Aye Carumba! La Vida Es Loco!

An interesting progression of one thing leading to another has begun happening in the five days since I accepted my own challenge of learning to speak Spanish.  (114 days to go, but who's counting).  First of all, right this minute, as I typed this post title, I realized I've been learning  Spanish since I was a young child and I just didn't realize it. Crazy, no? I honestly don't know what aye carumba means or if I'm even spelling it right. But I'm pretty sure I learned that phrase while Speedy Gonzales was chasing down Wiley E. Coyote just before he blew up Bugs Bunny as Bugs was stealing spinach from Popeye.

I have two music cds propped up against my computer at work.  Yes, only two.  Get over it.  I play  these two cds during those times when my normally challenging, they-want-it-when? workday is reduced to a boring, mind-numbing, who-has-candy-outside-their-cubicle-I-need-something-to-stimulate-me effort to maintain an upright position in my chair while at the same time appearing to be challenged. At least when the boss walks by. Clicking my mouse to the beat of a song can be stimulating, and if I alternate the clicks with each chew of candy/doughnut/pretzel/cookie, it can be downright challenging. Some days that's the only way I can keep myself from falling face-first into my keyboard. This week I increased my cd collection by one.  I now have the additional choice of a spanish music cd Abby and Jorge gave me for Christmas.  This complicated process of  listening closely in order to pick out the words I recognize from the spanish songs, while rhythmically clicking and chewing, has the additional benefit of  forestalling Alzheimers.

However, a side effect of all this spanish music listening is that I have begun to dream with spanish music playing in the background.  Really. Two nights in a row I was dreaming spanish music. And not only that, I was singing it! Yes, singing! The real spanish words. To this song! 



How weird is that?

And here's something even more crazy. spanish music has taken control of my brain and I have signed Dean and I up for a salsa class!  I intend to.  I have the form.  I will be filling it out.  Soon.  Really.  If you have ever seen Dean and I dance, you know that our prospective Salsa instructor has no idea of the challenge ahead of her.   I will be trying to lead.  Dean will be one beat off.  He'll go one way when I want to go the other.  I'll lose my count and stop dead in the song, wait, count, start again.  Dean'll still be a beat off.   I'll move like an arthritic ostrich, arms flapping, head bobbing.  Dean will duck and sway, still one beat off, hoping to avoid my flailing limbs, now and then grabbing a wing arm to twirl me.

Listen.


Are you feeling it?  My foot's tapping. My head's bobbing. My left hip just moved.....it's Salsa Time!

Aye Carumba! La vida es muy loco!◦

Aye Carumba! La Vida Es Loco!

150,000 Words. 121 Days. Three CD Programs. One Textbook. One Woman.

After Dean and I had been married a short while and my thrill with being in charge of all things housewifely had worn thin, we worked a deal whereby we divided some of the household chores.  We shared the cooking and the cleaning up and we even shared the bathroom cleaning.  In addition, I did all the laundry, I did all the ironing, and I did all the other house cleaning.  Dean took over all the manly chores, like organizing the record collection.   This arrangement continued on and worked nicely as our family grew busier and more chaotic when children were added.  The girls knew that on Sunday morning they could always count on my sour cream waffles for breakfast.  On Saturday morning they knew they could always count on their dad's music blasting away in the kitchen even though they never knew what would be placed on the table in front of them for breakfast. 

One evening as we were having dinner with friends, our arrangement came up in conversation.  Our friends listened with admiration as we told them how this whole sharing-of-the-chores process worked.  During this explanation I mentioned that I hated coming up with an idea of what to cook each night for dinner, I didn't much enjoy cooking it anyway, and I was glad I didn't have to do it every night.  Dean responded with, "I love cooking but I hate cleaning the bathroom."  Renegotiation immediately ensued and when our dinner ended, a new chapter in shared chores had begun.  From then on Dean did all the cooking and those manly chores, like arranging the cd collection.  I cleaned the bathrooms.  In addition, I also cleaned up after he cooked, I cleaned the house, I did the laundry, I ironed the clothes, and I mowed the lawn.  And that's the deal that is still in place.

A while ago as I was watching Julie and Julia, I was almost inspired to want to cook.  I was almost inspired to renegotiate that long-standing chore-sharing deal and try cooking.  And then I came to my senses.  But what I was inspired to do was learn Spanish.  I have a daughter living in Ecuador after all.  It seems the right thing to do.  I was so inspired that I have been thinking about learning Spanish for exactly 22 days.  Seriously learning Spanish.  Not trying to learn it by loading up my Spanish-on-cd-program three whole days in a row, and then not opening the program again for two months.  No, this time I am inspired to be Julie.

If Julie could cook 536 recipes in 365 days while working full-time, surely I can find the time to learn Spanish.  In the 22 days I've been inspired to think about seriously learning Spanish, I've been seriously considering how to go about it.  I don't enter into this lightly.  I am negotiating a deal with myself and I intend to fully live up to the terms of the contract.  That's been the hard part.   Comng up with the terms of the deal.  My goal is to be able to speak enough Spanish so that when I take Abby her wedding dress I can talk to her future family without making a total idiot of myself.  How hard can I push myself?    Who will I practice with?  Who's going to tell me that when I meant to say "have a great day" I really said, "have a big god" ?  Which tool do I even use?  I have four  of them!  What am I willing to give up in order to add one more task to my daily routine?  Geez, there's already important stuff taking up my days....like working and eating and sleeping and sometimes even blogging.  And not only that, this might make me fat.  What's going to happen when I try and shove 150,000 words into my brain?   

So after 22 days of pondering, (and let's be honest, putting this off), here are the terms of the contract I have set for myself:

1.  I will spend thirty minutes, five days per week, either listening to one of the cd programs or working with the textbook. 

2.  More time may be added during each session but that extra time does not carry over to the next day.

4.  Less than 30 minutes each session does not meet the requirement.

5.  The terms of this contract begin Monday, February 1, 2010 and end on the day I fly to Ecuador with Abby's wedding dress in hand.

6.  Since I don't know when I will be taking Abby's wedding dress to Ecuador I set a minimum final date of June 1, 2010. 

So the next step is to load those cd programs onto my computer, take a big breath and prepare myself for tomorrow.  I'm going to do that.  Now.  Right after I go check my supply of chocolate.◦

150,000 Words. 121 Days. Three CD Programs. One Textbook. One Woman.

Unleaded or Regular?

I was driving to the gym tonight after work and patting myself on the back because tonight was the fifth day in a row that I have pulled on my neon green shorts (purchased for a mere 50 cents from the Salvation Army) and my extra-large t-shirt with frayed neck, tied up my grass stained tennis shoes, planted my sorry, now somewhat larger, butt in the car, drove two minutes to the health club, parked, walked in and actually participated in physical activity.  In the past six months I am pretty positive that I have seen the inside of this health club a total of approximately 10 times.  I could blame myself for not placing exercise high on my list of priorities.  I could blame myself for not having the fortitude to suck it up and go even when there really wasn't a free moment.  I could have forced myself to get up and on that elliptical at 5:00 a.m..  Um, not really.  I tried the early workout once and almost threw up on the machine. 

What I choose to blame for my lack of healthy exercise, however, is acronyms.  Yes, acronyms.  Two, to be specific, which monopolized my time for months.  One I promised not to speak of til summer (hint....it begins with B and ends with D).  The other begins with a P and ends with an D and now resides in Ecuador.   And okay, there was Thanksgiving and Christmas, leisure trips on my favorite interstates, laundry, rare fits of cleaning, and those annoying habits of eating and sleeping.

So, as I was saying, I was driving to gym, congratulating myself on getting back in the saddle, so to speak, and I noticed my windshield was dirty.  I really hate driving with a dirty windshield so I regularly hit the little handle on the steering wheel that squirts water on your windshield and then automatically kicks on the wipers so next thing you know, voila! you have a clean windshield.   Recently I've noticed that when I wash my windshield with the wiper solution I smell this weird sweet fragrance.  I'm not sure what it is, but I'm 99.9% sure it's coming from my wiper fluid.  I'm not sure, but I think the last time I got my oil changed and they topped off my fluids, they must have put in some kind of sweetened wiper water.  Why would anybody want sweet wiper fluid?  I only smell it while the water is squirting so it's not like it would freshen your car.  I find it a bit too sweet for my taste anyway.  But there you have it.  My wiper fluid smells sweet when I clean my windshield.

Smelling that sweet scent tonight reminded me of other aromas.  One day I thought my car smelled like cat pee when I drove to work.  I don't think I had cleaned my windshield that morning so it's not like the wiper water rotted and started smelling.  And anyway, it smelled sweet the next time I used it so it couldn't have been that.  I didn't hear any cat screams when my engine started so I know there wasn't any cat up under my hood that sprayed itself in fear when I turned the key.  I only smelled it that one morning and it wasn't there when I drove home but I'm pretty sure it was cat pee.

And then tonight as I was on the elliptical, an overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke engulfed me.  I looked over and a guy had just gotten on the machine to my right.  He stunk.  Like cigarette smoke.  I tried to make excuses for him because he was a solidly built bald guy with a goatee and I'm partial to  bald guys with beards.  I wanted to believe he didn't want to walk into a health club, a place people go to be healthy, stinking like an ashtray.  It could be that his New Years Resolution is to quit smoking and get in better shape.  He was there, after all.  He was on the elliptical.  Maybe he is down to only one cigarette a day and he smoked it just before he walked into the gym. Maybe he really wants to quit smoking and he just hasn't been able to.  I tried to be sympathetic to the difficulty he's having trying to quit smoking but I just couldn't get past the fact that he stunk.  He reeked of smoke.  I had to breathe in those noxious fumes while I was sweating on the elliptical.  And I was breathing hard because I was working hard and that meant I was sucking in volumes, liters, gallons, cubic inches, pretty much most of the stinky smoky air surrounding him.  I might have lost minutes off my life instead of adding them.

There are things that happen in your body when you are working out.  There's something about physical activity that improves the flow of the blood and air through all your veins and arteries.  Gases that are normally under control discover new unimpeded pathways and routes of release.  Your guts are pushed and squashed and jostled so that little bubbles of air begin flowing and moving and gaining speed and momentum and in their excitement to be free it becomes more difficult to control their escape.  Of course there are some situations when control is easier than others.  Pilates, for example can be a challenge when you're throwing your legs up in the air and back over your head.  Pilates takes a great deal of concentration and control.  It can even require some preventive and proactive action before the class begins.  The elliptical, on the other hand, is just legs moving up and down.  There's not alot of jostling or pressing of innards.   It's rare to be surprised by freedom-seeking effluvium while on the elliptical. 

So, tonight, while I was inhaling stale cigarette smoke I felt no compunction to keep my gases in control.  I pumped my legs.  I sweat.  I stared straight ahead and yes, I did.  My silent mephitic gift to him.  My only regret is knowing Mr. Lucky Strike probably didn't even notice over the smell of his own cigarette smoke.◦

Unleaded or Regular?

Distraction is the name of the game

You know how in your head you know something is going to happen but in your heart you don't really believe it will?  Saturday was kind of like that.  Even as we helped Abby lug into the airport her two suitcases weighing a total of 3,219 pounds, a carry-on weighing 562 pounds, and a laptop bag weighing a mere 95 pounds (are you okay, Jorge?  no suitcase hefting injuries?) I couldn't quite get my head around the fact that she was really and truly going to be leaving and living in Ecuador.  I'm kinda thinkin' Dean had the same feeling because Friday night after dinner on our way to the airport hotel, when he and Abby couldn't agree on how many miles it was to the tollway exit, he challenged her to a bet with the stakes being you lose, you don't go.  Dr. Stilwell enlisted scientific reasoning and determined not to take him up on it.  She didn't have to stay behind, but she did have to admit to her father that she would have lost.

The pain of saying goodbye was as hard as I imagined it to be.  Walking into an empty house and bedroom was as hard as I thought it would be.  The tears I knew would flow, did flow but my face wasn't covered in snot not at the airport anyway so that was good.   We stretched out the misery of the moment as long as possible.  We tortured ourselves with watching Abby through the whole security process.  Yup, we ran up the escalator so we could get shots of her from above as she began snaking her way through security.

See her with the red bag?

Then we ran down the escalator so we could take photos of her partway through the security line. 

And as she worked her way closer to the final end of the line, we worked ourselves along the wall separating her from us, taking more pictures until that glass wall became a solid wall and ended our photo session.

There she is.......see her.........see the wall......to the right........?  we're over there........watching.....taking this picture.

We are all home now and adjusting in our own way and at our own pace.  Dean chose to distract himself by using some of the 815 hangers Abby left behind to reorganize his shirts.  They are now color-coded.  Green hangers for office shirts, white hangers for dress shirts, blue hangers for work-around-the-house shirts.  I plan to distract myself by looking into therapy options for him when he discovers I've placed his freshly ironed shirts on the wrong color of hanger.

One of us woke up this morning to the sounds of so many birds singing she thought she was in a forest and then walked outside her house and picked a starfruit for breakfast.   It wasn't me.

◦

Distraction is the name of the game

How many tears can the body produce?

It's the 24-hour countdown.  As I type this Abby is having breakfast with her dad and then will be going to say goodbye to her sister, nieces and nephew.  One of the many goodbyes she's been saying recently, but this will be a hard one.   The tears will flow and even though the kids won't really understand why, they will cry too because everyone else is.

Her bags are packed, ready and waiting.  I am waiting but not ready.

I stood in her bedroom inhaling her perfume and absorbing aura of the room, hoping that when I walk into it again, walk into a room empty of all the things that have filled it for the past two weeks, it will be less painful.  But really, I know that I will be crying when I pull off the sheets, crying when I vacuum the floor, crying as I dust the windowsills, because I am crying as I type this.

There are piles of stuff all over the house that Abby wants us to store or donate or keep, depending upon what it is.  Life before and since Christmas has been busy and chaotic and fun which meant that the piles that I should have looked through just got moved from one spot to another as the need for space arose.  I am hoping that I will be able to distract myself once we come home from the airport by finally sorting through, putting away, donating, getting rid of all those piles.  What am I thinking?  How is looking through things Abby had to decide she could not bring with her, but are/were part of her life going to distract me?  Duh.

I thought I could write a light-hearted post about this whole last day thing but it turns out I can't.  I'm sad and I don't care who knows it.  But I know a week from today, or maybe even a couple of days from now I'll be better.  I know that I have it easy.  Staying in contact is so much easier and instantaneous than when I moved away and long-distance phone calls were expensive and a luxury and a hand-written letter once a week was the best way to keep in touch.  I know that when Abby walks through the airport to the waiting arms of Jorge she will be fine.  It doesn't matter where you are.  It matters who you are with.  And even if we aren't together physically, we are together in our hearts........and on Skype........and e-mail................and phone calls with cheap (cheap being a relative term) international phone cards. 

I promise the next post will be happy.....ier..........not totally sad...........less sad.......................or maybe the post after that........................◦

How many tears can the body produce?

The Next Stage...

On New Years Day in 1979 Dean and I pulled out of Lincoln with our first-born, 3-week old daughter securely strapped in her car seat in the back of our 1976 Datsun B-210.  A moving van had departed days earlier for Denver with all of our worldly possessions.  I left with tears in my eyes but full of anticipation for the beginning of the next stage of our life.  31 years later on New Years Day, Dean and I once again pulled out of Lincoln.   This time we were a caravan of a Budget truck, a Honda Accord and our youngest 29-year old doctor daughter securely strapped in the seatbelt of her our yippee! Subaru. 

We drove 9 1/2 hours to Lincoln, arriving at 3:30 p.m. on Thursday, picked up a Budget truck, loaded it and two cars, and departed a mere 18 hours later for another 9 1/2 hour drive to Casper.  The down side was we had to carry all the worldly possessions Abby had chosen to take with her to Ecuador, store at our house, or bequeath to us or her sister, through a path dug into 15 inches of snow, with temps ranging from 9 to 15 degrees.  The up side was that I was too exhausted to even consider shedding a tear or two when we pulled away for the trip to Casper.  A few of those tears came later, after hours of total boredom on the interstate, when my mind began wandering over the memories of the past 5 1/2 years and the knowledge that a new and exciting part of Abby's life is beginning.  A part in which I will play a much smaller part.

So far my emotions range from one extreme to the other and they literally change from moment to moment.  One minute I am totally fine with this whole move and feel completely confident I will be able to smile and say goodbye to Abby (on Saturday, January 16 at 7 a.m.) in front of hundreds of weary travellers at the security line in Denver.  Then out of the blue, in the next moment, my throat aches, tears threaten to spill over and sometimes do and I am positive I will never, never, never, ever be able to say goodbye to Abby.  Hundreds of weary travellers are going to be distracted during their wait at the security line by watching a sobbing, blubbering, snot-covered woman being dragged away by a bald and bearded man shaking his head and pretending like he doesn't really know her.  Bets anyone?

Now begins the work of sorting and divvying up precious possessions.

◦

The Next Stage...

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.

◦

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