The Glitter and Sparkle of the Season

Last night I was happily cleaning up after dinner when melancholy and mournful celtic music began playing on the radio.  It made me get all misty-eyed, nostalgic, and appreciative.  The moaning of the music made me think about how grateful I am that I'm not a cow living out on the range suffering through all kinds of weather.  Every time we are driving down the highway through blowing snow, or blowing dirt or just plain blowing air, and I see cattle out on the range all huddled together with their butts to the wind in a vain attempt to keep warm, I feel bad for them.  I sigh deeply and think to myself I'm glad I'm not a cow.  I'm so happy I have a hat and mittens and a leather coat and a warm house.  Of course when it's a beautiful summer day, the thought of spending my day out on the range with nothing to do but eat and nap in the sun sounds more appealing than sitting at a computer working for nerds.  But on the whole, I think I am still thankful to be a human.

I also thought about how grateful I am to have a husband who knows when it's time to muster the troops (daughters) and ask for help for their mother who is freaking out about all the things she thinks she has to do to get ready for Christmas.   He can survive a cranky wife for a while and he can sometimes endure a stressed-out wife for a short time but he does not tolerate a cranky and stressed-out wife for very long.  I like to used to think I am the mother who can do it all.   As it turns out, this is the year I can't make Christmas perfect all by myself for a variety of reasons which I won't bore you with (pssssst.....travelling, dissertation defense, pride, PhD, joy, PhD, celebrating, travelling, graduation, PhD, party, PhD, more celebrating).   At least I can't do it all without driving my husband, daughters, and everyone remotely close to me crazy with my perfect Christmas obsession.

Listening to that dang celtic music made me remember past Christmases and the next thing you know I was wondering how it happened that yesterday my girls were leaving cookies and letters for Santa and today it is my grandchildren writing the letters.  Then I got a bit sad thinking that next year Abby and Jorge will be living in Ecuador and we will still be here celebrating Christmases without them, because nobody in their right mind would choose to leave a beach in Ecuador to celebrate Christmas in sub-zero temperatures and howling winds.  Hey..........I just realized I could leave sub-zero temperatures and howling winds to celebrate a future Christmas at a beach in Ecuador!  So anyway, this is not the year to forgo any traditions just because I'm too busy doing things like working for nerds or losing countless minutes walking around in circles mumbling to myself.  This is the year it must all come together and be perfect because it might be a long time til we're all gathered together again around the Christmas tree as the gentle Wyoming wind rocks the house, the white snow drifts and our street becomes an ice rink for cars.

It's a hard thing to admit I can't single-handedly create the perfect Christmas like I did back before I became old and forgetful and slow.  I thought I could do it all...I was trying to do it all...but I couldn't get it all done.  Not perfectly anyway.  Oh, and stress-free.  Perfect and stress-free.  It was the stress-free part I was having the most difficulty with when Dean stepped in.  Thanks to him my Christmas preparation list has been divied up among the troops.  One of the things I gave up is gift wrapping.  I hope nobody is disappointed when, instead of packages that look like they were wrapped by a one-armed person suffering from palsy, they receive gifts in creatively sculpted and painted paper mache boxes.  (Thanks for adding to my already behemothic guilt, Dean).

So once again life is sparkly

And filled with glitter.

It won't matter if every cookie isn't perfect or if there aren't going to be enough ornaments for the tree because I got a bit carried away this year.

It won't matter if my second try at the candy cane bread isn't as perfect as the picture in the newspaper.

And it won't matter if I don't get my Christmas cards mailed out until April (it won't be the first time).  Here's what I think.  I think it's going to be a perfect Christmas anyway.  It's going to be perfect because we are all going to be together.................................. and I'm not a cow out on the range in the blowing snow with my butt pointed to the wind.

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The Glitter and Sparkle of the Season

Tennis Balls Aren't Green

A couple of weeks ago I noticed my box of dryer sheets was running low and since we now have those new energy efficient appliances I thought maybe instead of buying another box of dryer sheets and filling my garbage can, and ultimately the landfill, I should make an attempt to be more green.  So one day last week while I was stimulating the economy at WalMart, I purchased the Dryer Bar.  It lasts about four MONTHS!  Just stick it and forget it!  How perfect.  I could do my part to lessen the landfill AND keep my clothes not only static-free but smelling fresh.  And not only that, I would have one less thing to think about and I'm all for that because at this point in my life each new thing that must be remembered requires me to forget some other less important thing.

I dutifully used the last three dryer sheets and finally was able to use this nifty product on Sunday.  It worked like a charm.  My clothes came out static-free, smelling outdoor fresh.  The best thing was that I didn't have to worry about forgetting and throwing a dryer sheet into the garbage in my bathroom where invariably Shadow would pull it out, gum it and then leave it lying somewhere around the house.  I don't know what it is that attracts her to dryer sheets.  Maybe it's her doggy way of trying to soften her fur.  Or maybe she's got some kind of doggy disease, like those people who like to eat dirt, but whatever the reason, she loves them.  And I know it's not my cat because if it was Lily she would leave the garbage can tipped over.  She's nimble but she prefers crawling into a small garbage can, tipping it over and just lying there. (so there, Dean).   Shadow sneakily delicately pulls the sheet out before gnawing on it.

Since the temperatures dipped to single and minus single digits over the weekend, I figured I'd better switch out the two blankets and summer bedspread on our bed for the comforter before Dean started whining (more).  As it was, he'd been adding increasing numbers of blankets, bathrobes, and whatever article of clothing he found nearby onto his side of the bed until our bed had begun listing to the west.  So our bed is now winter-ready but since Shadow likes to use the sides of the bed to scratch her snout, rub her body up and down, scratch her snout again, more rubbing, (you get the picture), the summer bedspread had a nice layer of greasy brown mixed with black fur.  It needed to be washed.

Never fear.  I have the new Dryer Bar.  I can wash that bedspread, throw it in the dryer and forget it!  No muss, no fuss.  That's what I did last night.  I should mention that my mom taught me that bedspreads are never to be used as blankets.  They are decorative.  I use this bedspread in the summer but it's made of pretty heavy fabric.  It weighs alot.  Actually Dean probably would have been more toasty pulling it up over his cold body than all the articles of clothing he's been using.  If I would have let him.  But I didn't.  I tell you this because last night was the first time I washed it in my new high efficiency washer using the extended spin option.   Apparently extended spin option isn't a good choice with a heavy bedspread.  There was a moment when it sounded like somebody had picked up the washing machine and was throwing it against the dryer..... boom!. boom!... boom!... boom!... boom!  I ran downstairs only to see the washing machine walking into the dryer over and over and over. 

A quick switch to regular spin, the washing machine quit walking and then it was time to put my heavy bedspread into my new high efficiency dryer with my new green(ish), Forget It! Dryer Bar.  So far so good.   For whatever reason, I thought I should add a tennis ball.  I'm not sure why.  Tennis balls are great for fluffing pillows but apparently not for bedspreads.  Don't ask me why I thought I needed a tennis ball to fluff my bedspread.  I don't know.   It just seemed like a good idea at the time.  It's not.  Not if you're using the Forget It! Dryer Bar. 

When you come back to take out your heavy bedspread you will find that the tennis ball has beat your Forget it! Dryer Bar to hell and you have pea-sized bits of Forget it! Dryer Bar all over the inside of your dryer and lint thingy and in places you can't even reach to pull out. 

And after you've cursed and moaned softly to yourself, when you try to pry off the base that you have stuck on the inside of your dryer you will discover that the gluey stuff holding the base is there for life.  (please loosen it peanut butter). 

It's back to dryer sheets for me.  Forget green.  Shadow's snout's been looking dry and I didn't like the smell of the Forget It! Dryer Bar anyway.◦

Tennis Balls Aren't Green

An Update to My Whine

We drove to the symphony on snow-covered streets with temps hovering around five degrees and I stared out the window fuming about that cranberry/raisin/pecan/candy cane bread rising silently in the garbage.  The last thing I wanted was to stand at a door taking tickets from happy people who probably had freezers filled with perfectly baked Christmas cookies and breads.   But it's hard to stay mad when you have to say hello, how are you? thank you! enjoy the concert, I'm glad you braved the cold ... to dozens of nicely dressed, very polite people who are happy and excited to be attending a Christmas concert.  And after listening to a symphony filled with toe-tapping, head-bobbing Christmas music led by a happy, funny, down-to-earth conductor, the whines were knocked right out of me.  When we got home from the concert I marched into the kitchen determined that two days of total baking failure was not going to get the best of me.  There is a new bowl of bread dough mixed and in the fridge.  Tomorrow I will conquer that candy cane bread or I will die trying.  And you know what else?  I have more Christmas cookie recipes waiting.  And I will bake them and they will be perfect.......or at least edible.◦

An Update to My Whine

Don't Read This Cuz I'm Gunna Whine

Tis the season to be baking cookies and breads and fancy desserts.  Tis the season to fatten yourself and loved ones.  But for me, apparently tis the season to screw up everything I bake.  Yesterday it was the yellow cake intended for the raspberry trifle which has become a tradition at our house.  I have never been able to find a great yellow cake recipe, or even a yellow cake recipe that's pretty good.  So each year I  try a new recipe in my quest for the perfect trifle cake.  Yesterday I mixed up another yellow cake, poured it into two round baking pans, stuck it in the oven and hoped this would be the one.  About halfway through the baking process I peeked into the oven window only to see cake batter bubbling out over the top of the pans.......onto the bottom of the oven I had cleaned only three short days ago.  I let it finish baking hoping the issue was just that I should have used bigger pans but when we tried the bits leftover after prying it out of the pans there was no doubt that the cake was inedible.  Dean helpfully pointed out to me (several times) that 3 1/2 teaspoons of baking powder seemed way too much for a cake..........he would never have used that much baking powder even if that was what the recipe called for.   Of course what my brain heard was You stupid idiot.  How could you not know that 3 1/2 teaspoons for one cake was a ridiculous amount and your cake would blow up in the oven?

Today, I attempted yeast bread twisted into cranberry/raisin/pecan filled candy canes.  The dough I had mixed up yesterday looked good, the filling looked good, everything seemed to be going good until I cut the strips of bread and twisted them into candy canes.  Something just didn't seem right.  If these canes still had to double in size before being baked they were going to look like they were meant for the jolly green giant.  However, I soldiered on, got them all cut, twisted and on the pans ready to bake and then did a quick review of the recipe.  Oops.  I was supposed to cut the dough in half and instead of 15 canes of gigantic proportions I should have had 30 normal people size bread canes.    So, rather than suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous teasing if I presented these for Christmas breakfast, I heaved them disgustedly in the trash where they are now rising and will soon be snaking out the sides and tops of the garbage drawer.

I would like to tell myself that I've screwed up royally this weekend because my laryngitis evolved into some kind of upper respiratory/bronchial illness.  That I have been tired because I spent several nights sleeping on the couch in order to save Dean listening to my 2-3 hour coughing fits.  I would like to say it's because I am still tired and recovering.  Or I'd like to think it was because I was rushing to get the cake done before Leslie and the grandkids came over for a day of fun.  Or I misread the bread recipe because I was rushing to complete it before we had to go usher at the symphony.  And in between I was running up and down the stairs switching laundry and ironing sheets.  Yes, ironing sheets.  The high-end sheets we bought a couple of years ago because they would be so great  were so stiff and came out of the dryer so wrinkled that I hated them.  The sheets that shrunk the first time I washed and dried them so that I have to sit on the floor, grab each corner of the bottom sheet and pull with all my might to get them over the 67-inch high mattress we have.  The sheets that Dean said recently were finally getting softer.  Yeah, buddy.  That's because I couldn't stand it anymore and started ironing them.

And the whole point of this whining, complaining, grumbling, pitiful post is this:  I quit. Maybe I'm past my baking prime.  Maybe it's time to pass the baton.  Maybe I'm too stupid to read a recipe.  I'm done baking. Who needs homemade Christmas sweets anyway?

So now I'm going to go usher at the symphony and spread some of my Christmas cheer.  How appropriate that we dress in black.

And I'm not even going to proofread this because nobody is reading it.◦

Don't Read This Cuz I'm Gunna Whine

Is there a DOCTOR in the house?

YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I would like to introduce you to the Princess of Pretty Cool Insects, Duchess of Dragonflies, Queen of a Quadrillion Bugs, DOCTOR of all doggone awesome six-legged creatures.....

ABBY ROSE STILWELL, PhD

I am sitting in the local coffee shop while Abby kicks back and takes a well-deserved nap before we celebrate with some some good Nebraska beef and champagne.  I should also be somewhere taking a nap because I think I got all of four hours of sleep last night.  It's hard to sleep when you've made a deal with the stress demons.  You know that thing mothers do....."take me! give me the stress and the worry! give it all to me....just keep it from my child."  That and the fact that the high school football championships are being played this week and our hotel was filled with every citizen of a nearby small town, each of them dressed in red.....bright red....Nebraska red....every one of them.   And they ran up and down the halls in their bright red shirts and sat in the lounge drinking in their bright red jackets and they had Husker stickers on their cars and .....uh oh.....I am wearing red.............and I wore my red coat..................and my purse is red(ish).......is that (gasp) a Husker sticker on my car..........? And it's not even football Saturday........oh no........I'm ONE of them!

As it turns out there was no need for me to take on all that stress so that now I am feeling rather zombie-like; like I've already had more than my share of the bubbly.  I sacrificed myself, threw my body in front of those stress demons for nothing because Abby captured any and all demons in her trusty insect net, deposited them in her special insect jar, stood with her hands on her hips, said, watch this you evil demons and then

 stood tall and presented her findings in a clear and confident voice

Get up there and pose for me before it starts Abby.......pleeeez......

and  won the day.

Waiting to begin

She did herself proud and even the mites and thrips were clapping.  Okay I didn't see any mites or thrips, they are tiny after all, but I have a feeling they were there nodding in appreciation and stood on their tiny little legs and clapped til their little legs almost fell off.

Update Wednesday morning.....

I am now back at the coffee shop while Abby sleeps the sleep of the victorious.  Somehow as yesterday's celebrations went on my voice became more and more hoarse until this moment when I  am nearly voiceless.   Hey!  Is THAT why Dean's been smiling so much  this morning?  I'm sure my temporary state of silence has nothing to do with the number of times I said, "Dr. Abby.....Dr. Stilwell.....hey, Dr.Stilwell would you come here for a moment....Oh, Dr. Stilwell, I have a question for you.....yes, we are celebrating Dr. Stilwell's PhD tonight ...Yes, this is our daughter, Dr. Stilwell.  I'm positive it wasn't enough to cause me to lose my voice.

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Is there a DOCTOR in the house?

Really? That's What It Took?

Have you ever wondered why it's so hard to make yourself  your husband get up, grab whatever manly tool is required and repair things that have been staring him you in the face for weeks, months, or more likely, years?  You know, things like a toilet that sounds like a bull moose in heat whenever you flush it.  Okay, I haven't actually heard a bull moose in heat, but ...  oh, wait, that would be because only women moose, women mooses, a woman moose would go into heat.  I meant a bull moose making those manly bull moose sounds to attract a female moose in heat.  Like she would really be attracted to some big-nosed, ugly, bellowing, clumsy moose who thinks he's mother nature's gift to ungulates.  She just wants baby mooses.

And then there are things like fences with planks (or whatever those straight up-and-down parts are that keep your neighbor's dog out of your yard and garden) that are so old that on occasion one or more of them just decides to fall over and leave a big hole in your fence.  Did you know yellow labs love pumpkins?  Oh, and some people have stacks of paving stones neatly stacked next to a nice big area of dirt (formerly known as grass) just waiting for the perfect moment to create the perfect path.

And there's the  painting and staining which always seems to take a back seat to more important things like gardening or rocks or did I mention gardening?

What is the secret?  What does it take to get that ever-growing list of projects crossed off the to-do list?  I've put a fair amount of time into thinking about this and I've come up with a few solutions.  One of those is to decide it just isn't worth doing.  Cross it off like it never existed and lessen the guilt.  So what if the toilet sings?  Maybe it's a method of water conservation.  You know, if it's yellow let it mellow, if it's brown flush it down. 

Then there's the just wait solution.  If you wait long enough, somebody will take care of it for you.  The guilt your neighbor will feel after their dog has brought home 15 pumpkins from your garden through a hole in the fence is an amazing stimulant to fence replacement.  Paying for half the wood will ease the guilt you your husband feels because the week the fence is rebuilt he is forced to work late every night.

But the solution that never entered my brain, not even in my wildest imagination, that caused me to open my eyes in wide but happy surprise is this.  Point out that in a very short time your daughter will be bringing her beloved fiance home for Christmas.   I know.  I'm shaking my head in wonder and amazement right along with you.  It's only been three years but yes, we now have a kitchen with painted walls.  And not only that, I've heard whispers that soon there will also be real stuff, like things in frames, hanging on those newly painted walls.

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Really? That's What It Took?

Men and Their Toys

We have  a new yoga instructor for our Saturday morning class.  Early in the summer, Elaine, our former 76-year old  instructor announced that she was giving up the class because she didn't want to have to commit every Saturday to this class. When you're 76, isn't every day Saturday? Can't you pretend like one of those Saturdays is Monday and that's your "yoga work day"? Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe no matter how old you are, Saturday morning is always Saturday morning and who in their right mind would want to commit all of their Saturday mornings to anything other than sleeping late, drinking coffee, cleaning your house and doing the laundry and ironing? Who would want to teach a bunch of tired, creaky, stiff people with butts formed to the shape of their office chair? 

Our new instructor, Elizabeth, didn't begin teaching until late in the summer.  Not that I noticed since I got to spend so much quality Saturday time with the shhhhhh....BFD.  Part of me misses Elaine because she was into the "this is Saturday and you've all had a long week at work so we're just going to have a laid-back, easy stretch yoga class."   It was easy; I didn't have to push too hard.  But the part at the end when you "play dead" went on way too long.  I wasn't really tired or sore and it's hard to pretend you're relaxing and recovering when you're not and are really just making a mental list of what you want to do when you leave.

Elizabeth, our new instructor, is young and doesn't seem to care that we've all worked hard all week; we're tired and stiff and we're only here because of guilt.  We would rather get up and drag our sorry office chair butts to a Saturday morning yoga class than sleep late and live with the post-butter and syrup slathered pancakes guilt.   She works us hard.  This morning we did the bound warrior.  It looks simple in the link.  No, not the partially naked woman ....the pose below it.  Be patient.  It's not.  Try it.  And then clap your hands for me.  I did it.  Once on each side.  That's twice.  And Dean told me he even completed it .... on one side.  I know.  Who knew.  Amazing.

At the end of a yoga class of other "really? my body should be able to do that?!" moves, when Elizabeth says  "lie on your back with your eyes closed and your feet splayed out in this dim room with soft music, and pretend like you're dead" I'm happy to oblige, because I am so sore and tired I can't even muster the energy to make a mental list.  And she doesn't give us much time to do that anyway.  Before you know it we're up and dragging our sorry, but guilt-free butts home. 

But I digress.  What I intended to write about was what happens at our house before we put our chair butts through tortuous moves on a Saturday morning.  Here's what I did yesterday morning before yoga.  I slept in, read the paper and drank coffee.  Yes, caffeinated. Before yoga. Where you go to unwind and relax and find your chi or be in the present.

Here's what Dean did.  Before yoga.  He got up at the insistence of Shadow who has not figured out yet that Saturday morning is different than Monday morning, or Tuesday morning, or Wednesday morning ... and whose doggie clock still goes off at 5:30 a.m. at which time she begins pacing back and forth from bedroom to hallway, click, click, click go the toenails, back from hallway to bedroom ... click, click, click.  Stand and stare at Dean.  Back to the hallway ... click, click, click, click.  Back to the bedroom ... click, click, click, click.  Stand and stare at Dean.  Sometimes Dean gets up.  Sometimes I yell "SHADOW!  LAY DOWN!"  Sometimes Dean even yells at her but mostly he just sighs and gets up.  Once they returned from their walk, he put on his "I mean business" coveralls because Friday night he received this:

It not only blows those pesky leaves and debris away but it sucks them up and uses its

metal impeller to DESTROY them! 

So yesterday morning, before yoga, while I was basking in the sun at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading the paper, he was outside doing this.

I had several titles for this blog post.  One of them was "a man in love" but when I asked Dean to gaze upon his new friend with the love and affection I knew he was feeling he did this

and made gun noises.  Geez.  Boys.

This morning he has taken it to Ryan so he also can experience the unbridled joy of destroying innocent leaves.  There's a saying that women marry men who remind them of their fathers.  Be careful Ryan.  Be very careful.  You may begin to feel an uncontrollable urge to wear sandals with white athletic socks.  If you do, seek help.  Seek it quickly.

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Men and Their Toys

How Do You Know?

The past week or so I've been mentally off.  I've been kind of cranky.  I've been sleeping more.  I've been tired.  Little things have been annoying me.....more than usual.  Was it the never-ending cloudy days we've had all of October?  Or was it the way-too-early-even-for-Wyoming snow that I would have been excited to see in December but I complained vociferously about each time I saw a flake fall. 

This is the view when at least a portion of the interstate opened after being closed three days last week after the big snow 
and the trucks are re-routed through our city.  This steady stream  of semis continued for at least two hours that I know of.

Could it have been the fact that I spent most evenings in the past week using my grandma's Featherweight sewing machine (I hate sewing on a machine) to finish Myra's quilt. 

Now all I have to do is quilt it.

Maybe it was those pesky hormones rearing their ugly heads? Dang them! Or ...... what if I am I just .... CRAZY?  

This morning the sun is shining brightly and there is no wind......yet. I'm getting closer to feeling human again. I'm getting closer to being that carefree, chatty, goofy, cheerful ray of sunshine everybody around me expects. Wait, that would mean I'd totally transformed into Cheer Bear. Okay, maybe I'm not always chatty, I'm rarely carefree and if I'm goofy it's not on purpose...but I did talk at breakfast this morning and I haven't complained about or been annoyed by anything this morning--yet. This morning I marched right up to Dean and gave him a big hug.  When he took a small step back and looked at me warily with raised eyebrows I realized I'd better confess to him that I'd been a bit off but I was better now. I compared myself to a bad apple.  Apparently he'd noticed my offness because he said I'd been more like a piece of meat that sat out too long.

However, why was it that yesterday when the sun came out, the skies were blue, the air warmed up and the snow melted, I didn't instantly shed that bad meat aura and become a shiny, tart red apple?  (Even on my best days I would never be a sweet apple). Instead, I still felt like I was in a cold, slimy cave peering out at the sun and not sure I wanted to make the effort to crawl out far enough to actually feel it. If I didn't perk up once the sun came out does that mean I am crazy or hormonal or just too rotten to be salvaged?

How do I know which it is? If it's the lack of sun, in January, February and March, when Dean tells me he "has S-A-D" I won't be able to roll my eyes and tell him to "get over it" anymore and I'll be forced to admit I was wrong all those times I told him he was making it up.  I'll have to project understanding and empathy which will cause more stress in my life---like trying to change my whole personality into one that includes traits of understanding, empathy and sympathy.  I can feel my blood pressure rise just thinking about it.   Not only that but I'll have to convince myself there really is a disease that makes you nutso when the sun doesn't shine.  Then I'll have to empathize with myself because I can't control the stupid feelings and that will be close to impossible.  Oh, I can empathize and sympathize with myself til the cows come home.  But believe I don't have control over everything---no way.  Can you see it? Dean s-a-dly shuffling around, hangdog look on his face, broken up with occasional sparks of hope in his eyes when I empathetically ask him how he's doing and then the hang-dog look again when I tell him to get control of himself and suck it up. It's just too s-a-d.

If the past days of glumness have been due to the torture I subjected myself to by using a sewing machine (because hand piecing the borders on Myra's quilt would have taken two lifetimes) I can remedy that by keeping the machine in it's special case tucked away in the back of the closet.

If it's hormones or a diagnosis of crazy, there is no hope because there is no cure.   And if it's hormones I might think I should start eating more chocolate to make myself feel better and then I'll have to go to the gym more and spend more time on the elliptical and I hate the elliptical so then I'll  be cranky because I hate the elliptical but I'll eat more chocolate to make myself feel better.  And just thinking about it has made me eat four bite-size Snicker candies left from last night's Halloween candy.  Oh, please don't let it be hormones! 

Myra seemed to exhibit similar symptoms to mine Saturday morning after she, Pierce and Emerson had spent Friday night at our house. 

Nothing was going right for her.  She didn't want pancakes, she wanted juice, no! she wanted milk, no! she wanted water.  She wanted the toy Pierce was playing with (who refused to give it up), she didn't like the placement of her chair at breakfast.  She was just generally off and not happy-go-lucky, goofy little Myra.  

Pierce and Emerson were happily forking down pancakes when Myra stood in the kitchen, brushing her red, bedhead hair out of her eyes, screwed up her face, took a big breath and said, "I'm angry ... I'm really angry ...   I'm just fwus ... I'm frush..." and then finally with a big rush of air, "I'm frustrated!" 

This blog writing thing always takes me forever and it's a rare day I sit down and type one post without hours or days passing in between the beginning and end of the post.  Six hours after I started this post I'm beginning to feel progressively less rotten-meaty and more red appley.  Even the animals have been soaking up the sun and seem more relaxed. 

 

 

 

So I'm going to tell myself it's not the hormones and I'm not really crazy--not crazy as a loon anyway. I'm going to tell myself it's the lack of sunshine and bright blue skies that turned me into that stinky chunk of meat.  By the end of the day I plan to be a delicious cinnamon and raisin filled baked apple.  And it won't get the best of me ever again!

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How Do You Know?

Vroom! Vroom!

Back before I discovered my husband has obsessive/compulsive leaf sucker disease I intended to write about cars, guns, cats and pirates.   Since that time, we were ... cursed (no more leaf sucking) ... blessed (no more leaf sucking) with weather that looked like this.

Jeez....it's only October!

The dropping temperatures and white swirly stuff flipped a switch in my little brain and activated the finish Myra's quilt ...  finish it NOW lobe of my brain.  I had no choice but to listen to that voice in my head and get down to business.  Are you finished? you say.  Where are the photos? you say.  No. I say and I don't want to show you yet, I say.  I'm close, but there will be no photos until the top is finished and ready for quilting.  Soon, though.  Soon.  I hope.  In the meantime I intend to talk about cars, guns, cats and pirates.

A few days ago Pierce and I spent some time together while Leslie took a feverish, fluish Myra to the doctor.  There was only a brief moment of panic in his eyes as he saw the door close behind his mother, which I quickly squashed by grabbing a little toy car, pushing it along the floor and saying, "vroom, vroom" with a look of excitement in my eyes. 

He never stops moving

Sadly, that's the extent of my knowledge of how to play with boys.  Okay, not boys per se but little boys.....uh, small boys .....  um...........grandsons.    Anyway........I am the mother of two girls.  I have never developed the highly specialized skill of making noises.  Okay, that's not exactly true.  I know how to whine, cajole, and make mad mother noises, but I am a dismal failure at the noises cars make when they're being

Pierce knows how to make a gun noise....

pushed on the bedroom floor, or what a plastic pirate guy says or what that dragon you're swooping down to attack plastic pirate guy sounds like.  I'm not very good at sword play either.  I tend to be more worried about collateral damage.  I am sorta good at the gun cocking sound and pretty darn good at the gun shooting sound.  BANG! I say with a really loud voice.  But that's about it. 

So, when Pierce and I spent that time alone a few days ago there was alot of BANG! BANG!  VROOM!  VROOM!  in between lessons from Pierce on how to turn on the siren for the car and how to attack a cat. 

Cat wrangling is also a very important skill to develop.

He didn't seem to care that I only said BANG! when I shot the car or the cat with his gun (I did know how to cock it---so there!), or that I couldn't even come close to remembering what a pirate says.  I'm pretty sure it's not just where's my parrot? And when a dragon came swooping down to attack the pirate ship, he didn't even seem surprised when my dragon sound was"eeeeeeeeeee, roar, eeeee,  roar".  He just grabbed his sword and protected his little plastic pirate guy.◦

Vroom! Vroom!

A Man Obsessed

I intended to write a post tonight about my time yesterday with Pierce.  I turned on the computer, made a nice cup of tea, grabbed the camera so I could download my photos and then I saw this.  Yes, he is sucking up the leaves from the driveway.  I believe no other commentary is necessary other than--------

he missed one.

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A Man Obsessed

Myra's Quilt

I wish I could remember when I started Myra's quilt.  I know it was soon after she was born and I know she is now four years old.  I know it has taken me way, way too long to get to the point I am now and I know it will take way, way too long to get to the point when I can actually give it to her.

 

When Myra was little and not the big girl she is now, who does not use booster seats any more because big girls don't sit in booster seats, she and I sang Itsy Bitsy Spider.

And we played Pat-A-Cake, always marking it with an M and putting it in the oven for Myra and me

which was immediately followed by Myra sticking her feet up so we could play This Little Piggy Went To Market with her toes.

And because Myra is fearless and tumbles down alot and is rarely without a bandaid, Jack and Jill seemed appropriate.

The block that laid on the table all summer long, taunting me, wishing I would take the mere 15 minutes needed to finish it, was this, Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.  Last night I granted the wish and finished it.

Now all that's left is to decide which fabric to use for the framing, the blocks in between, the borders, put it all together and quilt it. 

Just a few small details.

I pulled out some fabric I had in my stash but I think I see a trip to the fabric store in my future. If anybody has any thoughts and/or suggestions about colors/design/fabric ...  please, feel free to share them with me.

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Myra's Quilt

Letting Go

While the folks here at home slid on ice-covered roads and shivered with single-digit lows, Abby and I were in Lincoln and Omaha surrounding ourselves with the soft sounds of taffeta, chiffon and satin which glowed in shades of white and ivory. Yes, we were shopping for a bridal gown. A perfect bridal gown. THE bridal gown.


There are an amazing number of bridal shops in business these days and there are literally hundreds of different styles and fabrics.  There are gowns in satin, chiffon, silk, or taffeta.  Gowns with huge puffy skirts, gowns with flowing skirts and gowns to make you look like a mermaid. There are gowns that lace up or button or zip.   Some are covered in beads or lace and some have absolutely none. There are gowns so heavy you'd need a weight-training program to wear them and gowns light and flowy.

The plan was to visit bridal shops on Friday, Saturday and Sunday.   Shopping for the dress you will wear on your perfect day brings forth thoughts of romance, feelings of love, and excitement about the future which will soon be your present. That's what the bridal magazines would have you believe anyway. I think we both thought it would be a relaxing, bonding, laughter-filled process broken up with lunch, snacks, and visiting, culminating in the discovery of the perfect gown. It was bonding, there was laughter and we did have lunch and snacks.  What the bridal magazines don't tell you though, is that in reality, bridal gown shopping is hard work.

It was two days of trying on anywhere between 30 to 40 gowns. I honestly lost track.  Over and over, out of the dressing room she would come, critically standing in front of the mirror to answer the all-important question "is THIS the one?" I knew Abby was wearing out near the end of day one, in store number three, when, as we were trying to decide which gowns she wanted to try on, she looked at me with that wiped out look in her eyes and said "would you please push the dresses along the rack for me."  Before we'd started shopping on Friday morning I didn’t believe it would be possible that she wouldn’t find a dress before Sunday.  Saturday morning when we were in our fourth dress shop and the perfect dress was yet to be found, even though I wasn’t sure how much more dress shopping either of our bodies could survive, more dress shopping on Sunday seemed a real possibility.


And then, at approximately 10:43 a.m., on Saturday morning, in a dress shop in Omaha, just as I was thinking to myself, “I guess I’m tougher than I thought…seeing her in wedding gowns hasn’t made me feel like crying”, out she walked in THE ONE.  She looked gorgeous. She glowed. There were “ahhhhhhhhhhs” from other brides-to-be and their mothers. And it turns out I’m not so tough. There was hugging and some tears.


I know I won’t be tough when the move to Ecuador comes. That’s when this letting go process that I both look forward to and dread will become achingly real. I know over the next few months there will be lots of
hugging and lots of tears. My heart will be bursting with joy for Abby and breaking into pieces all at the same time. I survived the letting go process with Leslie but practice does not make it any easier. I am not very good at this letting go thing. It should be easier to let go when your daughters have grown into loving, caring, intelligent, independent and open-minded women. It should be easier when they are both braver than I have ever been and are willing to break out of their comfort zone to experience new things and explore new ideas. It should be easier when they have chosen partners that I am happy and proud to call my son; men who I trust to care for my most precious possession. It should be easier because I have loved watching them evolve into successful women who have begun to build their own wonderful lives. It should be easy because I wouldn’t want it any other way. But it wasn't easy to let Leslie go and it's not any easier now as the time comes for me to finally let Abby go. One moment I think how exciting it will be for her to live in Ecuador with the man she loves, to experience another culture, to become fluent in Spanish, to find all those awesome bugs, to follow through and actually do something alot of us would be afraid to do.  And the next moment I want to grab onto her with both arms, dig my heels in and scream “don’t go!” And if I do scream out "don't go!" as she's heading to the plane, I know she will smile at me and tell me she loves me and not to worry. 

It will be okay.◦

Letting Go

Portland Endings ... Harvest Beginnings

We had our first really hard frost this week which means the end to garden growth but the beginning to garden harvesting.  I would be just as happy if all our produce came from the grocery store.  I'm not saying I don't enjoy the fresh produce, I just don't enjoy it enough to put forth the work.  Dean, on the other hand, seems to love the back-breaking dirt preparation, seed/seedling planting, weeding (not that he does much of that), and the all-important harvesting.  That's what's been going on this weekend.  Yesterday he pulled some of the 5,281 onions he planted, chopped them all up while wearing his specially purchased onion-fume-preventing goggles, and made some kind of pickled onion thing.  Our house now reeks of onions.

note the steam in the goggles

This morning just as I had taken the first sip of my coffee and was sitting down to read the paper  I found out Dean would "probably need help digging the potatoes before it rains."  I left my steaming coffee on the table, put on my dad's old army coat, my earband and snow boots, tromped out, and with my freezing fingers, in a wind chill of 25 degrees, plucked potatoes forked up from some of the 798 hills of potatoes Dean had planted and placed them gently in a box. 

Today he has been making green tomato chutney from the 16,275 tomatoes he has picked from his plants.  During a break in the chutney action I slipped in and mixed up a batch of sourdough bread which is now rising peacefully on the counter.   I wonder how many times I'll have to punch it down until there's another opportunity to slip in so I can form the loaves.

So......since it's a cold, rainy, gloomy day and my husband has taken over the kitchen it seems a good time to finish up with our trip to Portland.

On Friday we took a scenic drive.   I don't think this was part of the "scenic tour" but we were almost as impressed with  this cabbage field as we were with the many waterfalls we saw along the way. 

Scenic Drive--Click for slideshow

We ended our drive at the Bonneville Dam just as a barge was preparing to go through the locks.  I spoke to an older (even older than me) gentleman standing next to me as we were watching and he said he'd lived in the area his whole life and had never seen the locks in action so we were pretty dang lucky.  Once the process had completed, we checked out the fish ladders. 

Locks and Fish Ladders--click for slideshow

Saturday we were downtown again checking out the arts and crafts market and walking through Chinatown.  It turned out that it was also "Operation Overcoat" day and there was a long line of homeless people snaking its way down and around a couple of blocks waiting to get into a large fenced off area with tables of free clothing and food.  It was an up-close and personal reminder of how lucky I am. But seeing this in front of a school on one of our walks made me feel hopeful and happy.

As I've been writing this, the smell of onion in our house has now been replaced by vinegar fumes.  My eyelids are sweating, my eyes are watering and my nose is pinched.  I managed to sneak in and form my bread loaves although they're probably going to taste like vinegar.  I might be forced to open doors and windows to clear the air.  With the stiff breeze I see outside it probably wouldn't take long.  And even if the temperature inside drops down to 55 or so Dean should be used to it since that's my preferred sleeping temperature these days and can only be obtained by sleeping with a window open year-round.  I have noticed that the past few mornings there have been miscellaneous bits of clothing thrown across his side of the bed which he must grab during the night .....shirts, bathrobe...., apparently to increase his warmth.  I can't yet bring myself to switch from the summer bedspread to the comforter so today I added a blanket.  He should be toasty now.

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Portland Endings ... Harvest Beginnings