Would You Like Fries with That?

I try really hard not to eat too much fast food, but on certain days of the week when I am running from work to grocery store to home (to drop off the groceries) to meeting to rehearsal; I break down and grab a burger.  If I am really weak, I order "fries with that".  I long ago learned what a really good fry tastes like...and if I order them, my deal with myself is this:  If they don't taste excellent enough to risk losing 5 minutes of my life, I just won't eat them.

I used to work fast food.  That is how I earned my spending money in college - I night managed a place famous for it's specialty drinks that, unlike many of its counterparts, had a grill and deep frier.  I also had a boss who was very particular about his french fries.

To make a good fry:
1)  Do NOT use old grease.  Even STRAINED old grease.  The fries will get too brown before they are done cooking and people will complain that their fries are "burned".  Of course they will complain when their fries are perfect looking but not completely cooked; but if they are using a drive through, they are usually long gone when they figure this out, so what the heck.
2)  Get your grease HOT enough - otherwise the fries will be soggy and greasy beyond belief.
3)  DO NOT put fries and fish into the same oil.  JUST DON'T.
4)  Cook the fries LONG enough.  It takes around 5 minutes to cook a shoestring fry if you are using new grease that is the proper temperature...cutting down on the time to increase the volume of fries produced and served will not do anything for customer satisfaction.

To conclude: A Perfect Fry - one that makes me willing to take the risk of early death - is light golden brown.  Perfectly crisp on the outside and hot and soft of the inside, it stays hot until the end of the meal and tastes ONLY like potato without a hint of grease and with just a hint of sea or seasoned salt. Anything else just goes into the trash.

The fast food chain at which I "dined" last night - the same one that has been advertising their "new tastier fries" - completely missed the boat.  The "new tasty fries" were wrong on all counts - greasy, soggy, undercooked and within a minute, cold as well - all but two of them are now in the trash...

Holy Crap! What are you going to write?

My family found out well after the fact that I had a blog.  I did it in secret.  I didn't discuss it with anybody except my alter-ego, "my evil twin, Jennifer" who encouraged me in the name of sanity to write something, ANYTHING.  Jennifer felt that it would be healthy for me (I mean "us") to have a creative outlet.  She warned me not to tell anyone.

But I did.  Tell someone, that is.  I told the Bearded One.  About a month or so into it I was sitting at the breakfast bar typing.

"Email?" he asked.

"No, blogging," I replied, offhand and very casually.

"YOU HAVE A BLOG!???" he responded.  Obviously completely unconcerned at the prospect.  "I'll bet you spend all of your time bitching about your job and us." 
That last bit was a strict declarative sentence rather than a question in disguise.

Feeling the need to reassure him, I let him read a couple of entries.  Specifically this one and this one.
"Oh, that's cute.  But you didn't mention...." was his response.

I followed that up by reassuring him that I would remain anonymous, that I didn't WANT our relatives to know all about my writing as it really was creative rather than newsworthy, and that I knew VERY WELL that writing about employers could get one into deep, deep trouble.

Once knowing that I wasn't saying mean things about him, he completely forgot about the blog.  Everything about it.  Including the title.

On occasion, I do let him read an entry before I post it.  Usually when he is sitting the the room while I type.  He invariably has a few things of his own to add.  Which is fine with me.  My evil twin Jennifer tells me that he needs a creative outlet too.

By The Chimney With Care...

I am currently making a black Christmas stocking. Yes, I said BLACK. A truly festive color. And perfectly right for Stubble. In our family, we have a tradition of fashioning personalized Christmas stockings; thus The Bearded One's stocking with boats and airplanes. Mine was made my a much loved Aunt and as she made it when I was but a wee child, it has snowmen and mittens and stars...but I love it enough that I won't allow it to be replaced.

Stubble's stocking has been a bit of a problem. If I had made it when he was 5 it would have been loaded with Pokemon (um, he is 20 now and not a big Pokemon fan). At 10 it would have been filled with soccer balls (he hasn't played soccer in years). At 16 it would have been covered with cars - but cars aren't really stocking material once you get your license and your first car. I have had to wait a very long time to personalize his stocking. Finally, he seems to have settled into computers.

I showed The Bearded One the felt that I had squirreled away for the stocking. Red. Blue. Green. The Bearded One's eyes immediately went to the piece of black felt that I keep for putting felt on the bottom of things that should be felt backed but aren't.
"Black," he said.
"Black?" I asked, thinking how AWFUL it would look.
"Yeah, Black," he replied. "Think about it."

And after thinking about it for a few minutes it made perfect sense. Stubble, from the time he could express preferences made his known for black. With accents of gold and silver.,..

So I am making a black Christmas stocking. With a tower and cable and ports and CPUs and a flash drive.....

And it is black and sparkly and gold and silver, and you can read Intel on the CPU...

Merry Christmas, Stubble.   

If you look a little to the left you will also see a piece of the penguin stocking that I made for Ms. Flippers.

And to all a good night...

Us or Them

You either love them or you don't. There is no middle ground.  The haters find all kinds of excuses:  Too dry, too mushy, too old fashioned.

Fruitcake.

I can't imagine Christmas without one.  When I first left home I would beg my mother to include one of her church circle's fruitcakes among my gifts.  I would return to school with it and cut off a slice every now and then.  I would make it last as long as possible and enjoy every last bite.

The year that Mom announced that the "ladies" were too old to make fruitcakes was a sad one.  I begged her for just one fruitcake for me.  When that plea failed I asked for the recipe.  "It is in the old Betty Crocker cookbook, " she said.  One Betty Crocker cook book reprint later I tried the recipe.  Total disaster.  Not only did it not bake correctly, it didn't taste anything like those that the church circle made.  That was years before the internet.

Two years ago, I googled "fruitcake recipes" and got many hits.  I read them for what seemed like days and didn't find one that I really liked.  So I wound up combining two.  One was a "southern" recipe featuring lots of rum and brandy soaking.  And lots of molasses (I have always loved dark fruit cake).  The other was a recipe that featured LOTS of dried fruit...and none of the candied peel, candied cherries, or other traditional fruitcake ingredients.  It has proved to be a hit.

Soaking the raisins and currants for two days in Captain Morgan gives a lovely flavor with a little bite.  Adding a cup of strawberry jam keeps things moist.  The fruit is a mixture of dried cranberries, blueberries, apricots, mangoes, and cherries.  Oh, and 8 oz of citron.  I just love it.  And for a "non-alcoholic" mix, just substitute apple cider with lots of mulling spices for the rum...

Only the most die hard fruitcake haters will not join our ranks.

The Bearded One took one fruitcake to work on Tuesday.  Today he took two more.  two years ago I was making one batch of fruitcake.  This year it looks to be three..

Oh, Tannenbaum!

Last year we had a little problem with our cats, who were 3 months new to the house at the time.  I put up the tree.  They climbed it and crushed it.  No one little cat could have done all of that damage.  All three had to have been involved simultaneously.  The big tree went back into its box and back into the attic.  A HEAVY patio table entered the living room and a 4 foot tree was gaffer taped to it so as not to fall over should a kitten investigate...

Our first few Christmases together were as boyfriend and girlfriend and The Bearded One (yes, he was bearded, even then - if he wanted to leave without a trace, all he would need to do is to shave) was more than willing to indulge my Christmas silliness by driving to tree farms all over Southeast Michigan looking for a tree to cut.  After our marriage and a neighbor's disastrous Christmas Tree related apartment fire, we went artificial.  It didn't really feel right, but we were doing our bit to keep our neighbors safe during the holiday season.

Then we bought our first house (six years later).  On our first Christmas in the house, I came home from an evening shift to find a gorgeous LARGE Christmas tree in the dining area of the living room.  We had double high ceilings and the tree filled every inch of space allotted to it.  It was absolutely lovely.  The next year another tree appeared, this time a balsam that you could smell practically from the garage.  When the holiday was over the balsam was stripped of it's lights and ornaments and lugged to the curb for collection.  Leaving every single solitary needle in our white shag carpet (yes, we are that old).

Every time that we ran the vacuum that year, the scent of balsam permeated the entire house.  It got so that we hated the smell.  The following Thanksgiving, instead of travelling to visit family, we chose to stay home and paint the living room during the four day weekend.  Every time that one or the other of us stepped off of a ladder, we received balsam needles in the sole of the foot.  After the fourth or fifth time, The Bearded One firmly stated, "That does it, no move live, dead trees!"  I was in total agreement.

We hied ourselves off to the nearest nursery and decoration shop where we picked the biggest, fullest artificial tree that we could find.  It served us for many years.  When we moved to California (20 years ago), it quickly became evident that the tall, full, gorgeous tree was WAY too big for our new living room.  Off it went to charity and we found a "slim" tree that would better fit the available space.  In the interval between huge tree #1 and slim tree #2, quality was way down and prices were way up.  But it seemed that artificial was still the way to go as in Southern California, "fresh" trees were cut months ago and are dry as all heck.  There really isn't anywhere close by where you can go and cut your own tree on a lot so that you actually know the date on which it parted from its stump.  And even then, you don't know how much watering was done throughout the year.  Many years and many trees later, each one lasting just a few years less than the one that came before and costing just a few dollars more than its predecessor, we have a tree that is partially crushed and with lights on top that will  not come on. " Let's go buy a new tree," says The Bearded One.  "Yeah, there was this really great one with pine cones and snow at Home Depot!" says Ms. Flippers.  "Yeah, that one was awesome,!" says Stubble.

Except that tree is almost $300.  And there is tuition to pay and books to buy and cars to repair.

I decide that we will get ONE more year out of the old tree.  The Bearded One purchases a small string of 20 lights that we will use at the darkened top of the tree.  And while I am just beginning to string the new lights, a miracle occurs...the lights at the top of the old tree come on again.

I have The Bearded One bend the crushed branches back into place.  The tree is fluffed, decorated, and has one cat hiding under the tree skirt and another snoozing at the back of the tree, looking angelic with colored lights making patterns on the white parts of his fur.  The tree is, I think, happy to serve us for another year.  Or maybe two.

Christmas Past and Present

My Father would be over 100 years old this Christmas, if he were still living.  102 to be exact.  When I was little, he and Mom would put us to bed every night with "three songs or three stories".  I loved my Dad's stories about growing up on the prairie in the early part of the last century.  He lived in a world of horses and wagons, one room schools, and of general stores.  My grandmother ran a boarding house.  The family lived in what would have been the servant's quarters behind the kitchen.

My father's father was a Lutheran minister.  At Christmas he would leave his home carrying a bag of toys and fruit and visit the homes of his parishioners with children.  He would meet the children in the parlor where there would usually be a Christmas tree, lit with candles.  In this parlor, dressed in their very best clothes, the children would say bible verses for him, and if they had done well they were rewarded with fruit and a small toy (provided by their parents) said to come from Kristkindl (the Christ Child).  When my father told this story his eyes would light up and I would get a hug that was just a little extra tight.  I never knew my Grandfather.  He died long before my mother ever met my father, but his legacy lives on in  my enjoyment of all of the trappings of Christmas.  The enjoyment that I inherited from my father.
My father loved Christmas and all of it's 1950's trappings.  He loved going to cut down the Christmas Tree even though he would complain mightily about how long it took "his girls" to settle on the perfect one.  He loved playing Santa, dipping his snow boots in the fireplace ash so that "Santa's" footprints would be on the living room carpet on Christmas morning.  I would dearly love to know how he convinced my mother to allow ash footprints on her fancy wool rug.  When we were very little and VERY excited, he made us wait an AWFULLY long time before allowing us to come downstairs - enough time for him to attach the floodlights to the old Kodak movie camera so that he could record the finding of the footprints and the unpacking of the stockings.  He loved it all.  I think that I "believed" for a couple of extra years so that I wouldn't spoil his fun.

He loved cookies and carolling and church services hushed and candle lit. He loved the shopping and the giving (even though most of the presents were things that we needed anyway, just now wrapped in colorful paper).  He didn't even complain much about my mother's insistance on smoothing out and saving the larger pieces of gift wrap for the next year.  He loved throwing a holiday party with sledding, hot chocolate and cookies for his 6th grade Sunday school class. 

Every year I try to recapture the innocence and excitement that Dad so enjoyed.  And I often fail at it.  As my son has gotten older he takes less and less interest in the holiday preparations.  We call The Bearded One "the Grinch".  It is never as perfect as I remember or as I want it to be.  There are many reasons: In Southern California we don't get snow and to me, cars "wearing" artificial wreaths and shoppers wearing reindeer antler head bands just don't fill  the void.   The Christmas decorations and music are out in the stores practically before Halloween and that is just plain wrong.  I HATE the incessant TV advertising that pushes the giving of material things as a seasonal necessity.
This Christmas I resolve not to worry about what I cannot do and cannot relive:  Instead, I will celebrate in my own way.  I am tired of people telling me that I shouldn't get excited about what is after all, no matter what the merchants and advertisers think, a religious holiday.  I have NO Puritanical leanings and believe that I should be able to celebrate and feel joy and hope and not be somber.  I will decorate the house and enjoy every minute of it.  I will buy and wrap new socks and PJs because getting those things wrapped and under a Christmas tree IS more special than just being handed a plastic shopping bag...I will bake cookies for all of my neighbors, Christian or not, because I like them and don't want to eat dozens of cookies myself.  I will do what I can to spread joy around me.  Because it is Christmas and My Dad expects it of me.

Happy Holidays Everybody:  Happy Channukah, Kwanza, Solstice, whatever you celebrate.  Just enjoy it and your family and make the season joyful with a capital "J".
My Dad expects it of you.

let me count the ways...

Why do I love Tootsie Rolls?  Is it their chocolaty goodness?  Is it that they are never too hard or too soft for a good chew?  Is it that they bring back the feelings of innocent childhood where happiness could be had for a penny?
Yeah, all of that.
So it came as a huge surprise to me that in a Halloween candy survey, Tootsie Rolls were at the bottom of the list of favorites along with corn candy.  The corn candy thing I can relate to.  Corn Candy is colorful and good for garnishing autumn baked goods.  It is not good for much else.  Tootsie Rolls, however, are good for lots of things.  They are a handy snack that can be easily carried.  They taste much better (and are more satisfying than) a granola bar.  They do not crumble.  They work just as well as a strand alone candy as they do a candy center.  And best of all, they make Kitty Litter Cake realistic and truly disgusting.

dearest and best...

I have been writing this one in my head for a month now...9/11 made me misty and brought all kinds of memories up through the layers of consciousness...Stubble's approaching 20th birthday sealed it.  One decade, gone.  Two decades, gone.  When did it happen and what was I doing.

My friend who used to be a college roommate died 11 months ago.  She had battled non-Hodgkins Lymphoma for over 10 years - through remissions and recurrences.  I knew from a note that she sent, that the cancer had come back.  Again.  I had known for years that I would find out about her death when one of my Christmas letters came back unopened...still, it came as a shock to get last year's Christmas card back with the word "deceased" written across the front.

After I moved across the country, we rarely were in touch.  We didn't exchange phone calls or email.  She didn't sent Christmas greetings, but I know from getting together the few times that I have gone back, that she loved getting mine.  The few times we were together, it was as if we had never been apart.  I only saw her 3 times after moving, yet I still considered her my "best friend".

Maybe it was because she was my "Thursday night "girl's night out"" for dinner and a movie every week until I moved.  Maybe it was because she was the one who was my sounding board as I made the decision to move from childless by choice to mother.  Maybe it was because we shared the journey through undergrad.  Maybe it was because I went along as moral support on her first job interview and the subsequent apartment hunt when the interview was successful - I have never known a teacher to go on an interview and be asked to do a second interview with the school board president that same day and who was offered a job on the spot.  Maybe it was because and it was my kittens who kept her from sleeping for most of one summer by chewing on her ears and hair (she DID insist on the bed by the window...).  Whatever the reason, she had moved on with her life and probably had a new dearest and best friend, but I didn't.  And I am deeply sad knowing that she is no longer there, ready for dinner and a movie when I return.

All of these thoughts have made me sloppy and sentimental over the last month and I have googled many people from my past.  Yes, it is a little strange...but if I hadn't done the googling, I wouldn't know that:

• our friend the real estate agent who sold us our first house and her husband have retired and moved to the northeast.

• I wouldn't know that my former voice teacher has recorded two CD's (I now own one called Across Time - which is wonderful).  And she wouldn't have replied to my email with one of her own thanking me for getting in touch and reminding her of why she teaches.

• I wouldn't know that a friend who lost her husband (also our friend) much too soon, remarried and had another child.

• I wouldn't have read my dearest and best friend's obituary - which caused me to smile and remember - her great love of tennis, her wicked sense of humor, and her deep reverence for family.

Good bye, my friend.  There will always be a place in my heart for  you.

And for all the rest of you:  all the best for your future..you are in my heart and my mind - and I miss you all.  Even as I move forward.

lesson RElearned

We're going to get philosophical here for a minute - kind of.

I know better (courtesy of the Wall Street Buffoons) than to just type and hit send. I KNOW BETTER. I was speaking of this to The Bearded One just the other day. I should know this better than most because as well as being the offender on occasion, in the long distant past I was, on one memmorable occasion, the offendee. I received, courtesy of someone who "thought I should know what was being said", an email never intended for my eyes.

Yes, it hurt. Yes, it made me very angry. Yes, it permanently altered my relationships with both the original emailer and the forwarder...

So I should know better. But I am human and in a moment of ill considered lunacy, I sent a frustrated (and if you aren't the object of it, funny) email to a colleague - not realizing that it would be forwarded, first to another person, and then to the email's subject...

Now I am in the position of knowing that I owe someone a BIG apology for being heedless, tactless, and less than adult. I also know that I really can't bring up the subject. I am going to have to wait and stew about it until the injured party brings it up. Probably a really just punishment for me as I do guilt so well.

So I hereby resolve - NO EMAIL unless it is purely informational. If it is other than that it will be via phone (after assuring myself that the call is not being recorded) or in person (after making sure that the other person isn't wearing a wire).

Addendum

As requested by my (only) student worker this week:

You are the student worker who works "long hours down mill for tuppence a day" (to quote Monty Python, I think).

You are Moses, parting the sea so that the water walkers (instructional support)don't get their feet wet. You are giving up your last week of sleeping in, paint ball, laser tag, and computer gaming, to fill hundreds upon hundreds, nay THOUSANDS of plates and tubes of media (bacterial food). You are laying drip tubing in the 95 plus degree greenhouse. You are sweeping the floors because everyone from the facilities department is remodeling classrooms and striping newly resurfaced (last week) parking lots. You are eating nothing but noodles with butter (the cafeteria is not yet open).

And WHY are you the only student worker? Because the others who have been processed and cleared to work are either out of town or otherwise occupied this week. The rest are still in the process of having their paperwork processed or are waiting to add classes so that they have the minimum number of credits to work...

This week you are walking uphill both ways, into the wind, and it is snowing...

Thanks for everything, Stubble!

An Homage to Educators

I am at the end of the first week of the worst two weeks of my year.  The week before and the first week of SCHOOL.

If you want to believe the politicians it is when we sorry assed, lazy boned, parasites drag ourselves out of bed and say, "Ah, now for another year of sponging off the public and delivering nothing of value!"

Here is what really happens (part of it heavily fictionalized - you decide which parts are God's Honest Truth):

You are an elementary teacher, back to your freshly painted classroom.  That classroom was supposed to be painted during your summer break, but due to the vagarities of the purchasing system, the contract wasn't signed until July 15th and your room is in the last wing of the school to be painted.  How every single classroom is in the "last wing to be painted" is completely beyond me, but there it is.  The custodians cannot wax and polish the floors until the painters are finished and they will be doing this, working overtime, over the weekend.  Your locking, rolling, cabinet with all of your school supplies is still in storage and will be moved to your classroom late Sunday night.  Your pupils will be arriving, fresh faced and ready to learn at 8:30 AM on Monday.  Congratulations, you have 1.5 hours to put your classroom together!

You are the high school principal who finds that, due to a software "upgrade" over the summer, the computer did not catch the fact that AP Biology and the (required) Senior Civics course are BOTH scheduled for 6th period.  The entire English department has been scheduled for TWO planning periods, and the Sophomore Class has not been assigned any English at all (hence the TWO planning periods).  And the classrooms in the 600 wing are leaking.

You are the community college instructor, receiving frantic emails from students:  The school bookstore does not yet have their text books;  they are still on order from the publisher (who to be perfectly fair, did not receive the book orders until the end of June and has only printed 5000 Biology texts when 7000 are actually needed - STOP THE PRESSES and RE-PRIORITIZE!).  There are also the students who will be absent on the first day of class:  Their grandmother's funeral is on the other side of the country;  their return from deployment has been delayed; they are in the hospital and awaiting test results; Please, Please, Please DO NOT RELEASE THEIR SEAT IN THE CLASS!  If they are not in class on day one they will be dropped and you will then fill their seat from the waitlist. Day one dawns, registered students are dropped, ecstatic waitlisters are added and only then do you find that your email has now been changed from first letter first name/last name to first letter first name/last name/last two digits of the first year of hire by the college so none of the student requests got through.

You are a long suffering Division Dean at the local community college; while dealing with budget cuts, and parking shortages (CONSTRUCTION! - see elementary school example above) discovers, courtesy of the harried Department Chairs that several part time faculty members are not available to teach on the first day of classes.  Their fingerprints and/or transcripts have not yet arrived at Human Resources, plus several other part time faculty members have JUST recieved contract offers from other schools and will not be available.  Cancelling classes is not an option.

You are the academic administrative assistant who has been calling prospective instructors to see if they are still available - because of the aforementioned holes in the classroom instructor ranks. Most of them have moved out of state, or are already contracted elsewhere. Cancelling classes is not an option.


You are Instructional Support Personnel, who are supposed to have "everything ready to go", but the instructor informs you that as textbooks are not available, you will have to get publisher's permission and photocopy the first 5 chapters of the text for 300 of the 600 enrolled students, or substitute the week 6 lab exercise for the week 1 exercise. The fact that the week 6 supplies have not been ordered (they have a FRESH DATE!), and cannot be received in time, is but a small inconvenience - you can walk on water! You will be ready to go on day one! And you are.


You are a student, also in a tizzy.  You need THAT ONE CLASS to transfer and it was waitlisted on the second day of registration.  You have already been accepted by the University contingent of the completion of THAT ONE CLASS.  You are lining up at the door of the instructor's office, from where you will be sent to the dean's office, from where you will stride purposefully to the VP Instruction's office - seeking both an explanation of HOW THIS HAPPENED as well as an override admission to the already full class.  If you do not get the class, not only is your University admission in jeopardy, but you will be dropped from your parent's medical insurance because you will not be a full time student!

And in the final analysis, it is you, the student (and your parents) that we do this for.  We exist to give you the knowledge and skills that you will need to step out of our semi-isolated and semi-insulated world into the "real world" where you, if we have done our jobs correctly, will continue to learn and grow and ultimately be successful - and send your own children back into the system in their turn.

Happy Fall Semester to all of you!

Signs and Portents

"You can't stay at Ms. Flippers house.  There are boys there.  I'm coming to get you NOW!"

Let me start by saying that we have acquired a daughter, Ms. Flippers.   Along with that daughter, we have acquired her friends.  One of those friends spent part of the weekend with us.

Now, just like Stubble, this daughter is all grown up, as are her friends.  Who are very nice and polite and a great addition to our home and I say that without any sarcasm at all.

At about 10 PM on Friday night I was awakened (yes, we go to bed early; even on weekends) by sounds of voices in our driveway and the accompanying glow of the motion sensor lights...
Being a Mom, of COURSE I went to investigate:

"Why are you out here?"  It is Stubble and my second son from across the street.  They are sitting in the middle of the driveway watching the street.

"We're waiting for (nameless).  He is coming to get "daughter's friend"." they reply.

"Um, nobody is leaving this house.  Get back inside,"  I state in my best MOM voice.  They comply and we enter the house to find daughter's friend in tears, packing a bag.

"He won't let me stay!" she sobs.  "He doesn't trust me when there are boys in the house."

Well, these boys are my son and my second son of another mother.  They live here. (the second son on weekends).

"Nameless is going to take me home." she sobs.

I am more than concerned now.  "He isn't taking you anywhere.  Your parents know you are here and here you stay." I state.

At this point I wake The Bearded One saying, "Bearded One, get dressed - we are about to have trouble."

"Huh?  What?" was the sleepy answer.  But when confronted with the fact that a boyfriend was coming to "retrieve" his "property" he is up like a shot.

By this time Nameless and his drunken father are back on the cell phone.  They are in the neighborhood and demanding directions to our house.

The Bearded One takes the cell phone and intervenes,  "We are not giving you directions.  She stays here."

Then the threats begin.  They will break The Bearded One's neck.  They mean business.  This is all on speaker phone now.

I call 911 and report the situation.  The police arrive.  Two squad cars with very concerned law officers who are taking the situation very seriously indeed.

We spend an eventful hour giving a police report, drying tears, and calling the young lady's parents.

They are also taking the situation very seriously indeed.

The police recommend restraining orders against both the son and the father.

Domestic violence threatens more than just young children and wives.  It begins with the girlfriend at the very beginning of a relationship.  You have to be alert to both the dangers and the clues.

I had a friend from High School.  One of my "besties".  She ignored the signs, married the guy, and left only when the violence began to involve their children.

There is NOTHING romantic about this kind of controlling behavoir.  The possesiveness and threats will only escallate and we need to teach our children to recognise the warnings and get the hell out before it is too late.

Flake, multi-grain

Cereal.
Me.  Eating.  Cereal.

I'm not really certain how  this came about.  After my formative years filled with, "Breakfast is either Cornflakes or Cheerios."  I swore to never eat cereal again...especially oatmeal...except in cookies.  And here I am with a box of Special K and a bowl in my desk and a pint of  milk in the office  refrigerator.

Getting old is hell.

Just What I Always Wanted

When I was 6 years old all I wanted was a swimming pool. I didn't want much. Just a "large" above ground pool from the JC Penney catalog. When that summer catalog came I would go right to the sporting goods page. Two pages of above ground pools - ranging from 6 feet wide rounds to 10 by 6 foot ovals - coming complete with a pump and filter and ladder. My sister and I spent hours planning. It would fit right where our swingset and play yard currently resided. All we needed to do was to talk our parents into spending about $600. We took measurements. We could fit a 6 x 10 oval, but in the interest of economy, an 8 foot round would do just fine. We pleaded, we cajoled; all to no avail. It just wasn't in the budget. We lived close to many lakes. They just didn't see the need for water, easily accessable in the back yard.

Cut to 30 years later. I (along with my husband) was a home owner. With a backyard big enough for the pool. Of course the price was now about $2000 and we would need to cut down the two big shade trees in our yard to have the water, easily accessable, in the backyard. It wasn't happening.

Another 10 years passed. We now lived in California where "everybody" had pools. Our yard was too rocky to install an inground without blasting. "So what?" I argued, "It's only about $20,000." "We'd wind up cracking the foundation of the house!" replied The Bearded One. We compromised on a used above ground pool kit ($100) with a concrete pool pad to discourage burrowing animals ($3000) and a new ladder and liner ($300). We filled the pool and prepared to enjoy.

Except I was now too old to enjoy the brisk, cool water. My ankles ached, my knees ached. We had a pool, YES! But even in Southern California only used it a few weeks of the year, NOOOooooo!

Fast Forward another 10 years. On the orignal concrete pad we have a pool with an R-10 wall, a solar cover and two solar heaters. The pool is over 90 (it has hit 98 several times this week) degrees and is essentially just a really large hot tub. I use it every day - to swinm in the early morning (in a harness for fitness) and in the evening to cool off (hah!) after a long day.

Just what I always wanted.....
even better than the Camaro I waited 16 years to get - because the water would have ruined the upholstery.

-Special thanks to The Bearded One for editorial assistance

For a Few Dollars More

It was only a year and a half ago that we got rid of our fourth vehicle, "The Green Monster". Green Monster was a Ford Aerostar XL which had served us long and nobly while we renovated the house; transporting stone and brick and all manner of timbers and tile. Not to mention paint, toilets, and mortar. But the renovation was finished. We had 4 vehicles for 3 people and the insurance was expensive...

This last weekend we bought a "new" used vehicle. We had need for a fourth vehicle again...it is a dark green 2000 Volvo S80. Once a really high end car, it is now a plucky oldster soldiering on amidst the ravages of time and little people: Its 4 disc CD player jammed with WAY TOO MANY CD's and the back side window shades missing their trim. It is a well travelled vehicle, having begun service in Washington State, then moving to the San Francisco Bay area, then on to Hawaii and finally, back to California, but in the south of the state this time.

The engine and drive train are in really good shape, we were told. It was sold "As Is" we were told. We knew what that meant.

We wrote our check for a ridiculously small amount and drove directly to Discount Tire to replace all four tires, none of which were street legal. Then the work began: The owners manual was downloaded, printed, punched and 'notebooked". Goo Gone and a razor blade took care of the leftover glue from the decals that had been pasted over the headlights. Saddle soap reconditioned the worn leather seats. Burned out tail light bulbs were replaced. Floor mats were purchased to replace the non-existant ones. The windshield washer reservoir was refilled (only to find that there was a missing connector to the hose feeding the washer nozzles - the engine compartment has now been thoroughly washed). A battery in the second remote was replaced - now we have two working remotes. Other parts are on order (new headlight wiper assemblies, washer nozzle, rearview mirror...).

Thank goodness we (The Bearded One) have/(has) the ability to take care of all of the little things...

Thank goodness we have the funds to take care of all of the little things that will allow the "new" vehicle to serve long and well for many more miles.

LONG LIVE "LILYPAD"!

and What Shall Be His Name-O

We have a very "bad" habit in our house.  We name our vehicles.  My former (as of yesterday) car was "The Purple Bullet" named for the feeling that one got while riding at (very - for me) high speeds on the highways of Arizona.  On Ice.

The Purple Bullet was a wonderful car, just a bit small for us now that we no longer have the HUGE mini-van that we named "The Green Monster".  Why they call an extended body mini-van "mini" is beyond me, but Green Monster carried us and all of our renovation supplies without complaint for many years.  It carried 12x12 travertine for the kitchen and dining room, it carried .75 yards of dirt for fill around the pond, it carried timbers and bricks and pavers and rocks...and we sadly let it go to charity a year ago because 4 vehicles for 3 people is really an extravagance.

The last few family trips, however, pointed up the Purple Bullet's limitations.  Full of passengers, there was little space for luggage.  Trips to the boat required two cars because equipment/supplies/people could not all fit into one vehicle.  Sadly, the need for a larger carrying capacity was obvious.  If we were to get a decent trade in for Purple Bullet it had to happen now.

We now own something with carrying capacity (well, the bank and us).  But it needs a name.  One will come to us in time but for now, "He Who Shall Be Nameless" is just too evil to contemplate and with all due respect to Bob Seger, "The Silver Bullet" doesn't show proper respect for my former intrepid vehicle...

Plenty

This time of year it seems that every time the mail arrives (or email for that matter) there is another request for donations: Food Pantries, Toy Drives, Homeless Shelters. The list goes on and on. We pick and choose the charities that we donate to, looking for ones that do the most good in our own community: Preferably ones who operate with lots of volunteer rather than paid help. We do that so that our donations go the farthest toward helping those in need, because as we keep hearing, the need is greater than ever this year.

Need has always been all around us. We used to shop at a lot of thrift stores when doing theater, looking for props, costumes, or set pieces. But we were doing it for fun. And all around us we could see people for whom the thrift shop was their store of choice – out of necessity.

The Bearded One and I were discussing the huge amount of unmet need this year and deciding to contribute a little more than usual this holiday season and both of us remembered the exact same incident from many years ago:

We were looking for matching glassware at a Salvation Army Thrift Shop. Near the racks of men’s dress shirts were a young couple looking to be in their early to mid 20’s. They were looking for a dress shirt and tie for the husband to wear to a job interview. As they paid for their selections, the wife was looking at a rack of paperback books that stood by the cash register.

“Can I buy a book?” she asked wistfully.
“Yeah, you can pick one out,” he answered.
They were 25 cents apiece. When a single quarter is an issue of great importance, need is very great indeed.

I’m really counting my blessings this year.

Dust

This weekend was fun, Fun, FUN! We started putting the office and family room back together...which requires a little history. While the couch and TV have been up and running and the exercise equipment functional (but generally unused) and the computer that is our house server has of necessity been running 24/7, the books have been in boxes in a storage unit for much of the last 5 years. It all started with the painters telling us to "pack as if we were moving" and then get out..so we did.

As Stubble says, "Mom and Dad, you keep WAY TOO MANY books!" And we do. Once we own a book it is ours forever. It is a beloved friend and we will make a place for it in our lives forever....and that is pretty much not an exageration. We occasionally take books to Friends of the Library if we hated reading them or if we have no more space, but today we boxed up many of our "friends". We unpacked 10 cartons of books that were dusty and dirty and are actually preaparing to send 2 cartons of them away....and it was tough. Both the letting go and the dust.
I have had 2 showers during the course of the day because of my dust allergies. But the bookcases are now full and the room looks ready to live in.

Graduation

Well, it has been 3 months now since Stubble graduated from High School – and the monetary crassness of the entire experience of Senior Year still rankles so I guess I need to tell you all about it.

It begins with the class ring. Back in my day, we got a gold ring with the school name and our initials on it and our only choice was what color piece of glass you wanted in it. Ah, but these days you need your choice of metal, your choice of stones, your choice of symbols that tell the entire world that you played basketball or volleyball or marched in the band. By the time the choices are made (online by the student in question) the ring costs upwards of $600.

“Mom! Can I have your credit card?”

Once the ring is here it is time for Senior Portraits. One for the yearbook – because the school demands one “official” pose and background. But why compromise the entire year for your Senior by not allowing a full 2 hour photo session during which they get unlimited costume changes as they express their “unique personality”. There goes anywhere from $1200 to $2000 or more by the time that you have chosen your prints. And once those “special pictures” have been taken there is the special yearbook “individual page” that presents a montage of photos that your student wants his friends to remember him with. Another hand held out to collect your money– this time $250. And the yearbook is such a bargain at nearly $100 in the first place.

Then there are the graduation “supplies” to be ordered. The cap and gown (“would you like the deluxe souvenir tassel with that?”) and the announcements with their inserts and name cards and the deluxe gold lined envelopes – all of them coming a la carte. We could also get commemorative graduation picture frames, book covers, sweatshirts, and an entire collection of everything we need for the graduation party from invitations and decorations to thank you notes.

This is a racket.

Now comes Prom and the local tour ships, banquet halls, and any attraction that can claim to make Prom Night “special” get to take their cut. Stubble’s Prom was on a cruise ship. The year before it was on an observation deck overlooking a local ball park….and then there is the limo, the dinner, the tux, the flowers in addition to the prom tickets….

OK, that is all over now, all classes have been passed and it is time for the Big Night. But there is one more hand reaching out for your hard earned cash – the local florists for whom prom didn’t make enough profit. Your graduate will be heartbroken if you do not present him or her with one or more leis to let them know how proud you are of them. “Would you like yellow or white?” And when you pick up your diploma following the ceremony? Inside is an order form so that you can have your diploma mounted on wood, or professionally framed. “Would you like the deluxe package? Your Senior will want a permanent memento of his High School Journey.”

All I can say is, thank GOODNESS that the college doesn’t do a yearbook!

The True Value of an EngiNerd

Many, many years ago we lived in a lovely apartment with beautiful views or over an undeveloped valley and with 1200 square feet of living space. I worked nights and The Bearded One worked days. We lived in a part of the country where summer storms were both the norm and spectacular in one way or another.

One afternoon while I was home alone except for two black cats a storm came up. Before the sirens went off, announcing the severity of the weather system, I had noticed water spraying into the apartment from around the slider that opened to the deck. Being of sound mind, my first action was to move the stereo speakers away from the window and out of danger of being soaked. With the sirens still going off I grabbed both cats and a blanket and headed toward the entrance way under the stairs (and away from potential flying glass and as close to a basement as I could get). I was well clawed as I told my terrified kitties that I was just trying to keep them safe and it would all be over soon. They either didn’t listen, or didn’t believe me.

When the storm ended trees and power lines were down all over our part of the state. For 5 days. Or was it 6? We managed to get enough ice into our cooler that we could keep most of our food safe, but I do remember one meal that consisted of everything from the freezer cooked over the charcoal grill.

Living by candle light can be romantic when it is done for the right reasons and for one evening, but we quickly graduated to getting out the camping lantern and the Coleman Stove so that there was light to read by and a way to heat water for coffee. Finally on day 4 The Bearded One had enough. He brought in a car battery and hooked it up to one pole lamp. WE HAD LIGHT! It was a large capacity battery and had a full charge. I was enjoying the light of one electric lamp but lamented that I was missing the Friday night baseball game. Within a few minutes a small black and white TV set was also attached to the battery….

Our upstairs neighbor was a divorced father of two who happened to have both children with him that electricity free weekend. There was a knock on our apartment door and when The Bearded One answered it, our caller was that neighbor. He was there to prove to his number one child that “There wasn’t any TV at The Bearded One’s apartment either…” HAH!

Number one child to father: "Dad, I KNEW the "The Bearded One" would have TV!"

There is something to be said for being married to a living, breathing episode of “How Things Work”.