. They both love ice cream, and will even pass up cake for it.

A strong case can be made for environment certainly. You will eat what you're offered, if you're hungry enough (except chicken feet and jellyfish). If Mom and Dad continually present you with foods they like, eventually you come to accept at least some of them in your own diet. But then you go out and try something completely off their radar and find you love it, and end up incorporating it as a staple. Where did that come from?

Mom and Dad's willingness to offer you new things all the time, if they did, probably influenced how open you are (or not) to trying new things. My Dad is somewhat of a foodie and so we tried a lot of things, usually after he "tested" it first. My Mother is an excellent cook but tends to stick to her tried and true, which admittedly are yummy but don't go too exotic except for an extra dash of chili powder now and then. So on the one hand I had food adventures, and on the other I had a large array of comfort foods to fall back on when the adventuring got tiresome.

I've recently been trying to mix it up in the kitchen, if only so I don't have to cook three different meals all the time. This is mostly for the benefit of the kids. They are both Aspergians and so trying new things sometimes comes hard to them. But they have shocked me with what they will eat. I got the youngest to eat homemade chicken soup, to in fact gobble it down and admit it was much better than canned. The eldest is more about texture than taste, but he floored me when I had him try crab legs and he inhaled them (expensive taste, but it was worth it). So I do have hope that eventually the chicken nuggets and hot dogs will become boring and they will come to love some of the things I do, that my parents loved, and their parents before them.

Especially if I stop buying chicken nuggets and hot dogs. Do you know what those things are made of??? (Hint: You're told what hot dogs are made of in The Great Outdoors. Go watch it.)

My Dad is Cool

I apologize for the sporadic nature of my blog posts lately. Not all days have been good and so I don't feel the need to burden anyone with that right now. Perhaps later I will feel freer to share more, but right now the issues are too sensitive to go into.

I missed New England and my father on Father's Day quite strongly. I called him and lingered on the phone long past my usual conversations with him, striving to capture some of that "home" feeling I had last year when I visited in the summer. He didn't mind, he never does.

I inherited certain traits from my father that I am quite proud of. He gave me his love for books and a voracious reading capacity. He is a Stephen King fanatic and I also inherited that; I borrowed The Stand from him one summer as a teenager and read it in five days. It's nearly a thousand-page book but I couldn't put it down. Most of Stephen King's novels have that effect on me, and I believe it's his writing style as much as his story. I just have to see what's going to happen next, whether it's an ordinary trip to the store or an epic battle with a sneaky monster. Just like my Dad, I have piles of books in my room, both read and unread. The last time I visited I saw a square pile of books next to his bed that was nearly the size of the bed itself, which caused me to burst out laughing. Moving is a trial of strength for both of us, because we don't like to give away books.

I am a patient and methodical (sometimes maddeningly so) researcher of almost everything, especially if I'm about to purchase something. I will go on the 'net, read magazine articles, visit several stores and question other people before I even begin to decide I might want to buy something. The bigger the price tag the longer the research. This too is a trait my Dad has and which I know I learned from watching him do it.

I enjoy all kinds of music, because I was exposed to all kinds through aha! my Dad. As a teenager I was surprised but delighted when he insisted on listening to the "progressive" (the 80's name for Alternative) rock station on drives anywhere and at home, and entertained going to P.I.L. concerts with me, even if only briefly. P.I.L. stands for Public Image Limited, a band fronted by former Sex Pistols band member Johnny Lydon (a.k.a Johnny Rotten). My sister was not overly into 80's rock at the time but that was ok as well since he loved to play oldies but goodies from the 60's and 70's as well. The Doors and Pink Floyd rocked right along with Duran Duran and O.M.D. in our house. It was a teenager's dream. We were getting told to turn it up, not turn it down.

Of course since we both loved Stephen King we both loved horror movies. One summer we spent renting every horror movie the local video store had in stock. This was before chain stores drove the mom-n-pops out of business. We even rented an extremely low-budget slasher flick made by college students called "Driller Killer" and yes it was as bad as its name. We didn't care, we ate popcorn and laughed through all of it. I still love B-movie horror flicks to this day, but I see them less often because its less fun having no one to watch them with, and my husband isn't a fan, for which I don't really blame him. He does like Bruce Campbell and Evil Dead though, so that's major points in my book.

I believe, like my Dad, that home life and getting regular breaks from work is important, important enough to look for that description on any company's website before I consider them. "We foster a good work-life balance". Great, then you're for me. If I can shut off my cell phone and not answer my home phone on the weekends or whenever my days off are and not get grumped at for it, I will work as hard as I can for you the rest of the week. Work's all well and good, but family time is absolutely essential.

He gave me his love for digging in the dirt, making things grow, and then eating the fruits (or vegetables) of his labors in some truly great food. I still have a way to go when it comes to harvesting bumper crops like he does, but I'm learning. I can't not try to grow things each spring, even if they don't do well. I remember my father's garden, and hope mine can be like that too someday.

Thanks for the things you gave and showed me Dad. I wouldn't be me without you.

Somebody Hold That Cloud For Me

One of the first things I noticed when I moved to Colorado was that the sky seemed much bigger than it was back East. It's not that there are less houses around me than before; I live in a cul-de sac and there are houses surrounding us on all sides. There are about the same number of trees. I can only think it must be because the land is much flatter, although I don't notice tremendous hills when I'm back East (except Cataract Street. Awesomely fun to go 80 up and down that street, and it is aptly named. Or, it was until the cops had the DPW fill in all the roller-coaster dips in the street that made it fun. Boo. Thanks to my aunt for taking me and my sister down Cataract Street at a frightening speed in her sports car, when we were but kids. Whee!). It's a mystery.

As I may have mentioned before I have never seen clouds like I've seen them here, and today was a spectacular example. Brilliant blue sky, huge white clouds across the entire expanse, and an amazing wind that would have had Dorothy putting on her red sparkly shoes and grabbing up Toto. Sure, sure, blue sky, clouds, big deal, right? Except these were worthy of painting. Worthy of a slightly surreal Maxfield Parrish painting or an epic Howard Pyle illustration. If there was less wind. Any canvas of a decent size to represent would have become a kite in short order, even attached to an easel. What's a landscape painter with an itchy paintbrush to do? Ah, the digital camera. Perfect. I don't always carry it, but when I see clouds like I did today, I try to snap at least a few shots. Blow it up and print it out on decent paper and there's your reference.

So what did Parrish and Pyle do without digital cameras? I'm not sure, but the results are still awe-inspiring decades later. Just keep painting, just keep painting....

Unexpectednesses

I am a person that likes nice surprises. Like for instance if you go raiding the cookie jar at night fully expecting it to be empty and surprise! there are three Oreos left, just what you needed to shush the craving. Perfection. As you can tell the surprise doesn't need to be big or elaborate.

Today I got three.

Surprise number one: After a doctor's appointment, my husband steered the truck over to a place I rarely go anymore, both because it's a fair distance from me and because I have been unemployed since the end of March.  The rather massive yarn store in the slightly seedy section of town! I am usually overwhelmed when I go in, even if I have a list. Today I was told to go in and just enjoy myself. I had no list. Imagine a five year old in Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, and you'll be close to where I was today. But I am proud to say I restrained myself and settled for some screaming orange yarn for some secret projects, and some white and purple sock yarn for Rockies socks. Oh, and a set of metal double pointed needles for those socks, since I snap the bamboo ones with the abandon of a kung fu champion chopping through boards. Extreme knitting, rawr!

Surprise number two: Lunch at an out of the way Mexican restaurant I've been wanting to try. They have artwork by Frieda Kahlo all over the walls. Just by the look of the place I knew it could be good. I was not disappointed, and unlike everything else I've eaten this week it did not make my stomach rebel. Not even the chili rellenos. Yum! The "spicy" stuff wasn't as spicy as I can tolerate, but I let that slide this time. Next time we'll see what kind of fire they can put on. This place is much closer to home than the yarn store. There could be some real danger of money-suckage here, although the prices are excellent.

Surprise number three: My Bruins won the Stanley Cup tonight, after thirty-nine years without it. I was four years old in 1972, and I can barely remember the cup ceremony. Oh yes, my parents were watching, so I was watching. And I was watching tonight as they played hard and held aloft that Cup, well-deserved. As a New England girl born and raised, the circle has come round for all my teams now so I have nothing more to complain about in the sports department. I think I might even be able to forgive Bill Buckner now.

I'll think about that one a little bit more.

Yay Glasses! Wait...

I brought my boys to see the optometrist today on the advice of their doctor, who said they'd gotten to the point where they'd probably need glasses. Given that both their mother and father need eye correction, this was no big surprise.

Both boys, friendly as they are, immediately started chatting with the tech as they were led off to their exams. I only hoped they'd be quiet long enough to pay attention and answer the doctor's questions accurately. The eldest boy proclaimed that his eyes were "really bad" and squinted professionally for the tech, before even stepping foot in the exam room. Meanwhile and at the same time, the youngest was declaring that he "sees double" and needed glasses. This was the first I'd heard of the double vision, and indeed the first vision complaint from either of them ever. The tech was grinning as she led the youngest away for his exam.

I was a little nervous about the dilation drops they'd be given, but this turned out to be less of a hit than the ocular pressure test. The one where they gently blast a puff of air onto your eyeball. The eldest exaggerated rubbing his eye and expressing annoyance, but he was smiling.

In the end they both needed glasses, causing them both to break out in whoops of joy and immediately begin selecting their frames. I imagine their joy will fade gradually as they realize the glasses are not a toy and Mom and Dad get upset if they get lost or broken, even if they are almost fully covered by insurance. Still, helping them pick out good-looking frames was fun, much more fun than when I was a kid. All I had to choose from was plastic, in a big boxy shape too large for my face, in tortoiseshell or an awful orange-red that screamed, "I'm a dork in red plastic glasses!" It was the beginning of the 80's. Everyone had big dorky-looking plastic glasses. But that didn't make it any better. I never wore them. In fact I never consistently wore eye correction until I was twenty-nine and training to be an optician. I learned I only needed to wear a contact in one eye, and voila, clear vision and depth perception all at once.

My eldest picked out plastic frames, but these frames are slim rectangles of black plastic lined in neon green and accented with white. Far cooler than anything I had available. The youngest was looking for red frames, but settled for blue-green metal frames with spring hinges and narrow rectangular lenses. Eminently cool. If I had had access to frames like that, I would have worn my glasses every day. Not only that, but both boys get lenses that transition to sunglass lenses outdoors and return to clear lenses inside. All paid for by the insurance. Sheesh!

Of course the highlight of the day was the free sunglasses you get when you have your eyes dilated. The boys loved them...

...although they got some strange looks at Dairy Queen as they ate their sundaes, earned for good behavior.

I'm making an eye appointment for myself tomorrow.

A Promising Start to the Week

So as I nervously wait to hear from a couple of different places about job applications, I occupied myself with finishing a few things.

One "spa facecloth" for the church festival. I now have about a week to complete a basket of stuff if I want to offer it for the auction. No pressure. But the patterns must be as cushy and spa-like as possible. Selecting them is part of what is slowing me down. I sure have plenty of yarn.

Completed weed-mageddon on some of what are possibly the nastiest weeds I have ever encountered anywhere, and oh joy, they love my yard. If you let them they grow into tall inch-thick stalks with broad lobed leaves, and the entire plant root to tip is covered in spikes. These spikes have the temerity to stab through deerhide gloves when you're pulling them. They also love to grow up between the stalks of other plants, so you can't just weed whack them and you can't spray weedkiller will nilly. According to research these plants share a root system, so even when you pull them they just spring back up again within a week. The recommended method of eradication is an eyedropper and concentrated doses of a strong herbicide that will be drawn into the root system and destroy from within. Yeah, I have time to eyedropper every single weed at its base over a half acre of lawn and landscaping. I briefly considered buying a stock of large-bore hypodermic needles and injecting the nasty buggers, but that again amounts to me having to run over a half acre of yard zapping every single one. Plus, the bulk order of hypodermics will make me look like a junky on a bender (Yeah yeah these are for WEEDS, yep. That's the ticket.) or a mad scientist performing disturbing botanical experiments in my back yard. I think for now uprooting them will have to do.

Remembered an artwork I created for my aunt some years ago, and that I had drawn it on tracing paper to better be able to transfer the design wherever I wanted it. I did see this paper during the last move, so I know I still have it, and the thought of using a different medium or altering it and doing it again is appealing to me. I just have to find it again.

Eyed the Hummer that the new owner of the house across the street owns and restrained my natural urge to key the unholy hell out of it. The Hummers that have evolved from their military, purely utilitarian roots earn nothing but contempt from me unless they're loaded with a full family, camping, fishing, and hunting gear and a couple dogs every time they pull out of the driveway. Otherwise they are wasting gas and destroying the environment. No, you do not look cool driving your over-sized, gussied up fake Hummer alone by yourself. You look like a greedy ass.

Bought some gluten-free chocolate chip cookie mix and will be trying that out tonight...

...after watching the Bruins play the Canucks in the Stanley Cup finals. I have not been a huge hockey fan since living in Michigan and rooting for the Red Wings, but I remember the Bruins winning the Stanley Cup with Bobby Orr at the helm. Yes, I was young, but I remember it (barely), and I was born and raised in New England. I can't not watch and cheer. Go Bruins!

And there's a lovely storm with lightning and thunder coming in. The perfect end to an eclectic day.

The Illusion of Control

My family gathered tonight to watch Kung Fu Panda, the first one, at my insistence. It was advertised with a trailer in a different movie the kids had watched in the afternoon, and I had the urge to see it again. (No my kids did not watch TV all day. Today was the last day of camp and they happily spent it shooting off home-made rockets and having a picnic. The day was simply perfect for them.)

There are many things to love about Kung Fu Panda including Jack Black's excellent performance as Po, the cinematics, the nod to all those 70's kung fu movies starring Bruce Lee (yes, I watched them as a kid and adored them). I was wanting to see the comedic parts because I love them and laugh at them no matter how many times I see them. (A giant panda butt squashing the super evil terrifying bad guy's head over and over? Come on. Pure gold.)

But I also found myself enjoying the quieter moments, the beautiful scene of the wise old turtle leaving his student in a swirl of peach blossom petals and stars, to fend for himself and find a way to teach the Dragon Warrior what he needs to know. Of course the in-your-face message in this movie is "Believe in Yourself". Believe you can and you will. Believe you are, and you will be. It's easy to pick that one up since a lot of kids' movies spout it, and it's not a bad message. Just overdone, sometimes. It becomes white noise.

What I heard tonight was the other message the turtle had for his student. "Give up the illusion of control." He used the example of the peach tree to illustrate what he meant. You can't make the tree blossom or put forth fruit when you want it to. It will do it when it's ready. You can make the fruit fall or pick it, but even if you plant the seed, it will still grow into a peach tree no matter how you might demand it become an apple tree.

Some people spend all their time regretting they didn't plant an apple tree. Some people spend all their time trying to make the tree flower, or fruit, anticipating what will come, and impatient it hasn't already happened. Or worse, worrying that something will happen to the tree and making themselves upset over something that may never happen.

Some things are beyond your control. Stop regretting not having an apple tree, and wait patiently for the peach tree to show you it's beauty. And in the present, enjoy the shade.

Snikt! Bamf!

Have you ever had someone ask you the question: If you could have the super power of flight or invisibility, which one would you choose? You can only choose one; no switching back and forth. Each power is only that; no super strength or telepathy included. This question is supposed to tell you something about yourself depending on how you answer.

People are not asked to explain why they themselves chose what they did, but even if you don't ask they will almost invariably choose and then explain why. Some are practical about their choice, "I'd choose flight so I could avoid rush hour", and some are very blunt, "If I was invisible I'd never pay for anything I wanted again, I'd just take it since no one could see me". But regardless of how the power would be used, we all feel a need to explain.

Over the last two nights my family has watched an X-Men Marathon, movies one, two and three, in succession. This was precipitated by my husband, who didn't have any special agenda, except that he saw reviews coming out for X-Men: First Class and got bitten by the bug again. Our elder son had not seen them and upon hearing our descriptions of some of the scenes he was excited to watch.

My elder son, as I have said, talks incessantly during movies unless made to hush. But he had some interesting questions this time around due to the plots of the various movies; what is it that makes people human or mutant, why do people on both sides hate each other, and why don't they realize there are good and bad folks on both sides?

Trying to explain human nature to ourselves, let alone a twelve year old, is a difficult task. Why do some people want to attack those who are different from them selves, while others seek unity and peace? That question is eight thousand years old and hasn't been solved yet.

You can see the strong parallels between the hatred and fear of mutants and the search for a "cure" in the Marvel world, and the persecution this world doles out to those it comes to hate or fear. My elder son pointed out that Magneto and his family were persecuted by Nazis when he was young; why didn't he understand that to turn around and do the same thing to humans was making him into the very thing he despised? That by claiming to be of a "superior race" he was emulating the Nazis that had torn apart his life and the lives of millions of others?

Because he was still only human, even if his DNA allowed him to control metal. Heady stuff, for a twelve year old. I still don't know if he understands it. I don't completely understand it myself. What I do understand is that these stories are apocryphal tales that reflect our current fears and hopes; the characters may change over time, but the underlying stories are always the same. How to fit yourself into the world around you in the best way possible, and how to help others do the same. And to have fun during the whole experience that is life.

I'm still trying to decide on what power would be the most fun to have, and I'm not limiting myself to flight or invisibility. I'm a lover of variety; I think the best power to have would be the power that allows you to "borrow" other powers for a brief time. That way I'd never be bored, and always have a surprise up my sleeve. It was close though...I almost chose SNIKT! and BAMF!

Gone Bananas!

This week, I have the whole house to myself all day, for five days. The kids and Dad are at a scout day camp, either attending or helping out. It's the second whole day and I can still hardly believe it.

Now don't get me wrong, I love my family even when they mess up the house, yell over whose turn it is on the Wii, and throw their stinky socks all over the house as if they were tossing pennies in a wishing fountain. But I am one of those folks who occasionally needs alone time to fully recharge again. And when I mean alone time, I mean completely alone and unreachable. No kids shouting for Mom to find their underwear, no cell phones ringing, no TV, no nothing. I'm also one of those people who is perfectly fine being alone with myself, and if it weren't for my need for food and water (and occasionally sunlight) I'd probably be a complete recluse. Complete alone time has been very scarce since the birth of my kids, so I cherish it, even if it's just a short drive to the store to pick up something to eat.

Now you know how I value my solitude, and why I'm so geeked about this week.

Yesterday I tore up my closet swapping winter clothes for summer. And that was very satisfying, even if half the pile of summer clothes doesn't fit any longer (Ouch, time for a reduction in sweets, methinks). I also tore up my big ol' yarn box digging out cotton yarn, of which I have loads, in order to knit and/or crochet spa cloth sets. Now it's all in neat lines next to the bed while I try out a pattern. Why spa cloths? I dunno, it seems like a summery thing to knit. There's a local church festival in two weeks that will feature some crafts for auction; I think I had this half-formed idea to contribute, but as usual I left myself way too little time to get enough done to matter. Eh well, doesn't keep me from trying, and if I miss the date they still make cool gifts.

I dug out some beads, although I still have to dig out the bead box to really peruse my collection. Having made approximately two bracelets and one set of earrings in my life, the collection of beads I am slowly building up is optimistic at best; I think of it as storing up potential crafting for the future terror of boredom. When I finally decide to go on a beading bender, I want to go in a big way, with a massive selection of beads almost burying me at my crafting table.

Whispering sweet nothings to me are the twin, almost related, crafts of soap-making and candle-making. I've done melt-and-pour soapmaking and have a small collection of fragrances. Candlemaking I have yet to try, but how hard could it be? You melt stuff til it's hot and pourable and pour it in the mold, just like the soap. Except it's wax, which is a little harder to clean up if you spill. Note to self: put down plenty of newspaper before pouring candles.

The last two days have been scorchers so I've mostly been staying in, with quick trips out to water my garden which is going gang-busters, except for the cucumber plants. The first one was destroyed by hail and the second by wind. I think I'm being told cucumbers are not to be raised by me. Fine. I can take a hint. My squash and zucchini are showing every sign of taking over the garden anyways, so nyah nyah cucumbers.

Today the black bananas went into banana bread despite, or maybe because of, the heat. Another day and we'd have had banana wine. Mixing by hand wasn't so bad, but then, it wasn't a cookie dough. I'm just going to have to bite down and order mixing bowls to replace the ones ruined in the oven. I miss my mixer.

Yep, I'll order the bowls, and maybe a presser foot for my sewing machine. I like the hemming foot I used in sewing class, but my machine didn't come with one. And that flannel cloth is just calling to me this week. Although the thought of flannel in this heat has me cringing.

Yes, this week my solitude is full of possibilities. And maybe a side trip to get a slushie or two to wash down the banana bread.

Long Live The Claw

The blog may be quiet for a few days, I hope you all understand.

My grandfather, after ninety-four long, loving and memorable years, left this earth to be with his beloved Lucy last night at 3:30AM EDT.

I'll miss you Grampa.

Generous to a Fault

Today I found out my elder son took a twenty plus about another twelve dollars in smaller bills from his piggy bank to the YMCA day camp he attends with his brother. Today was a planned trip to the roller skating rink, and he knows what's on offer there; junk food and arcade games. It was a disappointment he did not ask his Dad or I if he could take the money, but not really a surprise. He's learned that if he doesn't ask, he can't be told no.

Once there he gave a dollar to his brother and another to a "friend" who promptly told another kid, who then went over and asked my son for money. Luckily a camp counselor intervened and prevented him from spending the twenty on top of the twelve he had already spent by then, or I'm sure the other beggars, er I mean kids, would have bled him dry. The first we heard of it was when the counselor called us to ask if we had given him all that money.

Needless to say I was annoyed. And doubly so when he attempted to explain his taking money without asking as, "I was hungry!" I guess he forgot we pack him a generous lunch every day. Oops. It was obvious the junk food was more of a draw.

I like and admire generosity in my child. It will serve him well, as long as he can tell the difference between being generous and being taken advantage of, as he was today. I could easily slap the other kids who played him like a fiddle, but it isn't their fault, they did what kids do when faced with a peer who has goodies. Beg, whine, threaten and plead until they get what they want, much like they do with their parents. Only my son has no authority to stop them once he puts the goods out there, and he has a definite weakness for wanting to be liked. A truly bad combination.

My son received a lecture, from both his dad and I, on being generous versus being used, as well as the merits of letting your parents know your plans ahead of time. His piggy bank is being held by his Dad and I so he will need to ask for any funds from now on. I am considering confiscating his brother's as well so no behind-the-scenes manipulating can go on, which I have caught before. We're all treating this as a teaching moment, a lesson in fiscal responsibility, and more will be coming.

And I am very generous with my lessons.

Attack of The Claw!

My maternal grandfather was an instigator, when I was younger. My grandmother would finally have the five of us, (cousins and sibs) lined up, sitting quietly and behaved on the church pew, when he'd poke one of us with a finger in the ribs, eliciting a squealing giggle, a wriggle, and then the whole bench would dissolve in wiggling kids.

Or we'd be watching TV and The Claw would make a sneak attack, causing the kids to shout with glee and tumble over him in retaliatory attacks, drowning out the show my grandmother was trying to watch. I occasionally use The Claw on my own kids, to similar effect.

At the beach he'd beckon us into the water, hold out his laced hands, and when we put a foot in he'd fling us backwards into the deeper water to our shouts of delight, ignoring the admonishing calls from my grandmother.

It wasn't just us kids he teased. My great aunt was a target as well, but she gave as good as she got. Often my three cousins and my sister and I would sit and watch the flurry of good-natured insults and verbal pokes fly back and forth across the room with the speed of a Wimbledon tennis match, a few causing us to roll on the floor laughing. Their eyes were always sparkling as they put on the show for us, both of them superb in front of an audience.

My grandfather was a natural entertainer, and his grandkids were his willing audience, although really, he'd perform for almost anyone. As much as he teased and tickled, he was also curious about the world, reading science magazines and history books, and informing us every now and then of some important fact he'd learned. He never went to college, instead getting a job at Worcester Pressed Steel and working hard through the war until he retired from the factory. He couldn't be a soldier; he was rejected because he had epilepsy. But he could still work for the war effort, and  he bore the scars of a couple fingertips lost to the presses to prove it.

He shook the hands of both John F. Kennedy and Robert Kennedy, when they visited Worcester Pressed Steel. And he swore he would never shake the hands of any other politicians that visited there, as they always seemed to be shot after meeting him. As much as he liked to joke, I don't think he was joking about that.

My grandfather had a pure and true sweet tooth, and could lay out a spread of desserts and snacks like no one else I knew. My cousins and I once watched him put five teaspoons of sugar in a six ounce cup of coffee. "Gee, would you like some coffee with your sugar, Grampa?" we'd laugh. "Whaddya mean? It's good this way," he'd say with a wink. One night when I was staying over I was sitting watching TV when he walked in with a couple snack trays, one for me, one for him. On each one, EACH one, was: a mug of rootbeer, frosted of course, a large bowl of freshly popped buttered popcorn (real butter melted on the stove, not the fakey stuff they put in the microwave packages now), a half a large milk chocolate bar, Hershey's Symphony I believe, and a full bowl of ice cream, with chocolate sauce. And then he asks me if that was enough for me. If I was a family of four, maybe. I ate all of it.

I am an instigator, a poker and tickler, a joker, and a pure sweet tooth as well, and I know I get some of these from him.

Lately he's having a bit of trouble waking up, though he smiles and seems to recognize most of us. Sometimes he will say a word or two. At ninety-four, his was a life longer and healthier than most, even if he did break a leg by being stubborn and wanting to pick up his own paper, and crash the car coming to pick up his stranded granddaughter in a snowstorm (no one else knew that except he and I, and now you). He's had a couple of close calls recently, but he always rallied, because he liked to put on a show for the nurses. Not even the nurses are getting a show from him now.

You've left me with a lot of fun and loving memories, Grampa. I only hope I can do the same for my family. The Claw with the sweet tooth will live on.

Things That Go Bump In the Night

Now that my internet is behaving again (at least for the moment), I can catch up on weekend happenings. Just as I was about to post on Friday evening my internet crashed. Boo! And it wasn't even raining. I swear Comcast does it on purpose just to keep you guessing.

Friday was a bit of relaxation day because I had caught up on my required five job contacts for the week. I always leave it last minute because I hate it and it depresses me. The internet job boards are idiotic and show you things either way out of your knowledge or lump you in Sales. As has been stated here before, vehemently, I hate sales. At least, sales for things I am not passionate about. If it was handmade soap or yarn, I'm sure I could sell ice to an Eskimo.

Saturday we planned to visit the local cemetery with my son's cub scout pack and plant American flags on the graves of veterans. This went off without a hitch although it was windy and cool and the ground was hard as a rock in some places. I said hi and thanks to everyone whose grave I gave a flag to, even if their ground was stubborn. But I expect vets to be tough.

It was earlier than my normal rising time, but the sun was bright and the day was clear. My fingers were getting blisters by the end of it, but it was a small price to pay. I was working on even less sleep because that morning at 5:30AM I was woken out of a dead sleep by the feeling of little legs crawling on my LIPS. Yes, on my lips. I was dead asleep, dreaming even, and in two seconds I was wide awake flailing around in my bed, barely keeping from yelling. I never get up that fast, ever. But for bugs crawling on me, I am awake before I know I am awake.

It was a moth, medium-sized grayish brown. I see these all the time in the summer and they usually get in and beat themselves senseless against the skylights at night, keeping me awake. This was the first time I ever had one crawl across my face before. It was the grossest thing ever. It flew onto a window ledge but rather than pursue it I rolled over and covered my head with a sheet, muttering curses on it and its ancestors and descendants, if any. In the morning it was gone.

We've caught and squished three so far this weekend. They kind of blend with our carpet. But only once did they dare to trek across my face. Little monsters.

Sunday was preparation and shopping for my elder son's birthday. He is now twelve. I remember twelve. Now I feel old. My son begged me to make his cake for him, and since that suits a one-income household better (and generally tastes better too) I obliged with a simple chocolate two-layer covered in candy sprinkles. I even wrote happy birthday and his name without making it a cake wreck either (misspellings, running out of room, etc.).

I am very proud to say that the majority of my son's gifts were books. He reads voraciously, staying up late with a light under the covers, losing track of time, books scattered around his room, all of it. Just like I used to.

On Saturday evening my husband and I put Stephen King's The Stand on Netflix and watched the first episode. We saw it when the miniseries first played on TV back in the early 90's. I can remember liking the whole thing, except for the increasingly cheesy portrayal of the Walking Man. I suppose in that decade there was only so much they could do with special effects, but he was much scarier in the book. I still like to watch the stories of the other characters though.

The first episode has already inspired me to reread the book itself, a 900+ page tome which I finished in five days on my first reading of it, when I was fifteen, I think. My father was an avid collector of Stephen King novels, and I would read them as he got them, reading them off his shelf during the summer. I had to read quite a few to catch up to my father, he was always getting a new one. But King had a style I found impossible to be distracted from for long. 'Salem's Lot was the first Stephen King novel I ever read, and that was so scary to me I wore a cross around my neck for a year after that. I believe I was thirteen or fourteen. The 'Salem's Lot vampires will always be the "true" vampires to me. No sparkly romantic nonsense in King's monsters. These were demons, they were out for souls, and the vampire hunter was the true hero.

Then I tried The Shining. Even scarier. Isolation, madness, and psychic powers? Plus a  hotel that's trying to kill you? Awesome. By then I was well hooked.

Imagine my excitement when I found out that  the Stanley Hotel in Estes Park, about an hour or so drive from our house here in Colorado, was the hotel that inspired King to write The Shining. My first impulse was to rent a room and stay the night. Is this the right thing to do for a person who awakens out of a dead sleep at the merest tickle of bug legs? Because the Stanley is genuinely haunted. The Ghost Hunters have it recorded (whatever you think of them, I don't think they fudged that one, they had no need to. There was too much going on, haha). Not to mention the people who work there and see things nearly every day. The thought excites me.

If I were a character in a horror novel or movie I'd be the one going to look for what made the noise, or going hunting for the monster. I probably wouldn't live long, but it'd sure be exciting, hunting the bump in the night.

How Does Your Garden Grow?

The dish planter out in front of our house, which sat empty all last season (at times upside down in the shrubs if wind happened to catch it) now holds a bright red geranium, three plants with tiny violet flowers, and a sweet potato vine. I was somewhat undecided in picking out the plants initially, but they do look good together and once they fill in they'll look like they came that way from the store. And all for about the same money as the pre-planted pots at the garden store, except I chose the plants I wanted. Hooray for overcoming indecisiveness and making use of what you have. I'm proud of myself.

My interest in gardening and digging in the dirt goes straight back to my mother and father. My mother kept houseplants and regularly transplanted them. I remember sitting at the table as she spread out newspapers, put gravel in the bottom of a new, larger pot, and carefully lifted the plant from the old pot. The smell of the potting soil was rich and pungent, and I observed my mother's hands, dusted with loamy dirt, carefully separating pot-bound roots and setting the plant in its new home, firming the new soil around it. She regularly watered and fed her plants, and they flourished, except for the christmas cactus which refused to flower again after the first year. But those plants are notoriously fussy. Our houseplants ranged from cacti to mother-in-law's tongue to jade tree plants, with others making appearances now and then as interest waxed and waned. I remember the windows on the sunny side of our house being almost unreachable due to the plants set near the window on stools or on sills to catch the light. Every Saturday was watering day. Our house was green inside, and that seemed normal. Other people who had few plants or none seemed unusual to me.

My father also grew indoor plants, but his true forte is as an outdoor gardener. He grew up on his grandfather's farm, a true working farm with cattle and crops; they made their own wine. My father's first love is the tomato. Wherever he's lived, if it had a yard big enough and sunny enough he'd grow tomato plants. And not just one or two. Ten or twelve of them at least, each one with soil carefully mounded at the base in a hill to hold water, and a stake set into the soil beside them as they grew, for the vines to climb up. Carefully and lovingly tended, the tomato plants could easily grow over our heads, and the rich green smell of the vines with fruit ripening on them is still one of my favorite scents.

One day when I was nineteen or twenty my stepmother came running down the stairs frantic; my two year old brother was nowhere to be found. It was summer and the front and back doors were open, the screen doors easy for a child to push open. He could have been anywhere. My father ran out the front while I went out the back. Two steps out the back door and something prompted me to turn my head, towards the tomato garden. There was my brother, in nothing but a diaper, holding two huge red tomatoes as he walked towards the house. It made me laugh, which startled my brother into dropping the tomatoes, but we grinned at each other. We both loved Dad's tomato garden.

My father still has a garden, and tomatoes still dominate it, though he adds cucumbers and eggplants as well as peppers, and sometimes lettuces and radishes. I try to emulate him with my small garden of three or four plants, with varying success over the years.

My aunt and uncle had the ultimate garden, at least to a kid. It was huge, probably an acre if not more, with everything from sunflowers to peas, broccoli, lettuces, beans and carrots. There were tomatoes, cucumbers, herbs, eggplants, cauliflower, corn...and probably much more that I simply missed. My favorite memory is of pulling up carrots, washing them at the outside spigot, and eating them immediately. The garden was a source of fresh, good food, which I did not realize at the time. It just seemed normal to me.

Woodchucks had nothing on my uncle. I remember he shot two in one week that decided to raid the broccoli plants. I did not at all feel sorry for the woodchucks. They trespassed and were eating food planted by my uncle and meant for us. Any other invading animals met a similar fate; my uncle was not intending to share with the wildlife.

My father had a similar mindset, but he was not a gun owner. One year, after planting a tomato garden at my grandmother's house, his ripening tomatoes kept mysteriously disappearing overnight. Fearing a raccoon, my father took a baseball bat and sat out, hidden in the plants, waiting for the critter. The culprit proved herself to be my great-grandmother, who lived downstairs from my grandmother. She loved fresh tomatoes too, and had been sneaking out at night to filch them. I wasn't there for the confrontation, but I always wished I was. It would have made a great addition to the comic reel running in my head.

Last year I bought plants for my sons, one each, to plant themselves. My younger son also brought seeds home from school for the summer that exploded all over the garden with wild abandon. I fully intend to pass on this love of digging in the dirt and watching green things grow. There's always been something more than satisfying about eating food you grew yourself.


And even if your tomatoes don't turn out quite the way you hoped, you can always have a rotten tomato war in your own back yard.

One Who Patiently Endures

Some time ago one of our favorite priests gave a sermon about "patiently enduring" the trials and tribulations of life. This priest is one of our favorite priests because he is a self-admitted geek and thus he uses references from the Lord of the Rings to Star Trek to Star Wars and everything in between. He really connects with us as we are also self-admitted geeks and we love it when he is running the Mass.

During this sermon, he mentioned that the true meaning of the word "ninja" can be translated as "one who patiently endures". I thought this was kind of neat; a priest who is fascinated by and has studied ninja, being just as geeky over them as I could be. I'm definitely not a Ninja vs. Pirate person...I'm more of a Why not both Ninja and Pirates? Together? Battling enemies while sailing aboard a steam-driven airship over a post-apocalyptic zombie-ridden alter-earth?

Okay my inner geek got away from me there, but you have to admit (if you're a geek too) that it's a cool scenario.

We quite recently found out this priest is leaving us, and going to a church in an adjacent town where his ability to connect so well will definitely be huge asset. The congregation will be college students and young families, and they I'm sure will quickly see his merits and come to love him as we have. It still sucks though. Every time we get a cool priest he's moved somewhere else on us, or at least it feels that way to me.

A vague idea I had after listening to his ninja sermon solidified when my husband leaned over and told me I had to complete the idea before he left in June. And so I did. He was surprisingly easy. The difficult bit was the throwing star made of embroidery floss. That gave me fits until I just set my teeth and did it come hell or high water. A small hook and extremely thin threads do not a happy person make me. ("Ninja" from Christen Haden's Creepy Cute Crochet)

I am a crochet ninja. Fear my steel hook.

A Flood Only a Mother Can Clean

Oh, it's raining again. Yippee?

Well, at least the grass is thick and lush and green. Rain has to be good for something, right? At this rate the lawn will have grown well past my knees before it can be mowed again. The impending snowmelt, which has been delayed because of unseasonably cool temperatures, has people worried here in Colorado. Our snowpack is already well above a hundred percent of normal, and every time it rains in the foothills it's snowed in the mountains. We do have normal seasonal temperatures approaching rapidly though (yay!), and that snowmelt will shortly be in area rivers and creeks, likely making them top their banks a bit. I doubt it will be close to the flooding along the Mississippi, but some areas that saw wildfires are going to be a concern because they'll have nothing to stop soil erosion and mudslides if there is even a minor flood.

At home I have a slight concern of my own; I heard water dripping somewhere  up near the swamp cooler in the roof. It might have been tapping on an air vent, but I couldn't be sure. I couldn't find any damp spots in the plaster on the ceiling, but there's an old stain there from a previous problem, which is ominous. For those of you who don't live in a dry climate; a swamp cooler is an air conditioner for the desert, of which Colorado is considered high desert/plains. You run a water line up to your roof, which is connected to a machine that looks like an external air conditioning unit. The water drips from the line into the machine, which drips the water onto pads, then uses a fan to circulate the water-cooled and now-moist air down into the house. I was a skeptic when I first moved here, but it works really well and even better than a conventional air conditioner by putting some moisture into the air. Unfortunately it now might be the case that some flashing around the base has been damaged or pulled up by storms and is now allowing rain to leak into the roof. Priority number three, I guess.

The youngest spent the day at home with Dad and I, mostly watching cartoons and playing his DS. He insisted he wanted to go to school, but he threw up last night at bed time and the school rule is twenty four hours. After he finished yacking up his day's intake of toast and water (all we would let him have), he expressed surprise I cleaned out his bucket so quickly. Yes, a bucket next to his bed saved the day and the carpet. Even his Dad expressed surprise at how fast I cleaned it out. No surprise to this Mom. I have had plenty of practice.

Our youngest is unfortunately a yack-machine. He's thrown up more times than I can count or remember; I just know it's unusually often. I can't decide if he's got a weak stomach or is extremely sensitive to nausea. Most of the time the rest of us are unaffected. We eat the same foods he does, he washes his hands well and is clean, I am very aware of expiration dates and we eat nothing that's even mildly suspect. Yet he keeps out-vomiting us by a ratio of three to one. We suspected it might be his medication; the doctor torpedoed that today by saying it was more likely taking it would make him sick than not taking it, like the last two times he was sick.

I think I've narrowed it to possibly hot dogs, raisins, or an overload of heavily flavored chips, all things he had before he got sick. But, understandably, I am hesitant to test my theories. I think what I'll need to do is throw out all the "bad" foods and restart with some gluten-free, nitrate-free, sugar-free foods. All of which will be very traumatic to a kid who loves Chicken McNuggets, Toaster Strudels, and Gummy Bears.

But I think I've reached my limit for speed-cleaning the puke bucket now.

They Don't Make 'Em Like They Used To

Today was a busy day, what with dentist appointments for the elder child and I, the younger child developing a stomach bug and getting sick in the two equally lovely ways you can get sick with that condition, and the husband going to see his doctor.

The younger child being sick caused somewhat of a logistical snag until Dad volunteered to take him with. Well, he didn't really volunteer; I pointed out how, since I was going to be in a dentist's chair with air and water hoses and electric toothbrushes jammed in my mouth, I would not be able to stop any "antics" like yelling in the waiting room or running up and down the halls. Dad was going in for a consult basically and could put the muscle on if needed, though that was doubtful since he'd have eyes to watch every move the younger son made. A reasonable solution, which might have worked better if younger son hadn't gotten sick on the ride over. Luckily it wasn't too messy and father was seen without further incident. I had a pukey towel waiting in the washer for me as a souvenir of this little trip.

Meanwhile, elder son and I went to have our teeth cleaned and our gums poked mercilessly. They kindly removed a loose tooth my son had simply by plucking it out. My son was all grins after that. They even gave him a tiny plastic box to put it in, which was so cute I was jealous of it for a little bit.

I am not a person who is afraid of the dentist. I have been to good dentists and bad, and had everything from fillings to braces to root canals done, even some (shallow) fillings without anesthesia. Nothing has fazed me. Even the throbbing pain after a scraping with the metal instruments doesn't bother me. The reason I'm not bothered by this mild discomfort and occasional ache is because afterward, my tooth surfaces feel like glass under my tongue. I absolutely love that. That tells me my teeth are squeaky clean, polished, and ready to blind.

I'm not completely crazy; I'd rather avoid another root canal than have to lie there for two hours with my jaw cranked open, watching the dentist use a blow torch to heat a wire cherry red then stick it in my mouth (!!! no one told me to expect that, it was seriously interesting). I think he was fusing something or other, I wasn't really listening to his quiet explanation so much as watching where that red hot wire was going, or trying to. But I do admit I like my bi-annual cleanings and look forward to them, and I love the ever-changing technology that makes it easier and quicker than ever. Sonic toothbrushes? Heck yes, please. Gimme the new advances, I'll even try them out first.

Which all makes me wonder why, if we have such rapidly evolving technology, that cars seem to be made crappier and crappier. After the dentist I had to go pick up quarts of motor oil for my car, which was sounding like it had a dry throat, again, less than a month after I put oil in it. There is no spot in my driveway, the car is not burning oil, yet it's sucking the stuff down like free drinks in a Vegas casino.

I complained about this on Facebook, to which I got a slew of replies along the lines of, "Your car is broken, take it to be fixed." Which I did know, but was avoiding because I still don't have a job, and getting my 30-year old cracked and dissolving fillings replaced (before they poison me with something in them that seemed like awesome new technology thirty years ago but is now considered highly toxic) has become  the new priority.

I can remember several cars my family had over the years that never gave me the trouble this one has for the past four years. We owned a VW hatchback wagon, bright orange, and had it seemingly forever. The body rusted out long before the engine went; my sister and I used to get yelled at for poking in the rust patches in fascination. My father owned a Honda that was passed to my sister, and it literally had to be driven til it died, at the ripe age of fifteen. The body of the Honda rusted out long before the engine quit as well.

My family takes care of its cars with regular maintenance, and most of them, barring a few that were totalled in minor crashes (protecting their occupants superbly), lasted over ten years. It's been a struggle to keep this car on the road and running, even with regular maintenance. Its age? Nine years this March.

I love it because I know how it handles, and it has my aftermarket radio that I love in it, and because it was my first-ever car I bought new. But when it acts up it breaks my heart. I want this car to last me another six years, but at the rate it's going I'll be lucky to get two. It's a Saturn wagon, with those bouncy door panels that were so innovative and kind of neat, back in 2002. Awesome new technology! The factory where they made my car with pride is long closed and forgotten. A few years after that, Saturn itself was gone. My car, an instant if not-so-long-lasting classic. I need to put in a couple more quarts of oil tomorrow. At least the fiberglass door panels will never rust out.

They definitely don't make 'em like they used to.

Here Comes the Sun Part II

So this morning the grass was still squishing, but at least....yes....the SUN came out! I felt like going out into the middle of the cul de sac and dancing a sun dance with pagan abandon, but I settled for enjoying it while driving the kids to school instead. I'm sure the neighbors appreciated that.

Of course my youngest was thrilled because today was his school field day, and the school had brought in inflatable bouncy houses and slides. I don't remember those at my school's field days! The best I could hope for was not to throw up while doing the forehead-to-the-bat-handle and spin around it twenty times (Did you ever do that? It's funny as heck to watch everyone else do it and fall over dizzy, until it's your turn.), or break an arm doing the wheelbarrow races. Field days have gone carnival apparently. The bouncy structures were going to be available until five in the evening, but at about four a roll of thunder and some dark clouds appeared, causing them to shut it down early. Since we weren't able to get back to the school until then (had to pick up eldest from  his school), my youngest was sorely disappointed, especially since the weather didn't even then have the courtesy to oblige with a thunderstorm after that warning growl.

The dog was absolutely loopy all day, racing from one end of the yard to the other when he was let out, and he begged to be let out often. I didn't blame him one bit. You have to grab these sunny days when you can, lately.

I pulled up my bootstraps and went out and checked my seedlings; crushed, as I had envisioned. I don't even know if the cuke and squash seeds are still in their dirt mounds, or if the pounding hail and rain obliterated them too. Oh well, I guess this weekend I go fight the hordes for more. Only this time I go out early. Haha, I say that now. We shall see.

More wild animal weirdness; I saw three little gray squirrels when I came back from dropping my kids at school. They were playing on and around the fence separating our yard from our neighbor's, doing typical crazy squirrel stuff and scampering around jumping at each other. Then one breaks off to run across our yard, right up to my car door. Where it sits, looking around and looking cute, not realizing I'm less than a foot away staring down at it. I watched it for a few minutes, then had to break the spell by opening the car door. I had a brief vision of the little thing running in and going whack-bonk on me, running all over the car chittering, jumping in my hair, me screaming, like a Lucille Ball comedy, but it ran under the car instead. That's my inner life; one long comedy reel. People wonder why I might sometimes grin or laugh for no apparent reason? It's that reel playing. Smile, you might be the current star.

I'll leave you with a song that's been one of my favorites since I was two years old. Probably my first favorite, if we count such things. Thanks Dad.

Interminably intermittent internet

Apologies for missing yesterday. My internet was not allowing me to remain connected for longer than five-minute stretches, and while I can type fast, I can't type that fast. Comcast only decided to declare an area outage after we called them complaining this morning. And of course there's no clear reason why, and it just randomly cleared itself this afternoon. Maddening.

Yesterday it started out raining, moved into lightning, thunder and hail, and didn't let up all day. I have never seen it hail for twenty minutes, but it did. I'm afraid to go look at my seedlings; I know they're chewed up but my heart just can't take it yet.

My youngest was all excited about a tornado warning that popped, grabbing his teddy, his Nintendo DS, and his Calvin and Hobbes library books and hiding in the basement with his dad and I. It was exactly what I had done as a ten year old one summer in New England, except I somehow managed to stuff a sizable collection of stuffed animals and model horses into three pillowcases and lugged that downstairs. This was quite a bit before the days of handheld electronic devices. In fact it was a couple years or so before Pong (Remember Pong? I do.). You can tell a lot about a kid by what he chooses to save during a tornado warning.

The pictures are of some of the hail we got....yes it's hail, not snow, although it's four inches deep in the road.

Some of it was still hiding in the shadowed spaces under trees and bushes this morning, although that quickly melted when it started raining again.

This morning was my youngest son's spelling bee. I've been making him study all week, despite his protests that he's the smartest kid in the class. I'd also warned him not to cause a scene if he didn't win. He's extremely competitive and has Asperger's to boot, a combination that produces some impressive tantrums when he's handed something unexpected during his day.

He was more wiggly and uncontrolled than the other kids at first, but a quiet word from his teacher calmed him down and stopped the antics. She's a great teacher. He won the whole thing, as he predicted, and I was proud of him although I had to have a word with him about his poor sportsmanship. He attempted to tease one kid for missing a word, but a dark scowl and a head shake from me subdued him right away. For some things, I can badger him all day trying to stop him from misbehaving, but I've found that if I am truly deeply offended by something he's done and let him know it, it'll stop that behavior in its tracks. It takes a strong facial expression of outrage.

Yesterday when I picked up my eldest son from his school it was hailing so hard it sounded like gravel was being poured over the car. Today it was raining, heavily. My son got soaking wet twice in two days getting picked up from school. And I saw kids waiting in the pouring rain, offered seats in cars and refusing -refusing-, from middle school angst or dopiness or whatever. Actually, now that I think about it it was probably to guilt their late parents over how soaking wet they were, and get some extra video game time. There's no other rational reason I can think of to refuse a warm dry seat in a car, surrounded by plenty of other waiting parents who'd see anything untoward. Of course I've also seen these kids walking to school in a t-shirt and shorts in 20 degree weather so who knows. Better to look cool than possibly spare yourself frostbite and pneumonia, I guess.

I still have no job and no leads on one. The search continues, but now it'll likely be for part-time. I'm exploring the hand-made market, but with all the possibilities, I'm paralyzed by my knowledge. I know a little about a lot of things, but I'm a master of none. Am I good enough to sell any of it? Only time will tell. I think I have to sell myself on myself first, the toughest job of all.

No, I still haven't cut out the pj shorts pieces yet.