"I Vant My Bord"

 So, my husband is an animal person, and always has been. His family had dogs when he was little, and he helped take care of a lamb rejected by its mother. He's owned both cats and dogs. This led him to decide to become a veterinarian once he reached college, but as he explained, he hit organic chemistry and  zoology in the same semester and Had Enough. I don't blame him. Even though I enjoyed chemistry in high school, college chemistry and biology are orders of magnitude more difficult and the classwork, studying, and stress reflects that.

 Even though my husband embarked on a different path, he kept his love of animals, and exotic animals in particular. He owned a boa constrictor named "Cuddles" in college, and the love of the odd and different remained. While I also love animals, I tend to a nasty practical and realistic streak that lets me know my limits in no uncertain terms. I do love animals. I also know they eat and make messes. Some of them make rather large messes.

 My husband's exotic animal love and my practical streak have crashed head on in many cases; I have denied him the comforts and screaming hilarity of ferrets for years (they smell, they steal small shinies, socks, and keys, and they nip and climb unsuspecting people's legs, usually the nylon-stockinged legs of older ladies who really don't appreciate that sort of thing. Plus they cannot be consistently potty-trained, a huge NO in my house.). Reptiles smell, and their food sources aren't very cooperative, leading to stress and anxiety as one hunts for various rodents or bugs that have escaped into the house (note that it does not bother me to feed rodents to snakes...I don't find them cute and I'd rather they played outside where they belong). We had a couple of cats for a few years until we had kids and the babies got covered in hair simply learning to crawl (not to mention a catbox-discovery incident that my brain now refuses to let me replay in its entirety for fear of total psychotic break). We tried dogs, hoping to find a perfect fit for our kids so they could grow and play together, but I admit to a certain selfishness over my back yard and my desire to be able to run barefoot and free without the worry of stepping in a toilet by accident.

 In all fairness, the rescue greyhound we owned for a very short year was one of the best animals we ever had. Laid back, mellow, never barked or jumped on people, and just loved snuggling. He had a weakness for squirrels and would run away from you without a backward look if you dropped his leash, but overall a very good temperament. And he satisfied my husband's exotic animal craving. People always stopped him on walks or at the dog park to ask him about George. Despite my husband's normal reserved nature, he loves that sort of thing, the attention a different-looking animal brings.

 So now the focus is on exotic birds. My husband's always been fascinated by them, and the fact one of our friends is a raptor rehabilitator fueled the hunger. He's realistic enough to know we can't be raptor rehabilitators ourselves; that requires strong commitment, constant care, and space we've never had. But what about smaller exotic birds?

 Parrots. Specifically Macaws and African Greys, the ones who speak the best. When the persistent requests turned from ferrets to parrots, I knew this was the new obsession. And as before, I insisted on research, documentation, and knowing our limits before committing.  Parrots sure are cute, especially when they repeat your words back to you in your own voice. They can also scream at eardrum-bursting decibels when they want attention. Cockatoos are the worst.

 Parrots create huge messes. They poop every twenty minutes, and the bigger the bird, the bigger it is. They also have to try to eat fruit, nuts, and mash with a large hooked beak not ideal for the purpose. So they fling food across their cage, and across the room. They flap their wings for exercise, and preen out dust, dirt, and pests from their feathers, all of which gets dispersed into the air of the room where they are when they flap.

 If I sound less than enthused, I am. I am now allergic to most animals after living with cats so many years sensitized me (I still love cats, but I just can't be near them for long, alas). Parrots are bad for the allergy prone as well. And the cleanup, ah yes. I am the cleaner in our family. When we had a dog I washed his beds weekly, vacuumed, cleaned his cold weather coat. I did not have to scoop waste, but only because husband knew I loathed it. But still, I resented the yard being taken from me by that.

 Since I am still currently unemployed, care for the bird will mostly fall to me. And having done my research, I know the cleaning and feeding will mostly fall to me. When it isn't me who wants the bird in the first place, is it unfair or selfish to be resentful of basically being forced to care for one? Husband has volunteered at a rescue bird shelter, but they will likely want to foster us a bird as soon as possible, because they have so many and no space. It worries me we have no training and will likely be given little before we are dumped in, to sink or swim. This was done to us with a high-needs greyhound and we could not handle it. Or as my husband would say, I could not handle it. He was fine with puddles of pee on the carpet and floors soaking into the subflooring, the double poop in the yard, the double hair and mess. I was not. I am by no means a neat-freak, but I am sensitive to smells, and I like to be able to lie on my own carpets if I so choose without worrying I'm lying in animal waste. My husband is self-admittedly blind when it comes to dirt, and thinks I was overreacting. Some folks adore their animals no matter how many and what kinds of accidents they have. I adored my cats, and they were not innocent. But somehow, somewhere, I lost all my tolerance, and I just can't stand it anymore.

 Birds also require steady interaction and companionship, like most pets. It will be me. When I don't want it right now. I think it is unfair of me to commit to caring for an animal I don't want and will come to resent. No animal should have to deal with that, it's unfair to the animal. When the animal is loved and wanted, it blooms into a lovely, awesome, irreplaceable companion. I have had the privilege of being companion to a couple of cats where it ended up like that, and my memories are full of joy. But my uncertainty over a bird is causing a hesitation. I know my limits. I know I would resent the constant cleaning needed. Interaction would probably be hilarious. But would the joy outweigh the resentment?

This is what I am weighing on my internal scale. Benefits versus detriments. Clear lungs versus constant wheezing and sneezing. Clean walls and floors versus bird poop cemented on there for eternity. A bright eye and a wisecrack versus a silent house. Husband is trying to get some training to appease this anxiety, that it will all fall to me, and I am grateful for that.

Darn, those cockatiels in the pet shop are cute, with their little crests and bright eyes....

Oh Mickey Rourke, you bird-loving super villain, you.

Are We There Yet?

Eighteen more days! Eighteen more days (not including the weekends) 'til we have our new house and this current craziness ends....

...as Inigo Montoya said in The Princess Bride, "There is too much. Let me sum up."

So, since the craziness of August, what with our Colorado house sale having fallen through FOUR TIMES (mostly due to government assbaggery, big surprise), we finally managed to sign the papers and get that house sold to someone who really loved and wanted it. I am truly excited and happy for them, and relieved they loved the house enough to stick with it, despite the government continually trying to screw over one of its own soldiers. Alright, last poke at the government, I promise. It's not that I'm afraid of retribution, it's that I bore myself groaning and moaning about bureaucracy that really isn't going to change because I decided to whine publically about it. There are certain safeguards everyone needs when buying a house to make sure all parties are satisfied, and the government has more than most. They are SUPER CAREFUL. OMG CROSS THAT T OR YOU DON'T GET NO HOUSE!!!

But the house is finally sold, and now we get to buy a new one. We have already offered on one and been accepted; a lovely little home, older and smaller than our airy wood-and-stone sprawler in Colorado, but it's been remodeled and has no huge issues to deal with, just regular maintenance. Oh how I love those words, "regular maintenance". It could be because I tend to try to be efficient and economical, and truly take to heart the idea of keeping something in shape rather than letting it fall into disrepair and then trying to fix it. (If only I treated my own body the same way. But I digress.) Or it could just be that I love the idea of even having a home to maintain and call my own.

I will be so glad to move, for the second time this year, hopefully into a place we'll have for ten years or more. We're currently crammed into a two bedroom apartment 50 miles away from where we'll ultimately end up. The school year has started, so in addition to a work commute for husband, we have a school commute for the two kids. The schools are barely 5 minutes from the house we're buying, an awesome thing. But right now they're fifty miles from the place we sleep, and it sucks getting up at 5:30AM (which is really 5AM because my damn brain is like that...."OH 5AM, BETTER WAKE UP SO YOU'LL HEAR THE ALARM!" Bastard.), rousting the kids awake, eating, dressing, and getting on the road in the dark.

While my husband is at work and my kids are in school, I have the car and the town to myself. Now, for a week and a half this has been entertaining. I have explored the town (We have a Five Guys and an IKEA, woohoo! Not to mention a giant Hobby Lobby, but I try not to think about that too much because I can hear my wallet crying), found things I needed to find like the Post Office, the Library, and various supermarkets, and am learning cross streets and shortcuts, important for one such as me who has the general direction sense of a boulder. A boulder stuck in the ground that doesn't move much.

After a week and a half, with eighteen days to go, my enthusiasm is waning. especially with a daily wake-up call of 5:30AM. I spend most of my time in the car, or walking to and from it. Even when I can buy something without guilt, there's only so much time one can spend wandering around Hobby Lobby. Hanging in Five Guys does nothing for maintenance of my body, which as I said I tend to be lax on anyways. The Library parking lot is a great spot though. Trees to park under, mostly quiet, a cafe to duck into for snacks, and books. Their chairs are hard after a while. And I get weirded out at having to share a table with other laptop tappers. I don't know, it's A Thing, I'm working on getting over it. The car seems more private, even if I park as close as I can to the entrance, so I mostly hang out there.

I've also found a place to sneak a little wi-fi from, in another parking lot elsewhere, but I'm not revealing that one. It's my Secret Spot. Close to conveniences too. I could grab a quick nap in my car without too much trouble I think, but the idea of being observed unknowing while I slept....maybe not.

I listen to the radio sometimes, play games til the battery runs down on my laptop (I know I know, plug in at the Library....OTHER TAPPERS WATCHING ME), and knit. I almost have a sock done after starting it a week and a half ago, which is unheard of for me. Normally one sock takes a couple months. Boo yah, I've got my faster knitting secret. Be unemployed and stuck in your car = pair of socks in three weeks!

Time begins to drag now. I can taste my new house. The manner of decorations, the space for baking, the lovely hardwood floors. MY OWN BED AND BATHROOMS (Really, the Library bathroom is spotless, but industrial). I could take a nap in my house...almost anywhere. And no other tappers watching me.

Only eighteen school days. Eighteen droning driving days. Eighteen to bare feet, paint, canvas, and real food.

The Road goes ever on and on...

What a road it's been, this year.

I apologize to you, if any of you were following this blog previously. Things started to happen, not necessarily things I wanted to share, I was not right with the world and it was not right with me.

Over the past year I found another job, a job I loved again, and again it was taken from me. Laid off, through no fault of my own, along with more than fifteen other people in my department, and more in others. And the industry seems to be doing the same thing, over and over, in several companies. I am at this point highly wary of jobs involving my industry, and looking for other things to do.

Other things to do:

Soapmaking-  We went to the Ypsilanti Heritage Festival over the weekend, as an excuse to drive by our old MI house, and, through the whole arts and crafts setup, there was not one indie soapmaker. I see a niche.

Hand-painted canvas floor-coverings - We've offered on a house here that has hardwood floors. I don't want wool rugs, although those would be nice. They're very expensive and the kids would ruin theirs. Hand-painted canvas is durable and can be beautiful. I just have to learn the technique. And get the space to do it in. An apartment is not conducive.

Painting - I might be crazy, but I keep looking at this gorgeous August summer sky and wanting to paint it. How did I not see that Michigan clouds can be as beautiful as Colorado clouds?

Beading - I hoarded tons of beads when I worked at Michael's Crafts. I even started a necklace of mother of pearl and red coral, that got amazingly heavy, and that I never finished. Time to finish it, and make it a little lighter, damn.

Writing - Well, I've already started that, just now, with the blog, hah. If I have vivid, intense dreams, I try to remember and write them down so I can expand on them later. I have a few story ideas floating around, one I really like and am trying to decide how to approach. What I'm seeing from other writers is: just do it. Even if the writing's crap, do it, you can fix it later. Maybe I'll run my own little NaNoWriMo here in September. NaNoWriMoSept, just get it going.

I used to write, a lot, in high school and college. I think I mentioned that before. Long-hand, in notebooks, in pen. Kind of like George McFly, in Back to the Future. Like George, I didn't want anyone to see it until it was done. Of course, the stories were never done, because I thought they weren't good enough for anyone to read. Shy George McFly and me, living in a mysterious world few others chose to understand in high school.

But shoot, if Twilight and Fifty Shades of Grey can get published, maybe I can too. I'm not knocking those authors; it takes a lot of hard work to write a book, any book, and then get it published. But what those authors showed me is that there is a lot of leeway out there for what people like. If I can find a niche, like the soapmaking, maybe I can be happy with what I'm doing, make a little bit of a living, and not get laid off by some nameless faceless corporation looking to put profits over people.

At the moment my craftiness consists of knitting and crocheting. I love to make little flower-shaped washcloths in crochet lately. They go fast, help me learn the basic crochet stitches, and they are useful. Not to mention they help use up the hoard of yarn I've mysteriously accumulated.

I'm also working on a second sock of a pair, Grumperina's Jaywalker socks, in Madelinetosh Sock. I love the zigzag pattern and the first sock at least fits close and stays up.

I got yarn sent to me for my birthday to feed my addiction, some lovely colors and materials I might not have picked for myself but love all the same. Scarf? Cowl? More socks? The possibilities are limited only by my imagination.

And that's basically why I've started writing again. I have to do something, or my brain gets restless and circles on itself and starts saying, "Make, Do, Be....Something, Anything, or why exist at all?" I can't explain it, this need to create, to make something from other things, with my hands and mind. I just want to get on the road, and go, and see where it leads me.

The Road goes ever on and on

Down from the door where it began.

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet.

And whither then? I cannot say.

--Bilbo Baggins, "The Fellowship of the Ring"

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.