Category Archives: Daily Life

Feb23

Ode to Chris the Caveman

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My son was an action figure connoisseur of sorts.  As a kid, he spent hours engaged in elaborate battles with his huge collection.  These ‘campaigns’ would continue for days on end and until completion, I was not allowed to alter their tactical arrangement in any way.  In the majority of these battles, an action figure he named Chris the Caveman (of mysterious origins) was invariably the leader and subsequent conqueror.  I asked my son once, why?, and he replied that his battles required super-hero strength against extreme powers and Chris with his ripped muscles seemed like the man for the job…

Head over to Mamapedia, where I am honored to be a featured writer today, to find out how Chris the Caveman  aides in this Mom’s fight against the most powerful, and sneaky opponent of all time!

Go here!

Feb9

A Decade of Wisdom

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I have a son. I have had him for a decade.  Apparently, 10 years is a long enough time for some to acquire a significant amount of knowledge and I have, consequently, learned a vast amount from him.  Not the usual wisdom one might aspire to but, I have come to believe,  he is definitely onto something.  What, exactly, I couldn’t really say; but valuable, to be sure. And, what good is knowledge if not shared? Therefore, in the interest of fairness, here are some of the Decade Boy’s most admired words of wisdom.

Why goof of tomorrow when you can goof off today.

Girls who chase boys are pathetic.

Smart people are often “over-rated”.

The enjoyment of any activity is always increased by the removal of all authority figures.

School (work) could actually be fun in Heelys…and, of course, no teachers (bosses).

The song “Animal Crackers in My Soup” is worth singing repeatedly after changing the word “Soup” to “Poop”.

School is completely unnecessary, just “figure it out.”

Forget motivational speeches, prizes, or perks…you want results?  Show me the money!

Which brings us to:

Career goal: “To be Rich.”

Most Memorable Quote:

“All the seasons of Childhood are wasted while in School.”

And lastly:

The person who decided it was a good idea to have 5 days of school/work to only 2 days of weekend was the dumbest person on the planet.

Confucius say: He who passes gas in church sits in his own pew.

Decade Boy say:  When all else fails…kick butt.

Like I said…clearly onto something.

For more Pre-teen isms –  A Decade of Wisdom – Go Here!

Jan30

Todays Best Moment: Monday 1/30

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There I was, wrestling with “The Beast” (aka: Full Kitchen Trash Bag), out-manned, out-matched and out-maneuvered as contents began to spill out onto the floor.  “Help Needed!”, I yelled to no one in particular.  Both of my boys came bounding into the kitchen to my aide.  Together, we tamed “The Beast”.  They’ve got my back.  I’m not alone.  It feels good.

Jan26

I Am Woman (Ode to Chris the Caveman)

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My son was an action figure connoisseur of sorts.  As a kid, he spent hours engaged in elaborate battles with his huge collection.  These ‘campaigns’ would continue for days on end and until completion, I was not allowed to alter their tactical arrangement in any way.  In the majority of these battles, an action figure he named Chris the Caveman (of mysterious origins) was invariably the leader and subsequent conqueror.  I asked my son once, why?, and he replied that his battles required super-hero strength against extreme powers and Chris with his ripped muscles seemed like the man for the job.

Now, Chris the Caveman sits on a dusty shelf in the playroom – his battles behind him. The truth is, he has not only been abandoned by a maturing boy, but he has also been replaced by an enemy I must now face. A foe I wonder if even Chris the Caveman would have had the strength to overcome.

Electronics

Before I go any further let me just say, Electronics are not inherently evil – ok, maybe they are, but in the interest of political correctness let’s just say they ‘behave badly’. And like most families these days we are equipped with the usual:  computer, HDTV, phones (my smart phone may have been a stumble into enemy territory), microwave – plenty enough to distract from human interaction (those microwaves can really be addicting). But, I have tried to hold firm against an all-out invasion (i.e. big gaming units with flesh eating Zombies).

Nonetheless, I was blindsided by the enemy’s recent ploy.  My weakness has been identified…my kids.  When my boys presented the idea they “earn and save” the money (they took that Get a Yob thing seriously) to buy their own desired items I was all aglow with: smug relief (Ha! They will never be able to save that much), and maternal pride (look at those little darlings willing to work for something they want, aaah). However, this Custer–like underestimation of my opponent has proven to be a fatal misstep. For now, my boys are both in possession of their desired electronic, complete with bells, whistles & Zombies, and I feel like Mickey in Fantasia, helpless as Electronics march over me and into my house.

In essence, I have become Chris the Caveman – except, without the rippling muscles and you know, cool loincloth. I am single-handedly attempting to fight an enemy of extreme powers with only help from my minions (well, minion – my husband) – struggling to stop the time-sucking, interaction-obliterating, Electronic devices from completely taking over my home. And as in all of Chris the Caveman’s battles, I fear it will get worse before it gets better, be bloody, body parts scattered, and end with only one true victor.  But like Chris the Caveman, there is no “if ya can’t beat em’ join em”, only a fight to the last one standing. I think I am the woman for the job but just in case…

Better save a spot on that dusty shelf for me.

Jan19

Word-Up: Get a Yob!

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Yob: I did it!  I created a word.  At least I thought I had.  Until I discovered some slippery, sly English peops (I can say that because some of my best friends are English) had beat me to it.  However, when my son won at scrabble using “Yob”– which according to Merriam-Webster is b-o-y spelled backward (really?), and meaning: a young man who is rowdy, rude, noisy, and aggressive (I live with Yobs and didn’t even know it), and rhymes with Gob (Ha! Didn’t see that one coming did ya’) – I was forced to face the disappointment or lobby M-W for inclusion.

You see, for some time, Yob has been a Homonym of sorts in my household. Allow me to illustrate.

“Get a Yob”:  In this context, Yob is most effective in answer to the frequently asked question from minors in household: “Mom, can I have…(fill in blank with overpriced electronic of choice)”.  Used in this form, Yob means: If you want particular time sucking device, you will have to work, earn money, save, spend it all on desired item and realize you are flat broke…again.

Positive attributes of usage being, minors are proud purchasers of mind emptying electronics and my Botox emergency fund remains intact…oh, and they like, learned some kind of valuable life lesson or something.

“Not my Yob”: The usage of the word in this context is a clear indication that a “pass the buck” scenario from one adult to another is about to take place (from myself to hubs if you must know). At this crucial moment, husband is forced to revisit the possibility he failed to examine the fine print in the marriage contract explaining his Yob description included:  all things gross (puke clean up), all things that make you simultaneously sweaty & dirty (summer yard work), and all things smelly ( taking out all trash).

Sadly for him, the misplacement or loss of said document has relegated husband to taking wife’s word on the subject.

“Do your Yob”:  The bellow of the word in this context is music to the ears of one occupant of the household…my dog. At moment of utterance, the word ringing in dog’s ears causes her thought process to go something like this…The Mom is cooking…dropping food on the floor…all over the floor…like always…I must away…to the kitchen…no time to waste…to clean the floor…I love my Yob,…no, I REALLY, REALLY love my Yob. (Which in this context means – That thing one does when not sleeping, eating or urinating on the tires of cars in the driveway…preferably you are a dog if you are using the word in this context).

Disclaimer:  For those of you getting the ole undies in a bundle over the use of this questionably politically correct pronunciation, please keep one thing in mind.  As a person from San Hose, who has endured a lifetime of “You really do know the way to San Hose, don’t you!” and “Are you from San HosA or San HosB?”– I think I have paid my dues and deserve to take a few liberties.  No Yoke.

Only a few words were maimed in the writing of this blog.

Word-Up: Poop

Word-Up: Opus Anyone?

Jan17

Today’s Best Moment – Monday 1/16

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Watching my boys learn how to make Macaroni and Cheese. 

Seriously, it was poetry in motion. I laughed, I cried, I cleaned up burnt pasta water all over the stove. Actually,  the best part of the moment may have been seeing them growing up?… Learning to do for themselves? …No, it was when I realized  I won’t have to do it anymore.  Laundry, anyone?

Jan12

Today’s Best Moment – New Feature Inspiration

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First of all, I want to give a huge thank you to my niece, Gina Benedetti, a very talented photographer and graphic designer, who created this wonderful logo for my new feature on Sweet Spot.

I came up with the idea for this feature after attending the funeral of a good friend’s Mom.  My friend’s Mom had been on this earth a long time, so I am guessing she must have learned a few things along the way.  At the funeral, it was explained  how she  had a special journal where, each day, she recorded her Best Moment of the Day. When you visited her home, you were encouraged – very encouraged – to add your own best moment of the day to her book.

I thought this was such a wonderful life skill. One I wish I was better at. So, of course,  I wanted to bring it to Sweet Spot. I already “unofficially” started over Christmas with Santa Cruz (this pic!), Lake Tahoe and Lake Tahoe2.

Where I will go with it next… I’m not sure.  But that is ok.  In fact, it is the Best.

Jan9

Woman vs. Machine

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As promised in my last post, New Years Non-Resolutions, here is my full confession…

It was a normal afternoon.  My sons and I were in the kitchen.  I was making toast. When all of a sudden, for no reason at all (ok, I may have burned the toast), the smoke alarm- where it had been strategically placed on a cabinet directly above the toaster waiting year after year to be hung from the ceiling – began to go off.

Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.

I frantically waved the smoke out of the air and removed the offending item from the toaster (fine, I did burn the toast, happy?) so as to relieve the smoke alarm from duty.

But still – Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.

I climbed up on the counter and brought the alarm down to show it that all was well. Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.

I pushed its button in assurance.  Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.

I begged, pleaded, demanded it stop.  Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.

I threatened. I threatened it with a short trip and a quick end; as in –“Stop or I will throw you against the wall”.  You can’t say it wasn’t duly notified. Surely it could hear the crazed frustration in my warning.

And still – Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep, Bleeeeep.

So in the interest of follow through, you know good parenting and all that, I chucked it as hard as I could at the nearest kitchen wall. It crashed against that wall – pieces of plastic flying, battery hanging out like entrails, cover dislodging as it landed with a thud on the floor.

Finally…it was quiet.  We all three stood frozen in the silence; me, reveling in the peace; the boys, awestruck at my conviction (or… fearing for the potential loss of a few more cards from my deck). 10 seconds…20 seconds…30 seconds…

Then it happened.  Out of the silence in a ‘man down but not out’ kind of way, labored and painful, slurring like the moo of a drunken cow (if cows could, you know, belly up) came the smoke alarm’s final words –

Bluuurrrp, Bluuurrrp, Bluuurrrp, Bluuurrrp – As it continued, despite all aggressions, to attempt to do its job.

We stood. We stared.  Our jaws dropped open.  And then, we laughed hysterically until our bellies hurt.

In the end, it was decided the smoke alarm had earned retirement with full benefits (but no severance pay), I should never make toast without the aid of Mother’s Little Helper (the prescription kind) and Dad/Husband should be called immediately the next time a machine in our house malfunctioned (and even with this assurance, my machines have never since treated me the same…)

What is the point to this twisted machine abuse story?

Simply this- It is moments like this that I live for. The kind that get funnier with each retelling.  The kind that teeter on the edge of crazy.  The kind my kids will remember. The kind where I get to laugh with them.

The kind that teaches them no matter how bad, frustrating or crazy things are, if you can laugh, life is good.

Jan3

New Years Non-Resolutions

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Yeah, I know the New Years Resolution Bus has passed.  However, due to the fact that my Christmas Cards invariably hit the ground running about mid-January, I decided to claim end of the year procrastination as a “tradition” and forge ahead.  Besides I was occupied between Christmas and New Years combating a bunch of kids for a patch of mountain on which to ride my board (hey, I only took out a few…that I know of) -man-made snow, quite the hot commodity.

Anyway, I will make this easy.  I do NOT make New Years Resolutions.  Not since, after occupying Los Angeles for 10 years, I Resolved to give up using the F bomb – which has led me to a lifelong, frustrating and futile search for its replacement equal.

Therefore, here are my 6 New Years NON-Resolutions:

I will NOT drink more water.  Let’s face it, at a certain age the Pee Pee dance is no longer cute and becomes potentially hazardous. (If you are not getting a mental picture here, just give it a few years).

I WILL add to my embarrassingly large, spilling out of the closet, “yes, honey, I swear I got that for a good price” denim collection. However, as an attached rider, I renew my vow to shun all things bearing the name “Jegging” and I will pass on the new “Ass-Cam” now being installed in select designer denim fitting rooms.

I WILL eat sugar in my coffee, in my soda, in my desserts, in my snacks; Even if it means the possible acquisition of a JLo Butt (wait, maybe I should re-think that Ass-Cam…?).  “I’ll have boobs to go with that butt please.”

I will NOT give up the right to throw things when the situation demands.  For example, kids’ shoes I have tripped over a cajillion times, malfunctioning machines (full confession coming soon), cat that lies right in the middle of the room (jk – of course I would not throw my cat…she’s too fat.)

I WILL cook way more pasta then anyone wants to eat.  Furthermore, I WILL, in a fit of thinking I am the next Pioneer Woman, mangle some poor unsuspecting piece of beef, force my family to eat it, and expect them to give me praise.
Lastly, I WILL, in my totally un-cool Soccer Mom van, peel out when local teens make fun, bump into curbs, back into low concrete walls and drive over the grass on the side of our new driveway that hubby is desperately trying to grow.  Because, well, that’s how I roll.

Happy 2012.  May all of your New Years Non-Resolutions be a success!

Dec20

When All Else Fails…Cry

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What is worse than baby screaming lungs out on airplane?  Being the parent of baby screaming lungs out on airplane.  Wait, no, it wasn’t me. I mean, aside from the possible ramifications of confiscating ipods that could produce hysteria to rival any 6 month old, my kids at 10 and 12 after much experience, have grown into seasoned travelers.

No, on my recent trip, the unlucky parents of 6 month old travel baby happened to be sitting across the aisle from me. Clearly, the parents were newbies to the joys of Airplane Travel with Baby. How do I know this?  Well, when baby began to holler like a horror movie scream queen not long into the 3 1/2 hour flight, the look of terror in the parents eyes told all.  They began to all but dumpster dive into their “appropriately” sized bag for items of distraction:  teething toy, bottle, cuddlys, electronics,  Mom boob (ok, well, that was not in the bag) – all to no avail.

And as their desperation rose, I began to feel anxious for them. I wanted to share with them some of my experiences.  Comfort them so they would know it was fairly unlikely the flight attendant was on her way to escort them to seats on the wing, designated for disturbers of the peace. To assure them they were not alone.

For example, the first time I flew with my, then 4 month old, son, and he screamed all the way to the coast, body stretched in ridged stress, like stick man shrieking out his dying breath. I was sure I was headed to that seat in the wing (at least I hoped anyway).

Or, the time my, then 18 month old, son decided everyone sitting behind us (which was basically the entire plane) was fascinating and proceeded to over and over again force his way off my lap into the coveted standing position in order to socialize over the seat. Which honestly, I could have handled had it not been for the unsympathetic flight attendant who continually demanded I restrain him to sit on my lap (right!). Finally in exasperation I suggested that if she had any constructive ideas as to how to accomplish this, I was very open to suggestions.  She had none to offer, but I swear I saw a flash of something involving ropes, a gag, and horse sized sleeping pill flash across her face.  We did not get our Chocolate Chip cookies that time.

And then there was the time when, due to overbooking, we were all seated individually – scattered throughout the plane.  After gallant efforts by desk attendant, we were finally told we would have to board, sit in scattered seats, and see what could be done.  There we were, on the plane, standing ambiguously in the aisle when it suddenly dawned on my, then 5 year old, son the grim possibilities of having to sit next to a stranger (AKA: one who must be an undesirable ‘cause I don’t know you and might smell funny).  No sooner was this realization reached did big fat tears began to roll down his face accompanied by soft puppy like whimpers.  In an instant, the plane was filled with Jack-in-the-Boxes on crack as people popped up in order to give us seats together and rescue traumatized child. Thus, the birth of travel motto:  When all else fails, Cry.

I wanted to warn them against attempting to change a diaper in the plane bathroom; to tell them to never allow accidental upgrade to first class when travelling with a lap baby; to advise them to always bring an “inappropriately” sized bag for that unexpected 7 hour delay; to always know where the barf bag is; and to inform them that when their child begins to read, explain that “cocktail” on the plane menu is NOT Shrimp Cocktail to be ordered from Flight Attendant during beverage service.

I wanted them to know that not every flight attendant will treat you like Rosemary and her baby, and some will even be kind.

But, in the end, at the flight’s conclusion, I just gave them thumbs up, told them they did a good job and promised it would get better.

Judging by the not-as-defeated smile the Mom gave me, and the I-needed-to-hear-that look the Dad imparted (don’t you know he was contemplating their possible 17 ½ year ban from flying), I am thinking…It was enough.

For more Sweet Spot Travels: Go Here!

Dec8

Where’s The Beef?

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Man cannot live on broccoli alone…or so my husband and kids tell me.  The truth is, as a singleton I attempted to prove the opposite.  I starved out more than a few guests who, looking for a snack, found only broccoli and water in my refrigerator.  But even I had to admit after a time, a re-acquaintance with chicken and fish was necessary. And with the advent of husband and boys into my life, even the occasional meeting with pork loin had weaseled its way into my culinary repertoire.

But, when my growing boys began to ask, “Where’s the Beef?”, I knew I was in trouble.  You see, I have never been on good terms with Beef.  We don’t like each other, and my attempts as a newlywed to prepare Beef resulted in varying forms of barely edible shoe leather – proving, Beef and I just did not play nicely together.

However, one night, while perusing a cookbook, I came upon a recipe for Beef Brisket.  In light of recent requests (demands, threats to hide my ipod) and excitement over mentioned recipe, I decided to take on Beef once again – beat him at his own game.

So off to the store, list of ingredients in hand, I went.  The first sign I was in over my head was at the meat counter.  I ordered the recipe required poundage whereupon the butcher began piling hunk after huge hunk of meat onto the scale.  It probably would have been back to the fish counter for me, but butcher-guy, seeing my deer in the headlights look, quickly suggested I cut the recipe down and try one hunk of Beef.  And once I solved the “consommé” vs “beef broth” mystery and got over my fear that liquid smoke was not just some guys dying breath in a bottle, I was ready to begin preparation.

However, from the outset, Beef and I suffered misunderstandings: First being that, Beef had to marinate for 24 hours (oops, “spaghetti for dinner tonight?”). And second, the following night after 24 hour marinating, discovering that Beef did not cook for 40 minutes but for 40 minutes PER POUND (umm, “dinner at 9:00 tonight?”). Nonetheless, hunk of Beef and I finally came together and completed the meal.

So finally, the moment of reckoning had arrived. I gingerly took Beef out of the oven.  Beef looked good.  Beef smelled really good.  I cut Beef into slices and served Beef to my, by now starving and salivating, victims family.  Whereupon we discovered…I had made… the most wonderful…possibly first time ever…Beef Brisket Jerky. It wasn’t flaky, or tender, or delectable.

Nonetheless, either out of fear this would be my last foray into Beef’s world or out of sheer pity; my patrons verbally declared it a rousing success:

“It tastes good”,

“At least its beef”,

“It’s not that chewy”,

“I like jerky”,

“It tastes like some I had in a restaurant once” (note to self, never go to that restaurant again).

Their heartfelt accolades were so sincere and insistent I almost began to believe them; enough, at least, to consider casting my lot with Beef once again.  I guess you could say we may never be BFF’s, but at least now, Beef and I seemed to be on speaking terms.

But, just so Beef would not get the last word…

I made Carrot Cashew Soup for dinner the next night.

Nov28

Hollywood Beach, FL

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A not so early beach walk…

And so castles made of sand melt into the sea… eventually    -Jimi Hendrix

Nov24

I Am Thankful for Bad Spelling

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Yesterday, I had an epiphany – a revelation.  You know, one of those moments when everything becomes clear.  The Catalyst?   – My Grocery List.

Now, I recognize that having an epiphany over a grocery list is not, well, the norm.  But, in the moment I looked at my list that day while standing in front of the grocery store, I happened to be thinking about my son’s struggle at school with the neatness of his work.  And, when I looked down at my confusing, messy, helter-skelter list, it suddenly dawned on me – Genetics can be so very cruel.

The thought instantly led me to begin a mental check list through all the ways in which Mother Nature had potentially failed my sons.

I thought about:

Every time one of my sons comes home, yet again, lacking the needed details that were clearly discussed but not absorbed by him, and I can hear my successive childhood “I don’t know”s to my Mom in her quest to discover times, details or specifics.

Every time my son struggles with spelling and I have to run for the spelling dictionary I was sent off to college with oh so many years ago.

Every time one of them finds themselves separated from classmates due to excessive in-class socializing and I get a mental flashback of the solitary desk in the corner where I spent a good part of the 6th grade.

Every time their obsessive love for a particular activity keeps me on permanent chauffer status and I realize how well and for how long my own Mom had to wear that hat.

And as all of these things quickly ran through my mind, I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of…Thankfulness.

Yes, thankfulness.  Because, as I stood there, poised at the automatic glass doors, grinning like a dork in front of the Boy Scouts and  the all too premature ringing Santa, I felt:

Thankful for all the imperfections I have shared with them.

Thankful for all the struggles I get to go through with them.

Thankful that no-one else in the world is quite like them.

Thankful because the proof that they are part of me is never so apparent as in our shared imperfections.

Thankful that they are wonderfully, beautifully, magnificently,  perfect…in every single way.

Happy Thanksgiving

Nov14

What a Difference a Day Makes

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Nothing happened today.

While getting ready for school…

H: “Mom, I had a dream last night that you and Dad had gained tons of weight.”

P: “No, honey that is what you call a nightmare.”

We laughed.

While running out the door for school and work…

K: “Uhh -Mom, why are you wearing two different black shoes?”

We laughed.

While making an afterschool snack…

K: “Mom, I discovered a new way to pull out loose teeth…blue Jolly Ranchers.” (K produces out of pocket blue Jolly Rancher encrusted tooth).

We laughed.

While doing math homework…

H: “Mom, what did the Zero say to the Eight? …. ‘Nice Belt’”.

We laughed.

While making dinner…

P:  “Hey, guys, if you smell plastic melting in the kitchen, that’s because, well, it is.”

(peanut gallery comments ensue)

K: “If you smell the dinner burning, that’s because, well it is.”

H: “If you smell the house on fire, that’s because, well it is,”

 We laughed.

While getting ready for bed…

K: “What do you think the Tooth Fairy will give me for my jolly rancher filled tooth?”

H: “Nothing!”

K: “Half the usual gold dollar?”

P: “A quarter to call the dentist.”

We laughed.

Today was a good day – maybe, the best day ever.

But then, there is always tomorrow.

Nov10

Moon Over Missouri River

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“I like to think that the moon is there, even if I am not looking at it.” Albert Einstein

This is what greeted me at the door upon leaving work last night.

Nov7

A California Girls Rural Winter Survival Guide

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Sometimes life is stranger than fiction. For example, why do aliens only abduct sanity-challenged recluse people? What are artificial bacon bits really made of? And, how does a born and bred California girl end up living in rural Missouri?  Rural Missouri, mind you, where roads have letters instead of names, directions are given in reference to so-and-so’s house – whether they still live there or not – and…it snows!

Well, in my case, I was either crazy or in love, or both.  Whatever the case, the predicament of surviving the winters became glaringly apparent upon the first snow; A feat which my California upbringing had just not prepared me for.  Therefore, for those of you who have found or may find yourself in a similar fix, allow me to share 5 of my hard learned survival tips.

1.  Be Prepared: If you are to survive in the harsh environment of cold, ice, and snow, you must have the proper tools. Following are, in my experience, the most important items.

  • Cat Box Pooper Scooper – Oh, sure, you will be told that having an ice scraper is what you need to clear off your car windshield every morning.  But, in my opinion, the everyday cat box pooper scooper makes much more sense to get the job done.  It is always handy, never gets taken by other family members for use and well, has multiple functional purposes (need I elaborate?).
  • Ugly Shoes – Trust me on this one.  Those peep toe pumps will sing a good song, but when push comes to shove (or rather ice comes to driveway) those pretty shoes will leave you flat on your behind.  The ugly shoes, however, will be your friend for life. They will keep you warm, be devoted to your happiness, and never let you go down looking like a flapping dodo (bird, that is).
  • Hair Dryer – You would be surprised how often a good blast of hot air will come in handy for various frozen things and/or body parts.
  • A Hammer – No real function, but it will make you feel like you belong – like one of the natives.

2.  Be Wary:  Never trust ice – it is the enemy and yes, it is out to get you.  It will freeze your pipes as soon as you stop dripping them in order to head to the mall.  It will freeze the Frappuccino you left in the car overnight. And, if you have a change of heart (i.e. panic attack) about driving on it, it will promptly and not very graciously, introduce you to the side road ditch.

3.  Be Audacious:  When that fluffy white stuff starts pouring out of the sky, get in your car and just go for it.  And when I say, ‘go for it’, I mean, when your husband tells you to drive fast to get over snow drifts growing in the road – DO IT! Otherwise you might find yourself stuck on top of one of those pretty drifts like a whale bellied up on the beach (which is, fyi, not near as much fun as bellying up to the bar). And, it may take every relative and friend within a 20 mile radius to come and dig you off.

4.  Be Mindful:  As in all things, there are pitfalls to watch out for during the long winter season.

  • Do NOT discover online shopping.
  • Do NOT, under any circumstances, decide the inside of your house needs to be painted all colors of the rainbow. (You may not be fortunate for to spring to arrive moments before project commencement).
  • Do NOT try to eat your weight in chocolate.

However, DO, have as many snowball fights as possible, roast marshmallows over a candle, and treat yourself to every  ‘icure come spring.

5.  Be Canny: Sooner or later you will be faced with a suspicious random occurrence that can only be experienced in the rural wilds of winter.  Therefore, when you, for example, find a several foot long shed snake skin in a storage area behind your bed where said snake clearly hibernated the winter with you, don’t, whatever you do, tell your snakephobic husband.

Goodbye and Good luck.

Oct28

Accidental Farmer – The Rest of the Story

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Around this time last year, I discovered something about myself;  something shocking but undeniably true.  However, until today, I had no idea there was more to the story.  I shared ‘Part 1’ of my tale on friend Sherri’s Oldtweener.com last year. I suppose in order to tell “the rest of my story” I have to go back to the beginning, where it all started…

2010

The moment a house plant enters my life I can literally see its life flash before my eyes.   It may come through my doors a full, vibrant, green plant, but soon it will start to show the signs of my care…wilting leaves, thinning vines, dulling color.  In an effort to stay alive it will begin to shuck off excess bulk until it is finally reduced to one, lone leaf clinging to a surviving vine.  But this too, will eventually lose the will to live.  And even though with each new vegetative ward that comes into my care, I vow to be a better guardian, I, at the same time, feel the sadness of inevitability.

However, at the pleading of my younger son, I was forced to face the ultimate agrarian challenge (with potentially soul damaging results) of actually planting an innocent victim in the ground in the attempt to bring forth life.  That’s right, my son wanted to grow a plant; outside… in the ground… from scratch, like, with a seed.  To be more specific, he wanted to grow pumpkins.  Well, I did what any sensible girl would do, I ran to Daddy.  Actually, he came to visit me and little did he know that he was soon to be an unwitting accomplice in what was sure to be a dastardly plan (as far as the plant world is concerned).  But Dad, being the accomplished gardener that he is, went right to work in the attempt to make his grandson’s pastoral dreams come true. He prepared the soil, digging up dirt that had been left to itself for way too many years, added nutrients, top soil and fertilizer, built a huge mound complete with watering mote and then… planted 4 seeds. With strict instructions to water and tend to the seedlings every day, Dad went on his way with great hope but possibly dubious faith as to the outcome.

Seven days later, much to my surprise – ok, more like shock, amazement, incredulity – all four seeds sprouted (go Dad!!).  And not only sprouted, but continued to grow, crawl and bloom flowers – all under my tutelage (because of course, it was just a coincidence they tripled in size during the 2 weeks the neighbor boy cared for them while we were away).

Then, the day finally came when my son uttered the words I had been longing, even yearning to hear… those three little words…

”We have pumpkins!!!”

Success washed over me.  I had done it!  I had taken a humble seed, tended to it, cared for it, coerced and nurtured it into giving its most precious gift – a fruit for my labors (or vegetable as the case may be).  I had to see for myself.  But, no sooner had I headed in the direction of my precious vines, I was drawn away by my son calling from the direction of our wild and overgrown field behind our house – “No, Mom, over here!”  For there, growing in our neglected field, unattended, wild and completely unbeknownst to us were pumpkin vines sporting two beautiful, perfect, orange pumpkins.  I stared at them in disbelief.  How could this be? Where had they come from? How had they survived? Was that where we threw the rotten pumpkins out after Halloween last year?

Unfortunately, all answers to these and other perplexing questions such as – what exactly is ‘Bieber Fever’ and how does one keep from contracting it? – remain forever part of the unknown. What is known, however, is that I had finally grown something, become a producer, joined the ranks of the tillers before me…albeit, by accident.

So now, everyday, I proudly walk out to my wild pumpkin patch, admire my crop of two and well, do nothing; for clearly, where plants and I are concerned, this seems to be the most productive strategy.

And the vines which my Dad so faithfully entrusted to me?  Well, they continue to persevere even under the duress of my constant care and devotion, sprouting flowers again and again but never being able to quite muster up enough oomph to produce a pumpkin. I fear they too will one day soon fulfill providence and join their unfortunate predecessors in that great nursery in the sky.

2011 – The Rest of the Story

Today I went out to my “crop” as it were.  More to the point, the place in my wild, unattended field where I, again, threw out last years rotten pumpkins.  The place I did NOT fertilize, I did NOT water, I did NOT weed, I did NOT season with rich top soil, I did NOT pay any attention to at all.  Until today, when I went out there to discover I had NOT grown pumpkins… I had grown gourds. 

Clearly, I’m even better than I thought.

p


Oct25

Nightmare on Doddridge Street

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Monday seemed like a normal day. Little did I know something was lurking, lying in wait for me. It started out like any other day; kids off to school, coffee hot, dog fed (thus, her own personal nightmare assuaged).  I turned on my computer, ready to work, blog, socialize, check Facebook.  And that is when the horror began as I was greeted by the words – NO INTERNET ACCESS. I took a deep breath, no need to panic, it’s probably nothing, I thought.  After all, my dog appeared unconcerned and you know how animals can “sense” things.

Very calmly, I began to work my magic…or rather, I began to work tech-guy-on-speed-dial’s magic.  But still, ACCESS DENIED.  Then tech-guy-on-speed-dial off-handedly suggested, “what about your home phone line?” (You see, us here folks out on Doddridge, a.k.a. the boonies, rely on phone lines for our DSL mojo).  I ran for my cordless phone like a chick trying to outrun a chainsaw and as in any good bad horror flick, the line was dead.

However, unlike next-to-die-screaming-teen, I still had cell phone service.

So, to the phone company I went for rescue. Harassed-phone-company-lady informed me that “they” (guys-with-huge-hacking-scissors?) had cut the lines and “no”, the DSL line would not be reconnected anytime soon because first the phone line must be repaired in order to restore 911.  But I stammered that this was a 911 – No internet, no access to the World Wide Web, NO FACEBOOK!!

Harassed-phone-company-lady, unmoved by my hysteria, hung up, leaving me once again to face the horror alone. So there I was, waiting, staring, pacing, looking out for strange-guy-in-hockey-mask; when suddenly, out of nowhere, a thought struck me.  Something my Dad used to always tell me;

“Don’t forget to stop and smell the flowers.”

I grabbed my car keys, I grabbed my dog, (because clearly, judging by her worried look, the canine sixth sense had kicked in), and we started driving – away from the dreadfulness and in search of flowers.

We didn’t find any flowers, because, well, it’s October, but we did find a pretty spectacular fall tree to hang out under.

We didn’t worry about work, we didn’t long to socialize, we didn’t angst over missed Facebook posts,

And nobody denied us access.

Oct14

Baby You Can Drive My Car

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My husband’s truck gives new meaning to the word “clunker”.  On more than one occasion I have suggested (begged, pleaded, demanded) he make a one way trip to the junkyard (for the truck, of course).

The body is not only rusting, it is rusting away.  I swear I have seen a bird nesting inside one of the cavernous orifices opened up by the decay.  At some point, repairs were done to hold the rim above the tires together… those plastic electrical cable ties and duct tapes really seem to be doing the trick.  The rear view mirror is, well, gone – no-one seems to know where.  The antenna, which some time back resided in its proper place outside, has now taken up residence inside the truck with its end jammed into an earthquake like crack that runs the length of the dashboard. The license plate is permanently bent into the shape of a taco, held on firmly with a wire hanger. And in order to start up the old timer, you must pump the gas not once, not twice, but three times and no more. I think the radio still works. Which is a good thing so you have something to listen to while you are freezing into an icicle or sweating into a puddle.

The other day, I walked out my door ready to drive my son and his friend to a birthday party.  It suddenly occurred to me that earlier in the day, in the wake of loaning his car to a friend, my husband had then borrowed my car leaving me with, yep you guessed it, the clunker. But, get to the party we must.  So in we three climbed.   Just a short distance, how bad could it be? Well, the answer to that quickly came when one of the doors began to randomly open of its own accord as if to be saying “get out while you still can”; which would have been a fairly safe jump considering the general 10 mile an hour maximum possible speed as we went up hills…with the pedal floored. And despite the rattling of the vehicle which threatened to bring doubt to my faith in those cable ties and giving up trying to solve the mystery of the dashboard antenna, we finally arrived at our destination.  Basically, in one piece.

Upon arriving back home in my driveway I had but one thought… I will NEVER in a million years get rid of that truck!  You see, for the entirety of our few mile trip that took, oh, 20 minutes or more, the three of us laughed until the tears were streaming down our faces.

You can’t buy joy like that, and you certainly don’t send it to the junkyard.

Oct10

Fall Twilight in My Backyard

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Sometimes, all I have to do is walk out my back door to find the Sweet Spot…