INSULT AND INJURY

I cannot believe that The Holiday is nearly here.  This year it has snuck up on me, and I have heard many say that they feel the same way.  I am not ready, in many senses of the word.  Several factors contribute to my lack of preparation and enthusiasm.  Let me elaborate.

The other day Girl8 and I were preparing for our annual attendance at the Nutcracker.  We always enjoy dressing up, and there is something about going to the ballet that makes us feel quite worldly.  As we were going to my mom's for dinner, we wanted to take our clothes and change after eating so as not to soil our fancy duds.  I told Girl8 to get her dress ready, figure out what shoes to wear, and we duked it out over the fleece-lined tights (she didn't wear them, I won't tell you who won the argument).  Then I pulled numerous outfits out of the closet, trying each one on in front of the critical eye of Girl8, who was assuring me that she knows fashion.   I reminded her that I do not have a desire to be dressed like a stylish 8-year old.  Girl8 nixed several of my outfits with valid reasons ("are those pants on backwards?" being one of them).  Finally we settled on some pieces that went well together.  We packed our bags.  I was saying all of the standard maternal figure lines, including "go to the bathroom before we leave", "did you pack your shoes?", "don't forget to bring your piano books!", and "put on your coat - it is Winter!" while loading myself with a bag of salad fixins, keys, and several electronic devices.  Fast forward to after dinner.  Girl8 transformed herself by donning her fancy dress and shiny Mary Janes.  I was looking forward to putting on my skirt and sweater and completing the stylish and hip mother-daughter unit.  AARGH!  I had left my bag at home.  I had to wear my coat buttoned all the way up to my neck to cover up my jeans and T-shirts.  Yes, plural.  Trust me when I tell you that I will be well dressed in public from now on.  Girl8 will not allow me out otherwise.

The next day, we were rushing home between school and music lessons.  Although the garage was dimly lit, I spotted a pencil on the floor.  I bent down to pick it up and nearly poked my eye out with the Shop Vac crevice attachment that was sticking straight up out of the canister.  As it is, I still may end up with a black eye.  Needless to say, there was some disgruntled shouting heard in the garage.

Another unusual injury I have recently suffered is what my students have coined "whip-thumb".  If you are familiar with wooden stacking dolls, you know that you twist one open and a smaller one is inside.  Twist that one open and you find another smaller one, and so on.  We have a set of stacking snowmen. The smallest doll is a penguin.  Girl8 was playing with them one day.  She couldn't open them, so I gave it a shot.  Think about yarfing on a jar of pickles.  I gave that snowman doll my all, and in the process hurt both of my thumbs.  My left thumb healed quickly, but my right thumb is swollen and no longer opposable.  I have been wearing a "thumb brace", which, as you can imagine, attracts a bit of attention.  I will be telling people that I had a parachute accident, as nobody wants to hear about a Matryoshka doll incident.

Dear Reader, I know you now understand why I cannot yet wrap presents - my eye patch and thumb brace are bigger impediments than I expected.  I am hoping that my holiday mojo returns soon and I can resume my preparations with both eyes and all ten fingers.

GET FIT!

If you are blessed with two X chromosomes and are over the age of, let's just say 30 years, chances are that you have had the experience of getting fitted for a supportive undergarment.  More than likely, it's an experience that you were hoping to forget.  It's not something that would generally be brought up at the water cooler at work, or even at the lunch table (please see This Is Not Table Talk).

It was Oprah who shouted from the rooftops of NBC that most of the women in America were not wearing the correct foundation garment size.  Alarmed women everywhere rushed to the nearest department store and surrendered to the Fitting Specialists.  For good reason, as it turns out, as wearing ill-fitting shape wear can be detrimental to one's posture, wreck one's back, make one look bigger (in a negative way), and even deform one's bosom.  I don't need to mention how unattractive it can make one look and feel to be sagging down with no support whatsoever.

With that said, one should be happy to be fitted and learn the correct way to measure for a proper fit.  It doesn't seem to work out that way.  The actual measuring is the least humiliating bit of the ordeal.  Once one is alone in the fitting room, it can be similar to being a prisoner, at the mercy of the Professional Fitter.  The Professional returns with an assortment of brassieres for the prisoner to try on.  The Professional leaves with the promise of returning soon.  The prisoner wrangles on an undergarment.  Part of the problem is that prisoners have not been suitably trained in what Ill Fitting means and what a Proper Fit looks like.  The prisoners don't know why it puckers here, pinches there, pokes out, or digs in.  The prisoner waits expectantly for the Professional to return to the dressing room and answer questions regarding the puckers, pinches and pokes.  Meanwhile, the prisoner is stuck in the fitting room staring at her half-dressed self in the mirror.  Often times this is not something that the prisoner wants to be looking at.  There are probably very few women over the age of 30 who look good under fluorescent lights, wearing only an improperly fitting undergarment and pants.  Nobody should have to look at that.

After knocking and gaining entry, the Professional takes an appraising glance at the prisoner.   Her diagnosis is peppered with vocabulary such as Demi Cup, Back Smoothing, Bridge, Wireless, Minimizing, Figure Enhancing, Push Up, Posture Improving, Padded, Convertible, Racerback... it can be overwhelming to the prisoner. The Professional assures the prisoner that she will return shortly. The prisoner faces a dilemma:  disrobe and wait around half naked, or wait in the ill-fitting gear?  Either way, she is still trapped in the little room with the big mirror.  The Professional never returns promptly.  This process has the potential to continue for quite a while, depending upon the prisoner's patience and the number of prisoners being attended by the Professional.

All of this torture is worth it, however, when the prisoner is paroled and walks out of the store with a bag full of properly fitting garments.  These garments promise to lift, shape, enhance, minimize, and support.  They can make a person look slimmer, seem more youthful, appear taller, and run faster, not to mention cook better.  Surely, all of these positive outcomes outweigh the negatives, so dash out there and get fit!

WHAT CAN'T I DO?

After a recent post on a social networking site about what a fabulous cook I am, and how I can do just about anything, it was pointed out by some Friends that I was lacking a little in the humility department.  I thought that I should assure you, Intimidated Reader, that there are plenty of things that I cannot do.

I do not think that there are many who still believe that I am a talented stain remover and general washerwoman.  After posting Lament of the Laundress, I pretty much burst everyone's bubble on that one.  Girl8 has several articles of clothing that she may only get to wear until they are soiled.  After that, they will reside in the bottom of the hamper, as I have absolutely no idea how to wash them.  Yes, there are washing instructions.  Yes, they are in English.  There are certain socks that I have managed to keep out of the dryer for their entire lives because I fear for their safety, as well as shrink potential.   I live in fear of shrink potential.  If you have no idea what I am talking about, you probably have never washed and dried a wonderful-fitting pair of jeans, only to pull them out of the dryer and find that they have inexplicably turned in to an ill-fitting pair of high waters.  You have not experienced the indignation of pulling your favorite, thick nubby socks over your heel with two hands because they shrank in the dryer, only to find that they no longer go half-way up your leg.  You would consider yourself lucky if they covered your ankle.

When it comes to home improvement, I am often at a loss.  Luckily, I work with several talented and all-knowing fellows that field my repair and maintenance questions on a regular basis.  I have pestered Jerry countless times about the merits and imperfections of different types of siding, and he has answered many a query regarding "frost free" faucets (try saying that three times fast!).  I quizzed Bob about furniture building and repair, and another Jerry has been my source of answers regarding metal roofing and wood splitting.  It was Don who brainstormed with me when some outlets in my garage stopped working, and he coached me through changing out the GFI.  Although I was successful in not electrocuting myself (my primary goal at that time), the outlets still did not work.  It took a few more days of talking it out with Don to understand more about how electricity works, and then I realized that the cat had created a short when she peed on the extension cord, which was simultaneously plugged into the wall AND connected to the shop vac.

The one type of repair I refuse to attempt is plumbing.  One small mistake and my house could be flooded.  I have seen the results of water damage, and they are not pretty.  A few years ago the faucet stopped working outside.  I called in a plumber and he needed to do a repair from inside the house, which included cutting a hole in an interior wall.  I stayed in the kitchen, not wanting to see the destruction of my den.  Girl5 was fascinated and supervised the plumber's every move.  At one point he told her to ask me for a slice of bread.  I  mutely gave it to her to pass on to the plumber, wondering if I should ask if he wanted ham with that.  It was soon after that when I heard her warn him, "I don't think you should be doing that in the house!"  Later I found out that he had been using a blowtorch on the faucet inside a hole he had cut in the living room wall.  The bread was somehow a good agent to prevent a leak.  It was returned to me in several handfuls.

I have waxed poetic about my wonderful wood stove, round woodpiles and cute woodshed.  I never could have built the woodshed without the help of my brother, and he is also the main logger of our lumberjack family.  If it were not for him, we would not have a plentiful supply of firewood every year, and consequently, Olympic fires in our wood stoves, lasting from fall until spring.   He has more strength and stamina than Lance Armstrong, and I am confident that he is not using performance enhancing drugs.  There is no way that I could bend over those monster trees with that extra large chain saw all day long.  My back wants to give up just thinking about it.

I have an amazingly talented family.  I have cousins who can sing like canaries, other relatives who can draw anything you like, and still another who arranges flowers for heads of state.  One has just written a video game for the iToys, while others are creating websites.  I cannot lay claim to any of their abilities.  I am in constant awe of their accomplishments, which seem to emphasize my lack thereof.

So, Dear Reader, if you sense that I am getting a little too big for my britches, crooning "Takin' Care of Business" a little too often, because maybe I made dinner on a weeknight, let it go.  There are plenty of things that I am unable to do.  Now that this has been cleared up, I am going to duck out and split a couple of uranium atoms before lunch.

TO BE CONTINUED

After reading the title of this post, you are probably wondering if you will have to wait a few weeks to read the next chapter.  No, Concerned Reader.  "To be continued" would be music to my ears.  You see, everything that I love is being discontinued.

It all started with my coffee.  For the past twenty-something years, I have been drinking General Foods International Coffee.  For a while, I was a Cafe Vienna girl, but for the majority of the time span I sipped Orange Cappuccino every morning.  I am pretty sure that it is what runs in my veins.  For a while I was slowed down by what I would call a sensitivity to caffeine, but a small beta blocker every morning fixed me right up and I was able to glug with abandon.  A few years ago, the Orange Cappuccino disappeared from the grocery stores.  In its place appeared Orange Latte.  Orange Latte fizzed when the water mixed with the powder (did I mention that this coffee is instant?) and it had a peculiar orange candy flavor.  I searched the markets for my beloved Orange Cappuccino, and I told friends and relatives all over the Americas to keep their eyes peeled.  I searched the internet tirelessly, hoping to find rogue, outdated boxes of my morning mud.  I even joined a couple of websites where all of the contributors were wailing and bemoaning the loss of their favorite flavor of coffee, Orange Cappuccino.  Mornings were not complete with the substitute coffees I tried.  I was pretty grumpy trying to get by on Cafe Vienna and Swiss Mocha.  My colleagues even had the nerve to tease me about it, threatening to post bogus comments on my Orange Cappuccino websites.  As suddenly as Orange Cappuccino disappeared from the grocery stores, the Orange Latte was gone and the Orange Cafe hit the scene.  My internet friends continue to complain about the Orange Cafe, but I am happy.  My flavor is back, but it does not seem to be as easily found as before.  I signed up with Amazon.com for a subscribe and save program, in which I would be sent a certain number of cans every month automatically.  After I received the first shipment, my subscription was cancelled.  My coffee is no longer eligible for that program.  I continue to search all of the local grocery stores for my new flavor.  When I find it, I usually empty the shelf, buying 10 or 12 cans at a time.  I have tried swinging deals with the manager at a local store when I found out he was my former student.  I have begged the buyers at another store to buy my flavor.  It never seems to work out.  I have gone to extreme measures to acquire my afternoon ambrosia, even buying trunkloads of coffee from a nearby state.  I finally found it at an irresistible price on the website of a national chain store at which I have refused to shop for many years.  Shipping was free.  I am ashamed to tell you, Discreet Reader, that I ordered nearly 60 cans.

My next good thing that became discontinued was my foundation undergarment.  If you are of the female persuasion, you probably know what a nuisance it is to get fitted for this sort of thing.  Once you know what works for you, you stick with it.  Why fix it if it is not broken, right?  Suffice it to say that I was quite upset upon hearing the news, and before I left the store, I ordered every one of them that I could, color was not an issue.

Last year I found an eyeliner that I loved.  It was a fat pencil that felt good in my hand, it did not make my eyes water, it stayed on all day, and I liked the color, Black Frost.  My pencil got shorter and shorter, and became a tiny stub.  I began looking for a new pencil in the summer.  Every time I went to the store, I hung around the makeup department, trying to remember the name of the brand.  I drove the clerk nuts, always asking her about a "fat eyeliner pencil".  I repeated the phrase "fat pencil" countless times, but it helped neither her memory nor her inventory.  Even last week I made an appearance in the cosmetic department, finally armed with the right brand name (Maybelline) and the color.  There were no fat pencils anywhere.  Then one day I had a novel idea.  I looked on the internet, hoping to find a box of discontinued, fat eyeliner pencils.  Joyous Reader, I hit the jackpot!  I found my fat pencils, in my preferred color, at a terrific price (you know what a cheapskate I am), and free shipping.  I am not ashamed to tell you, Dear Reader, that I ordered 10 fat pencils.  I was on top of the world.

I grew up playing with an abacus.  It had colorful beads, and it was fun to click the beads back and forth.  It was functional, too.  One time I was playing with balancing my mom's checkbook, and I found $100 for her (I amused myself in unusual ways).  As you know, the abacus is not widely popular in this day and age.  My old abacus is long gone, but I am now on the hunt for a new one.  Not only will I be using it to balance my checkbook, it will be vital in keeping track of my stockpile of Orange Cafe, supportive underwear, and Black Frost fat eyeliner pencils.

NAME THAT TUNE!

I like music.  I was in the percussion section for seven years in the school band.  I listened to the radio every day on the bus, to and from school.  Except for those three months when I rode my bike.  I have been to many a concert and boogie and blues fest.  I am taking piano lessons vicariously through Girl8.  Here is my truth:  I cannot understand the words of most songs.  Along with my supporting evidence below, I have provided a link to each song so you can listen for yourself.

When I was a kid, the song Dream Weaver, by Gary Wright, became a top hit.  It was on the radio constantly, and was always stuck in my head.  Unfortunately, neither I nor my mom could understand the lyrics.  We thought we could, though, and to this day we still sing "Tray Weebah" to the Dream Weaver melody.

Foreigner belted out a song called Urgent.  I only know part of the chorus:  "Urgent, Urgent.... Emergency!"  I cannot tell you what the rest of the lyrics are, but I imagine that it is about someone who needs a bathroom in the most serious way.

Hungry Eyes, by Eric Carmen, became popular with the movie Dirty Dancing.  I blame the bad grammar, "I feel the magic between you and I", for the fact that I can only remember that line and no others from this toe-tapping tune.

I do know most of the words to Walk Away, Renee, a hit for the Four Tops in 1968.  This is because my dad and I laid on the floor with our heads next to the speaker of the record player, which was cranked up, and played that 33 over and over again until we learned all of the words.  I have had exceptional hearing ever since.

After Girl8 and I watched Shrek, we were enchanted by the Smashmouth song, All Star.  We couldn't get it out of our heads.  I had the Astro Lounge CD, so we listened to it in the car for days on end, learning the lyrics.  It is such a fast-paced song that I don't think either one of us ever got through it without at least one mistake.  I had the same experience with Two Princes by the Spin Doctors.  I love the songs with the fast patter, but I just am not able to keep up with them.

With my poor track record, I can't really believe that in the song When the Big One Comes by the Euphorics, they are singing something about "with a can of tuna, underneath my bum", but I sing it anyway.

Hootie and the Blowfish sing a song called "Only Wanna Be With You".  Darius Rucker croons, "And I wonder why I'm such a baby, 'cause the Dolphins make me cry" before he launches back into the chorus.  It made no sense to me that he would be singing about the Miami Dolphins, so I assumed he was singing "'cause endorphins make me cry".

I listen to a lot of music in Spanish.  Often people ask me, "What are they saying?", or "What are they singing about?"  Obviously they don't know me very well.  If I can't understand the words of songs in English... I have no idea what is being sung about in Spanish, other than the hint I get from the title, which I read on the CD case.

Mostly I just mouth the words I know and hum along with the rest.  I may shout out one word that I know in the midst of a lot of "mmmhunnm hnmuuhmm".  Usually Girl8 knows the song and I have to ask her what they are saying, or, more often than not, she corrects me.  The one instance that she is not impressed with my musical ability and knowledge of lyrics is when she is practicing the piano.

Generally I know the words to her piano songs, and just this week I have been wowing her by singing along to her Christmas song, "Joy to the World".  NOT.  Yes I do know the lyrics, and it is not the one with Jeremiah the Bull Frog.  I am definitely not wowing her.  It seems like the people you want to impress the most are always the ones least impressed.  It is really a pity, too, because I could knock her socks off with my rendition of the 1880s hit, "Polly Wolly Doodle".

SHE THINKS SHE IS THE BOSS OF ME!

Intuitive and detail-oriented reader, you know my profession.  You know that all day long I am in a position of authority, and in that position I am giving orders with hardly a second thought.  In my own small corner of the universe, I am in charge of the Future, and on my watch, the Future is acquiring some social skills.  By Gum!  In my zeal to promote good behavior, I fear that it has spread to the other corners of my universe, in which my enthusiasm may not be so appreciated.

Due to the nature of my job, I have no problem handing a sniffling, perfect stranger a Kleenex.  I may even murmur encouragingly, "Here.  Blow your nose."  A person with the hiccups will hear me snarl, "Go get a drink of water!"  I am the first to shush a noisy crowd when a speaker is struggling to be heard, and I will not hesitate to shout out, "Down in front!", or "Sit down!" to people blocking the view of others.  In that same venue I will insist that people raise their hands to address the speaker, and I will endeavor to assist the elocutionist in calling on people who are behaving appropriately.  I apologize if I have ever snapped at you, "Don't interrupt!", or worse, "Don't talk when I am talking!".  It is all I can do to not order grownups back to the bathroom and demand that they "Wash with soap!"  At fast food restaurants I feel a strong inclination to remind patrons to bus their own dishes, and I don't mind adding, "Don't forget that napkin under your chair!"  Without thinking, I will give notice to a gum chewer that "I don't want to see it, smell it, or hear it!"

I am not a particularly desirable party guest, as I have been heard to tell boisterous adults to "Use your inside voice!" I unwittingly will remind a person "Excuse me!", if in my presence he burps or erupts in some other sort of bodily function.  With the same spirit, I have caught myself barking, "Don't talk with your mouth full!", and,  "What do you say?", comes out of my mouth when one receives a gift or compliment from another.  "Say it, don't spray it" is also reportedly in my repertoire.  Don't worry if there is no room at the table for you, because I will rectify the problem by directing everyone else to "Scootch over!"

Forgiving Reader, it is a curse that I, and some of my fellow teachers, bear every day.  I know you will understand if you hear me reminding someone to eat his dinner before asking for dessert, and you will not hold it against me if you catch me sternly counting to five, accompanied by a veiled threat of a spanking.

Now, stop rolling your eyes, take your feet off of that desk, and get back to work.

TRAMP STAMP

This gem was written by my good friend, Mystery Guest Blogger.  When I first heard her tell this story, I knew I wanted her to write it down.  I hope you enjoy it as much as I do!

This summer, I was in Winthrop, WA, which many people know for its quaint Old West theme, with wooden sidewalks, Little House on the Prairie-style hand-painted false fronts on very modern stores, and hitching posts.  I love Winthrop, but not for it’s kitchy charm; to anyone who loves the outdoors, the entire Methow Valley surrounding Winthrop is a veritable Mecca of outdoorsy adventure – hiking, climbing, swimming, paddle boarding, river kayaking, mountain biking, road biking, rafting, you name it.  This summer, I was there to conquer the 5400’ Washington Pass on my road bike.  My friend and I started from Winthrop, pedaled 30 miles and 4000’ up to the pass, then turned around and headed 30 miles back to Winthrop.  Covered in sweat, sunscreen, car exhaust and road dust, we stopped to dip our sore legs in the pleasantly cool Methow River, which winds right through the center of Winthrop and meanders south through the small towns of Twisp and Carlton.  This makes it very convenient – and popular - for the locals to drop a car in one town, put in rafts or inner tubes in Winthrop, and float downstream back to the car.

For a moment, dear reader, I would like you to imagine the typical local who lives in a town 100 miles from anywhere and snowed in for months at a time.  True, there is the quaint and slightly eccentric 50-something artist who owns a boutique in town, paints sunset scenes with watercolors, and dresses in flowy dresses and scarves, a la Stevie Nicks.  And yes, there is the ruggedly handsome man with a close-cropped beard and plaid shirt who makes his own wooden furniture.  Oh, and let’s not forget the power couple with the custom-built summer home overlooking the Sawtooth Range and the valley.  But then, there are the flabby, tanned, cut-off sleeved, beer-swillin’, snuff-dippin’, hard-fightin’, course-tongued folk who populate the dilapidated huts and deteriorating single-wides that litter the back roads of the Methow Valley.  As my friend and I sat on the river rocks in our bike shorts, enjoying the fingers of cool water massaging our aching muscles, we were treated to a glimpse inside the life and times of this latter type of Methow local.

First, we heard the guttural roaring of un-muffled engine behind us.  I turned toward the noise, and saw a beat up Suburban spit out five guys of varying ages, clad in cut-off T-shirts and swim trunks, clutching cold cans of Busch Ice with cigarettes perched between their stubbly lips.  Amused, we watched the guys unload several tubes, including one tied to a cooler, and make their way down to the water, which took a few trips.  Thankfully, there were no mothers of small children around to recoil in horror at the barrage of swearing and dirty jokes that followed in the wake of these trips.   As the guys gradually relocated to the water’s edge, I noticed that there were two extra inner tubes, and for a fleeting moment thought they might be meant for my friend and me – but who carries two extra inner tubes with them just in case they happen to meet two athletic and attractive ladies at the riverside?  Soon, the tardy occupants of the extra tubes came on the scene.

I have to pause here to justify myself for the remarks I am about to make.  Though I am athletic, by no stretch of the imagination do I have a bikini-worthy waistline.  I have a tattoo in a very visible location.  I love ice cream cones.  I have floated rivers while drinking cheap beer many a time.  I have nothing against any of these activities.

My friend alerted me of their presence by tapping me on the shoulder and whispering, “Is that girl pregnant?  Because if not, she really shouldn’t be wearing that shirt.”  I turned and looked back toward the parking lot.  Making their way toward the river were two women wearing bikini bottoms, battered flip-flops, licking rapidly melting ice cream cones with pierced tongues.  One of them was wearing a T-shirt cut off at the midsection, which exposed a vast expanse of what my friend had thought was a pregnant belly, but indeed, it was not.  It was so vast, in fact, that it was folded over her bikini bottoms so that from the front, she appeared to be wearing nothing below the ragged T-shirt.  She was licking her ice cream cone with gusto, trying to catch the drips of melted goodness before they touched the fingers holding the cone, which in a feat of multitasking balanced both cone and a cigarette.  As I watched, she shifted the cone to her other hand, took a drag, then replaced the cone, all the while waddling her way to the river’s edge and to the group of men that awaited her.  I grimaced a little at the thought of ruining such a delicious treat with ashy cigarette flavor.  The cone was gone by the time they reached their companions, but her hands were quickly filled with a Busch Lite tallboy, which she enthusiastically cracked open.  However, she had not considered the logistics of wading into the river and settling into the tube while holding a full, open beer and a lit cigarette.  As she lumbered into the river and contorted her body to mount the tube without spilling or burning herself, her cut-off shirt slipped even further up her large backside, and there, dear reader, I witnessed the tackiest tramp stamp I have ever seen.

In the middle was the most cliché of all tramp stamps: a butterfly with purple, pink, and turquoise wings, obviously not modeled after an actual butterfly.  Flanking the outstretched wings on both sides sprouted a series of mushrooms, which I’m sure someone thought was the cutest drug reference ever.  These mushrooms went the edge of either side of her love handles.  I know what you’re thinking.  You’re thinking, “you’re right, Mystery Guest Blogger, that is one trashy tramp stamp!”  And oh, dear reader, I wish the description ended there.  Stretching above the fleshy field of butterflies and mushrooms were two words, written in inch-tall, Old English lettering.  Those words, very close to the anatomical region to which they referred, were BAD ASS.

Stay classy, Okanogan County.

RULES FOR FRIENDS

If you are going to claim to be my friend, there are just a few rules.

First of all, we need to establish some guidelines regarding the times you can call my house.  Back when I was young and hip (Kind Reader, you are so right - I still am!), my good friend Kristin made it clear that we were not to call each other until there were double digits on the clock.  This meant no 7 a.m. phone calls to talk about last night's Survivor show.  It was fine, however, to call each other during 7:30 p.m. Jeopardy and stay on the phone for the duration of the game, shouting out answers and chiding Alex Trebek for his condescending tone.  These days, we both have children.  Everyone knows that there is no way on this green Earth that either one of us can sleep until there are double digits on the clock, so if you can hold off until 8 a.m., then I give you permission to dial away.  Please be aware that, young and hip as I am, I may be falling asleep before 8 p.m. and thus will not be able to mock Alex with you.  This may also be attributed to being a parent of a child with Spirit.

Next, we should discuss being the passenger in my car.  Just because you are my Friend does not mean that you can change any of the controls at your own personal whim.  You may not adjust the temperature or change the radio station without expressly asking for and receiving permission.  Feel free to roll down your window or adjust the air vent on your side of the car.  I am considering a ban on all beverage containers in the car unless they have screw top lids, with a doff of my cap to my good friend Larry H. (he will deny that this is his rule, but believe me, it is), and it is absolutely not permissible to consume dairy products in the car at any time.

If you are my true friend, you will alert me when my appearance is not up to snuff, whether in public or not.  This means that if I have a head of lettuce in my teeth, or merely a frond, you will kindly point it out to me before I go grinning at every stranger on the street.  If I have toothpaste on my shirt, please do not allow me to walk around in oblivion.  Is my skirt tucked up in my underwear behind me?  Please, tell me before I go teach teenagers.  Do I have a string hanging from my clothing?  It won't hurt my feelings if you tell me.  Is my shirt buttoned wrong, or worse, not at all?  I would like to know about it from a friend, not a stranger.  Is there a spot on my pants?  I have a Tide Stain Stick to use if you would only tell me that I need to use it.  If we are at the Friday Market in New Denver, B.C., do not let me peruse the booth of every single vendor in town with the zipper down on my shorts (Aunt Helen, and every other member of the Family Reunion who was on that field trip).  Chances are, if the situation were reversed and it would embarrass you to appear this way, I will be grateful to be informed of the perceived problem.

Now that that is all settled, do these pants make my butt look big?

NEVER SAY NEVER

One day Girl6 brought home an invitation to a birthday party.  It was going to be at a local waterpark.  We had driven by that site nearly every day since the day they broke ground, and every day my daughter would ask me when we were going to go there.  I would whisper to myself, "never", and then murmur, "Oh, I don't know!"  The party was to be an overnight party at the lodge.  Girl6 had never stayed overnight at a friend's house before, and this was not going to be the first of many.  I told her she could go to the party, go swimming, and then I would bring her home.  She dejectedly accepted this compromise.  When I called to RSVP, it was not the mom who answered, but the grandma.  I explained that Girl6 would not be staying over night, and she said for Girl6 to be sure to bring her swimsuit.

The big day came.  As I circled the lot, looking for a parking space, I noticed the tribal police car zooming into the lot.  I remember wondering for a millisecond what would bring the tribal police to the water park and lodge.  After finding a parking spot, I shouldered the swimming bag and the birthday gift and we headed toward the front door.  I noticed the policeman walking in with a man in a stocking cap.

The lobby was very crowded, but Girl6 spotted some of her other friends there.  We gathered with them and I reacquainted myself with one of the mothers, a wife of one of my former students.  I asked her if the birthday family was already on the premises.  She nodded toward the serpentine in front of the reception desk and said they were waiting to check in.  She stood on her tiptoes to try to spot them, and when she couldn't, she said, "The dad is wearing a stocking cap."  My head whipped around to stare at her.  "The one who came in with the policeman?", I asked her.  She nodded in assent.

Finally the family got to the front of the line and checked in.  It turned out that the birthday girl's grandma was springing for the payment of the room.  She said, "OK, see you all later!  Have a good time!"  The other mother and I looked nervously at one another.  There was no birthday mom in sight.  The birthday dad, while passing out water park bracelets to the kids, was still being spoken to by the policeman.  I strained my ears to hear what was going on.  I heard the phrase "bodily injury", but everything else was drowned out by my own daughter clamoring to get help with her bracelet.  The other mother, Diane, and I looked again at each other, and telepathically said in unison, "I'm sticking around!"  A third mother, after witnessing all of this, kissed her daughter goodbye and said, "see you tomorrow!", and left.  The birthday dad said, "Well, let's go up to the room!"  Diane and I heaved our swimbags on to our shoulders and followed the kids down the hall and up the stairs.  Some child at the front of the pack had decided that we didn't need to take the elevator, so we climbed four flights of stairs.

The room was a suite, with 2 double beds in one room and one in the adjoining room.  The kids all dumped their bags and started springing around on the beds.  The birthday presents were in a pile on the table.  The birthday girl, Susie, asked if she could open them.  Nobody seemed to object, so she started ripping in to them.  The dad had brought a garbage bag full of wrapped gifts up to the room, and it became obvious that his mother had bought the presents.  He had no idea what they were, nor was he paying attention.  Every one of them was some sort of Barbie.  Each present was ripped open, glanced at, and tossed aside.  No one was writing down who gave which present.  I decided at that moment not to expect a thank you note. 

After the presents were opened, we all sat around and stared at one another awkwardly.  There were 2 little girl guests, the birthday girl, a younger brother, an older sister, and an older cousin.  I estimated that the sister and cousin were in middle school.  The sister was dressed gangster-style, with long basketball shorts and a baggy shirt, and her hair skinned back in a pony tail.  The cousin was dressed in tight pants and a tight camisole top with all sorts of straps showing.  The cousin had magically produced a curling iron and plugged it in, and was standing in front of the mirror doing her hair and makeup.  At that moment, I couldn't imagine two worse role models.

The dad reappeared and looked at all of us.  "Hey, you guys!", he said excitedly, "do you want to go to the Arcade?"  The children all cheered as if they were going to see the Ringling Brothers and Barnum and Bailey Circus.  I was pretty sure that my own six-year old didn't even know what the Arcade was.   Mister (as I had grown to call him when speaking to Diane), pulled a wad of bills out of his pocket and peeled some off the top.  He gave the bundle to the sister and said, "Here's fifty dollars.  Take the kids down to the Arcade and split it between them."  The kids were already running out the door and down the hall.  Diane and I grabbed our swim bags and dashed after them.  Mister stayed behind.  Diane and I trotted to keep up with the kids.  Every once in a while, we exchanged wide eyed looks with each other, saying with our Mom ESP, "Can you believe this?" 

The Arcade was dark and seemed smoky, although smoking was not allowed in that particular area.  We got our supply of coins and set out as a unit of four:  Diane, her daughter Lizzie, my daughter and I.  I may be dating myself, or maybe exposing how dull I am, but I don't think I had been in an arcade for about twenty years, if ever.  Neither Diane nor I could figure out how to make the games work, and we lost many a coin because we didn't know what we were doing.  Our girls didn't seem to mind.  I kept looking at my watch.  I hissed at Diane, "It would be pretty awful to leave before the girls got to go swimming, wouldn't it?"  She nodded in agreement.  I kept looking around, trying to keep track of the other kids in our party, who didn't seem to have a parental unit.  It seemed to me to be a perfect place to lose a kid.  I spotted Mister.  He came over and told us that he had ordered pizza.

When the pizza arrived, we all trooped back up to the room.  Mister had bought several cheese and pepperoni pizzas and some Coke.  The kids ripped in to the pizzas and attempted to help themselves to the 2 liter bottles of soda.  I sprang to pour and Diane jumped up to dole out the pizza.  The kids sat around on the beds eating, to my disgust.  I watched as they spilled pizza sauce on themselves, wiped their hands on the bedspreads, and balanced plastic cups of Coke on the mattresses.  I couldn't bring myself to have anything.  I could hardly keep from looking at the time every five minutes.  The party was dragging on for what seemed to be an eternity, and the kids hadn't gone swimming yet.

Finally each child had had her fill of pizza and once again we were staring uncomfortably at one another.  Mister said, "Well, what do you want to do now?"  I almost screamed, "Isn't it obvious?!  We're at a WATER PARK!"  Luckily the kids all answered him and he responded with, "OH!  You want to go swimming?"  Each kid raced for a bathroom or other private spot to change into her swimsuit.  I scurried around, throwing soggy napkins and leftover pizza away, lest it get left under the covers.

By some miracle, the workers at the water park were not standing at the door inspecting the incoming and outgoing guests.  Diane and I marched right in with our daughters and right down to pool side.  While everyone else was in their bikinis and Speedos, I was in boots, jeans, a T shirt, a sweatshirt, and a down jacket.  Diane had on a rain coat.  We each still sported a swim bag, both of which looked to be overflowing with clothes and towels.  We dragged some chairs over to "our spot" and plopped ourselves down right next to the wave pool.  We knew that not only did Mister not know the names of our kids, he didn't know if they could swim or not.  With all of the people in the indoor water park, it was doubtful that he could even recognize our daughters once they were in the pool.

Diane and I sat in the eighty degree warmth, scanning the pool area with eagle eyes.  Not only did we keep track of our own kids, we kept our eyes on the little brother, who seemed to be unattended in a different pool, and the birthday girl.  Mister arrived after a while, but then it was even hard to pick him out of a crowd without his stocking cap. 

We sat as long as we could.  We compared notes on how early we could leave without being rude, and while still being nice to our children.  By 8:45 p.m, we had each had enough.  We rounded up our kids, made them say thank you, and stumped off to a bathroom to get our kids changed.  Mind you, our kids didn't go very willingly.  Of course they wanted to stay longer.  I could only think of one thing worse than stuck in a hotel room with a strange man, whose name I didn't even know, and that was leaving my six year old daughter there to stay over night.  Emerging from the bathroom, we each dragged our daughter to the car.  Waving goodbye, I realized that in all of that craziness, I had met someone else who had some sense.  What did I learn from this?  Never say "Never".

FOLLOW THE LEADER

I have no follow-through.  There.  I said it.  Reader, it feels so good to let it all hang out.  Every once in a while it is good to do a little self-analysis, you should try it some time.  It explains so much!

I have already admitted to Al Gore and his Internet that I am a horrible laundress.   There are some people who are so happy to do laundry, it makes them all smiley and cheerful (come on, you know who you are!) to be surrounded by the fluffy, nice smelling, clean clothes.  I hate that.  I don't mind throwing the clothes into the washer, and it does make me a little cheerful.  But not because of the clean smelling laundry baloney.  It is because I have reduced the pile of dirty clothes that lives in another part of the house.  For a blissful half hour, they are hidden from view.  Out of sight, out of mind.  I consider it a terrible drag when it is time to put them in the dryer.  It shouldn't be a drag, and you are wondering why I would complain, but it is because of what is in the dryer.  Lurking in the dryer are the clothes from the previous laundry event.  I do not look forward to taking them out and folding them and putting them away.  It is the putting them away part that really kills me.  I wouldn't mind if I could simply fold them and leave them on the couch.  There comes a time when A Person wants to have company, or when the neighbors creep over to your back yard and peer through the sliding glass door, and A Person doesn't want one's unmentionables wadded there in a mountain on the chair for the world to see.  It is one thing, Nit Picking Reader, to blog about one's orange underpants ballooning out over the top of the low-riding, sparkly butt jeans, but it is another thing all together to have them on public display in one's living room.  The putting away the clothes part is always tough, stuffing them in drawers, scootching hangers over in the closet to make room for just one more garment, and eventually plopping the whole pile in a spare laundry basket in the bedroom.  Then the whole cycle begins again.

I have confessed to hating to floss and I know I will get flak for it at the dentist next week, so enough about that.

The story of the dishwasher is pretty much the same.  I like loading it because it hides those dishes that have been milling around in the sink.  Clearing it is where I start to drag my feet.  It's the follow-through again!  Even though I can clear it during a prime-time TV commercial break (yes, I've timed it), it is still challenging putting those bowls away, stuffing one more wine glass in the cupboard, and jamming that cake pan under the counter.  Slam the door quickly before anything jumps out.

Follow-through, and my lack of it, explains all sorts of things.  I love to buy the plants for that succulent garden, but I don't want to prepare the area and plant them, so there they sit, on the bench.  Four years after acquiring the Weed-and-Feed, I finally got around to spreading some, but the bad news is that it has encouraged the grass to grow.  Now I have to mow the lawn.  I have bought bookshelves at IKEA with full intentions of speeding home and whipping them together with my handy tools.  Those bookshelves sat in the garage in their boxes for a good six months before I drummed up the drive to put them together.  I am wild to go cut up a branch or a limb with the chain saw, but am not so motivated to do something with the pieces that I have generated.  I bought a whole flat of strawberries with honest intentions of making a full load of strawberry jam, but you know what happened, FaceBook Stalker that you are.  I made seven jars and celebrated my burst of industriousness by posting pictures and proclaiming myself to the Best Jam Maker On Earth.

I planted some zucchini plants.  Well there are a lot of follow throughs here.  I had to water them, which I barely managed.  I went on vacation and some very nice Garden Fairies did it for me.  I don't mind pulling the odd weed here or there, after all, it is just a raised bed.  You can already see it, Smart Reader!  I am going to be buried in zucchini plants.  I will have all sorts of dreams of making zucchini bread, and freezing it for baking soirees in the winter time.  Have I ever told you that I have zucchini from 2008 in my freezer?

I may as well confess that I am not very good at any household chores.  You are shocked, I can tell.  Dusting, vacuuming, sweeping, window washing.... in the end they all require some form of follow through.  There are cords to wind up, bags to change, brooms to put away, newspaper to collect.... It's a wonder that I have a real job.

Even my hobbies are starting to drag me down.  Scrapbooking has all those, well, scraps.  Even reading, which hardly requires a person to even move, results in major acquisition of books if one isn't a member of the Timberland Regional Library system.  "Acquistion of books" really means that now I have to find a place for all of them.  Collecting tea cups speaks for itself.  Collecting.  Putting them somewhere.  Blogging is such a tidy hobby.  I don't have to clean up the papers or pencil shavings when I'm done.  Post and POOF!  It's very easy.  With that said.... POOF!

YOU CRACK ME UP!

Well it has come to this, Dear Reader.  I have written about forehead bugs, toilet spews, flossing, laundry duties, double dipping and a host of topics regarding Bad Manners.  This day has been a long time coming.  Today I must vent to you about that social taboo, Plumber's Butt.  I hesitated there with the apostrophe, I am tempted to put it after the S because it is a malady that affects more than one plumber.  Plumbers are actually given a bad rap here, as this is a problem that spans all occupations, regardless of color, age, religion, gender or political beliefs.

Summer is a particularly bad season for exposing the intergluteal cleft because clothes typically become thinner and shorter on top, while looser on the bottom.  This creates a highly dangerous convergence zone in which, at any given moment, the Subject may bend or reach, thus advertising what one former co-worker referred to as the "pencil holder".

We can thank British designer Alexander McQueen for designing the "bumster" jeans, those low-slung denims that barely cover one's derriere, but we can't lay all the blame on him.  I maintain that the Subject must have an inkling that his (purely a neutral possessive) buttock cleavage is being bared.

He (in the most gender-neutral sense) has got to know that he is flaunting his fanny!  Surely he can feel that coolness on his crack, breeze on his butt, chinook on his cheeks, gust on his glutes, tempest on his tush, air on his ass, puff on his pompi.  I have considered this for quite a while, and I have come to the realization that he Doesn't Care.

He doesn't care about his indecent exposure, but he also doesn't care about the feelings of the unexpecting viewer.  He has no remorse for the horror and embarrassment that he has inflicted upon the innocent onlooker.

The accidental audience really is just that.  It could be you, Innocent Reader, minding your own business, when the Subject leans down to pick up something he dropped, crouches to peer in a low space, bends to assart a plot of land, or whimsically reaches for his toes.  Polite Reader that you are, do you quickly avert your assaulted eyes?  Do you turn your head and pretend to look at something else?  Do you say anything?  Do you let him hear your gasp?  Do you cover your child's eyes?  Do you calmly assay the offending situation?

He Doesn't Care because in the last decade, Alexander McQueen's bumsters and all of their copycat brands have become asininely popular and it has become fashionable in some circles to display one's lower crevasse.  There is no shame in showing one's seat.  It has become so commonplace that late night TV has created a commercial for Coin Slot Cream.  Popular culture has assented to this practice and acts as if there is nothing wrong with assailing one's assets.

I assert that we put a stop to this practice.  I hereby asseverate to assiduously monitor those with whom I associate.  My indignation will only be assuaged by an assumpsit from the Subject to assume all responsibility and rectify the problem, assuring that it will happen No More.  Only then will I have assythment.

FLOSS FIASCO

This blog has been a parade of confessions for me.  Today is no exception.  I hate to floss.

Unless there is a nugget wedged between my teeth, I try to avoid it at all costs.  My teeth are packed together very tightly, and it is hard to get the filament between them.  Forcing the thread between my teeth jars my brain and nearly cuts my floss-wrapped fingers to the bone.  Removing the strand from between my teeth is a lesson in experiencing whiplash.

You need to understand my aversion to flossing in order to continue reading and fully appreciate the anxiety that I felt in the following installment of My Life's Mishaps.

Girl8 and I were on a road trip.  I love road trips even more than I hate flossing.  To me, road trips mean loud music (I consider the Steve Miller Band the ultimate road trip music, closely followed by U2), great scenery and an all-around wonderful time away from home.  We crossed Snoqualmie Pass early in the morning and I thought it would be beneficial, in more than one way, to stop for breakfast at the Cottage Cafe in Cle Elum.  In a previous lifetime, it had a telephone, as well as a wall-mounted jukebox, in each booth.  It is a place frequented by truckers, which is a sure stamp of approval.

We both ordered eggs over medium, hash browns and sourdough toast.  It was everything that a road trip breakfast is supposed to be.  The hash browns were wonderfully crisp, the eggs were perfectly over medium, and the toast was tan and buttery.  I had water with my breakfast only because I'm funny about my coffee, ask anyone.

Afterwards we made the mandatory trip to the bathroom before resuming our long journey to the East.  I glanced at myself in the mirror while waiting for Girl8.  I was thinking that I looked quite respectable for being on a road trip - we had decided to wear our "travel skirts", which had proven to be very comfortable while making the wearers appear presentable in any situation.  I had put on earrings and for once, was rocking a decent hair day.  I gave myself a smug toothy smile in the mirror and was shocked by a piece of black pepper stuck smack between my teeth.

I tried to remember if I had flashed anyone what I thought to be my pearly whites on the way to the rest room, but I couldn't remember.  The pepper seemed to be perched right on the edge of my teeth, so naturally, I went after it with my fingernail.  This did nothing for me except to drive the pepper further into the crevice and make itself felt.  Not being a dedicated flosser, I did not have my mandatory supply of Glide tucked in my purse.  I looked around the sparse bathroom and my eyes lighted on the paper towels.  At that moment, it seemed a brilliant idea.

I ripped off a rectangle of the standard brown paper towel and immediately got to work on that piece of pepper.  The paper wasn't as stiff as I had hoped, and, due to the close-fitting teeth involved, it wasn't as effective as I had imagined.  In fact, the longer I worked at it, the paper got more and more wet and limp.  For one miraculous millisecond, I met with success, but then the unimaginable happened.  I suppose if I had given it a little more thought, I could have realized this outcome.  The paper towel ripped and left a tiny shred between my teeth, next to the pepper.  Not only could I feel the pepper, but now the paper towel was making its presence known as well.

I employed my tongue to no avail.  I tried to use the laws of physics and suction to release the offending paper towel (the pepper was no longer such a great concern), but this method did not end in fruition.  As Girl8 stood in front of me and washed her hands at the sink, my agitated glance fell upon her hair.  For a nanosecond I actually considered it.  I was able to save myself from certain embarrassment with the vision of myself walking through the Cottage Cafe, grinning wildly in every direction, with a piece of black pepper between my teeth, snuggled next to a piece of brown paper towel, and a rogue hair poking out from between them, like a hair on a mole.

It dawned on me that I did not have to smile with my teeth as I sailed out of Cle Elum's best breakfast spot.  I could paste on my satisfied Mona Lisa and escape to the car, with the fantasy of finding some dental floss in the glove compartment, or under the back seat.

I marched proudly out through the cafe with Girl8 in tow.  I attempted what I thought was a pleasant smile, but really I think my lips were pursed tightly together and my mouth may have been turned down at the corners while my eyes darted to and fro, looking at the various customers to see if they knew my secret.  They were all very polite about it, keeping straight faces and averting their eyes apologetically.  I know they felt my pain.

Empathetic Reader, I know you are commiserating with me and thinking of that long drive I had, with nobody but the unsympathetic Girl8 on her Nintendo DSi, struggling with that paper towel battened between my two front teeth.  You are imagining the many long miles of tongue contortions, lip smacks and torn fingernails, and you are wondering how I ever bore it.  Well, I am going to the dentist next week.

WORD FUN

I left a note to myself in the previous post to do two things.  First, I looked up the masculine form of laundress, and I found launderer.  I also found the word underlaundress, which is very intriguing to me.  I wonder if it is the junior laundress, or is it the lady who washes the underthings????

Second, I investigated the origin of the phrase "the bee's knees".  That proved to be very interesting.  The Oxford Dictionary reports "The phrase was first recorded in the late 18th century, when it was used to mean 'something very small and insignificant'. Its current meaning dates from the 1920s, at which time a whole collection of American slang expressions were coined with the meaning 'an outstanding person or thing'. Examples included the flea's eyebrows, the canary's tusks, and one that still survives - the cat's whiskers. The switch in meaning for the bee's knees  probably emerged because it was so similar in structure and pattern to these other phrases."

On the website Future Perfect, it is claimed that the phrase originated with the saying, "The be-all and the end-all."  This was shortened to say, "The Bs and the Es" and if you say it fast, it sounds like "The bee's knees".

Still other websites attribute the phrase to that famous Charleston dancer, Bee Jackson, as a nod to her wonderful legs.  

Bee Jackson, World Champion Charleston Dancer

Some claim that a plethora of expressions employing animal anatomies cropped up in the 1920's, as a kind of "flapper talk".  Besides the Bee's Knees, have you heard of the Elephant's Adenoids, the Ant's Pants, the Tiger's Spots,  Bullfrog's Beard, Cat's Meow, Dog's Bollocks or Bear's Ears?

Those are teeth in there, not adenoids!

The Band Aid Nazi part II

My worst fears were realized today, Dear Reader.

The Band Aid Nazi was playing outside with the neighbor kid.  I had been cajoled in to making dinner for the Nazi and her friend.  I was enjoying making bean burritos, mixing up some black beans and cumin and chili powder.  I could hear squeals and shouts of the Nazi and her friend running through the sprinkler next door.

I tried to pull out the drawer where the can opener lived but it was stuck.  I skinnied my hand through the small space to discover what was preventing the drawer from opening.  It was, in fact, the can opener sitting just inside the opening at an odd angle, hindering the drawer from sliding open any further.  I bent my knees and twisted my hand, trying to maneuver the can opener back in to the space it normally occupied.  No matter how I turned it, the drawer was stuck.  I slithered my other hand into the small space.  My hands and my head didn't seem to be working in tandem, as the can opener turned from one awkward position to another.  Pulling open the drawer roughly didn't have any positive effect.  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what the new can opener looked like.  I could only remember that it was lime green.  That was no help in this predicament.

I don't know for how long I fought that dastardly kitchen implement.  Luckily the tomatoes and onions were on a low heat, so they weren't burning up in the frying pan.  I felt quite smug when I finally got the drawer open.  The smugness evaporated when the new can opener failed to open the can of chicken.  I had to resort to the old can opener.  That was when I noticed a large pool of blood on my knuckle.  In my struggle, I had cut my finger on some unknown kitchen tool.  The suspects were many, as that drawer houses knives, can openers, bottle openers, a corn shaver and a pizza cutter.  I stuck my finger under a stream of water at the sink.  As soon as I removed it, the blood welled up again.  I needed a Band Aid.  That is when it hit me.

I had no idea where the Band Aid Nazi stores the Band Aids.  I rinsed my finger again.  Glancing around, I raced from the sink to the tissue box and wrapped my finger in a Kleenex, putting pressure on the knuckle.  I looked out into the yard, hoping to get a glimpse of the Nazi, but she was out of sight at the sprinkler.  My finger was still bleeding.  I contemplated cooking dinner with a Kleenex tourniquet, but quickly banished the thought.  That's when I remembered that my friend Stacy, after reading The Band Aid Nazi, had given me my own secret stash of Band Aids.

I raced to my hiding place, hoping that the Nazi had not intuitively discovered the box.  Thankfully, it was still there.  I ripped in to the Band Aid and wrapped my finger.  Thank you, Stacy.  Without your thoughtfulness, I would have bled to death today.

Lament of the Laundress

I am a terrible laundress.  (Note to self: later look up the masculine form of "laundress".)  I have a terrible track record of removing stains and odors, ruining garments which belong to others, and losing socks.  This last problem may not be unique to me.  Allow me to offer up evidence to my claim.

In the previous century, my mom and I travelled to Australia.  One of highlights of the trip was when we went to the Lone Pine Koala Sanctuary in Brisbane and we got to cuddle a koala.  Well, I cuddled the koala.  His name was Russell.  You hold a koala in much the same way you would hold a child - its legs aim to go around you and you put one hand on its back and one hand under its smelly little bottom.  I can say this with confidence because of what happened as a result of the cuddling.  Before I tell you what happened, I want to assure you that no matter how soft and cuddly koalas look, they aren't.  If you have ever pet a sheep with the expectation of sinking your hand into soft, fluffy fur, and then were disappointed, you know the sensation of petting a koala.  They are kind of sticky and greasy, probably because of eating about a pound of eucalyptus every day.  If you have never touched a sheep, take my word for it.  Back to the story.

When we got back to our hotel, or probably even before that, I discovered that there was an invisible, odiferous spot on my shirt, exactly where Russell's smelly underside had perched.  Luckily for me, we had a washing machine available to us, so I put together a load of clothes.  My mom threw some of her things in as well.  I accept the blame for what transpired next, although I am sure you will agree with me that I was in no way responsible.  When the clean clothes came out of the dryer, my shirt was bright and clean.  Mom's shirt did not come out in such pristine condition.  In fact, it was decidedly less fresh than when it began the laundering process.  Somehow, the malodorous spot had transferred from my shirt to hers.  It smelled like Russell's rump.  She has always maintained that I engineered it to turn out that way.  It's my laundress luck.

Another example of my ineptness happened many years later.  Girl6 had received a plush black fleece cardigan.  The hood, with which she was very enamored, was lined with what I can only refer to as white fur.  It was a pretty little number, and to a six year old it was the Bee's Knees.  (Note to self:  investigate the origins of that phrase.)  The day came when it was time to be washed for the first time.  I washed it in the "gentle" cycle.  It came out in one piece, so I happily tossed it with abandon into the dryer.  Sadly, it did not come out as the Bee's Knees.  The fur, which had been so fluffy and soft, had melted to itself in the dryer and emerged like wet cotton balls.  Girl6 was, and is still, furious with me, and, although the fleece still fits, she wears it only as a last resort.

Melting in the dryer seems to be my special talent.  Just yesterday I was washing the waterproof mattress pad.  You may not want to venture into the reasons why my mattress sports a waterproof mattress pad, but I will assure you it is nothing that you are thinking.  I cannot assume what the worst words for you to hear in the night would be, but for me, the most alarming words have been, "Mama!  I think I wet your bed!"  Immediately after being jolted awake by those words I bought myself a waterproof mattress pad.  Back to the story.

Of course I read the washing instructions, Suspicious Reader, I know enough to do that!  I followed them to the letter, washing on the "hand wash" cycle and using gentle detergent.  I checked to make sure it could go in the dryer, and the tag confirmed this.  Imagine my horror when I reached into the dryer and pulled out a big wad of fabric.  The waterproof part had stuck to itself in a crinkly mess.  I took it back to the bedroom and laid it on the bed the best that I could.  I tried to gently pull the wrinkles apart from one another.  As careful as I was, I tore a big hole in the waterproof fabric.  I ask you:  what use is a waterproof mattress pad if it has a hole in it?  I am embarrassed to tell you that this is, in fact, the second waterproof mattress pad that has melted to itself in the dryer.  You would think that I would have learned my lesson.

The sad ending to my story is that I really want to be an exceptional laundress.  I would love to know what magical formula to use on tomato sauce or strawberry stains, for how long to soak a grass stained knee, and which detergent will make my daughter's clothes smell like a summer breeze.  There are more laundry mysteries for me to ponder, but first I have to check on that electric blanket that I washed this morning.

So Much Talent, So Little Time

As many of you have been concerned about my dress dilemma, many more of you have been brainstorming to help me to decide how to participate in my sister's wedding in the meadow.  I have appreciated all of your ideas and am still accepting suggestions through the middle of August.  Please don't hesitate to throw in your two cents.  Although several of you more Progressive Readers have responded very enthusiastically to my musical puppet show idea, many more of you have frowned and shaken your heads disapprovingly (Mom).

The groom recently sent all of the siblings an email and graciously invited us all to be participants in some way in the nuptials.  The "some way" has been left up to our individual discretion.  We have pre-approved status!  The groom's sister immediately dibsed doing a daring trapeze routine, without a net.  We have been told that the groom's brother will act as the Master of Ceremonies, or the Ringleader, as the case may merit.  The bride's brother has some fascinating magic tricks up his sleeve, and I would hate to be a spoiler, but if you haven't seen the one where he levitates sunglasses, you have really missed out.  Additionally, he can juggle pretty much any sort of vegetable.  That leaves the bride's sister, Yours Truly.

You know that I have many talents.  The problem is, which one to showcase for three minutes during the ceremony?  Perusing through my past posts, the Alert Reader will note that I am perfectly capable of growing herbs and making pesto, building round woodpiles, and turning out baked goods.  I am particularly talented at spotting socially unacceptable behavior, pointing out the more fetid aspects of restrooms, public or private, and denouncing street side panhandlers.  Recently I have become skilled at evaporating milk in the privacy of my own home.  My hobbies include scrapbooking, reading British historical mysteries, and Middle Eastern dancing.  With so many skills, it is difficult to choose just one.

It has been suggested that, donning my hip scarf and zils, I belly dance to the sound of a mizmar, while balancing a chair in my teeth.  You can see me practicing in this never-before-seen video.  I am only sorry that you are unable to hear the howling of the mizmar in the background.

Incidentally, in traditional Egyptian weddings, a mizmar player leads the wedding procession and is accompanied by a belly dancer.  So this idea is not really as far out as you think.  Click here to hear the Egyptian equivalent of "Here Comes the Bride" and imagine me dancing to it.  The only hangup in this plan is that neither the bride nor the groom is Egyptian, thus dashing my hopes of performing in their traditional Egyptian wedding.

Helpful Readers have suggested that I bring my own hot plate to the meadow to make mints and pass them out as wedding favors, or give a quick lesson on how to substitute ingredients in a recipe.  Most recently I have mastered making my own curry spice.  I am quite confident that, even in a meadow, I could replicate the recipe, captivating the guests with my abilities in measurement while inspiring mutual love and devotion in the bride and groom.

Will Southwest Air  allow this as a carry-on?

I have considered throwing in with the groom's sister and doing a tandem trapeze act with her, but I hate to horn in on her action, which promises to be spectacular.  Truth be told, I am still leaning toward the musical puppet show.

My cousin made the cute ones.

This will not be my first public performance as a puppeteer in a meadow.  Many summers ago my cousin and I made puppets out of athletic socks, muslin and a fur glove.  We accessorized them with dried grass and hair.   I can remember staying up late several nights in a row, depleting the supplies of Scotch tape, thread and safety pins.  We wrote a script and rehearsed nonstop.  As we were vacationing on an island, our stage was conveniently the hull of a dilapidated boat.  We made posters advertising the upcoming debut and hung them in well-frequented areas.  When the day came, the meadow was full of little children and their doting parents.  What I remember the most is that we had a bag of orange-flavored, peanut-shaped marshmallows that we hated.  Those marshmallows were passed out as refreshments and probably made more of an impact than the actual puppet show.

So you see, Enthralled Reader, if you had any doubts or concerns about my expertise as a puppeteer, in a meadow, they should now be vanquished.  I am well versed in puppet creations and scriptwriting.  As long as I pass out orange peanut-marshmallows to the wedding guests, everything will be fine.

Dish on the Dress

Dogged Readers, thank you for closely monitoring my dress dilemma.  Many of you have thought about sending me suggestions and when I didn't get them, I realized that they were from you.  I was feeling the ESP vibes from all of you, and listened to what you weren't saying.  I heard myself say to Girl8 one day, "We aren't going to make any Desperation Purchases!  You have to really like it or we aren't getting it!  That means no buying just for the sake of getting Something, Anything!"  I thought it prudent to follow my own advice and I backed away from the Internet, my hands in the air.

It was amazing how much spare time I had, since I wasn't glued to the computer, surfing the World Wide Web at all hours.  My eyesight seemed to improve and I no longer feared that I had carpal tunnel syndrome.  Girl8 hardly recognized me with my new cheerful demeanor and no bags under my eyes.  We had time to make recital invitations, play Canasta, and learn the words to I'll Be Loving You Always.  In three languages.

The niggle of the thought of the dress was always there, but I had squashed it so far down in my brain that it didn't tickle too much.  One day the niggle surfaced enough so that my fingers independently sought out my favorite designer and googled her name plus desirable traits of the elusive dress.  The internet obligingly served up my dream dress at a nightmare of a price.  My fingers then autonomously crept to a well-known auction site and inquired about the existence of the dream dress in a particular size.

Astonishingly, the dress materialized in the right size, a beautiful color, and an extraordinary price.  My fingers froze over the keyboard.  Girl8 appeared out of nowhere, took one glance and began to chant, "Buy IT, Buy IT, Buy IT!"  Had I looked out the window at that moment, I think the stars would have been aligned to spell out "Buy It!"  I blinked several times and my fingers clicked "Buy It Now".

Doesn't it look great on me!  I just hope that this dress doesn't hamper my trapeze performance with the groom's sister at the wedding.

The Dirty Penny

Raccoon Ridge Ramblings is proud to introduce its first Guest Blogger.  Susie read about my bad luck at the corner store in Evaporation 101 and was reminded of this morning in her past.

After working all night long, I went to the PX on base. The cashier had rung up my transaction and wasn't going to give me my change due (which was a penny).  I've noticed now that many cashiers opt not to provide change back if it is less than 2-3 cents.  I stood there earnestly waiting for my 1 cent change.

With a look of utter disgust, the teller finally reached into her till and handed me the most filthy, corroded penny, with green/blue discoloration, so much that you could not make out which president was gracing the coin. It was a horrible penny.  In my totally sleep deprived state, I stood there looking at this penny, shocked into immobility.

The teller had already given a nod to the next customer behind me, and pretended to ignore my disappointed reaction.

Before the next person moved into my space, I mumbled to the cashier, "Umm excuse me, but could I please get another penny?  This one seems to be very corroded".

The teller, who, by now, was feeling very put-out and annoyed by my petty concerns and time-consuming antics, opened her till with a big sigh, and pulled out a better, more shiny piece of alloy in the form of a 1 cent coin.

Knowing that I had crossed the line between sanity and insanity (which, to those who work night shifts and try to do errands the next morning, can fully understand), I quickly offered up what I thought would be a logical reasoning for my petty concern. I said, "I am sorry to bother your about this, but my children put these in their mouths!"

 The lady gave me a look to kill, and I quickly headed to the exit, straight home and into bed !

If you have a story about your misfortune at the convenience store, or if you would like to be a Guest Blogger, leave a comment below.

Evaporation 101

Hungry reader, I love to bake almost as much as I love to eat.  It is so gratifying to create something FROM SCRATCH (don't ever think for a minute that I am grabbing a box from the pantry and dumping it into the mixer and then touting myself as a baker, because that would be a sin punishable by burning in the toaster oven) and then present it to others who gratefully devour it.  It is so satisfying to make something from all these little bits and bobs that actually tastes delightful.  I would say that I can't describe what a nice feeling it is, but I think I just have.

There is one thing that I don't like to make, and that is frosting.  I know that it is hard to understand how I could make all of these delicacies and not be frosting them up one side and down the other.  I pride myself on making treats that don't require frosting:  Banana Snack Cake, Blackies, Triple Chocolate Brownie Cupcakes, Anytime Oatmeal Cake, Dream Bars, Walnut Crunch Brownies; I'm sure you have been drooling over all of their names under the title "What's In My Oven?" down there on the right.

You know that once in a while I bake requests, and every blue moon it happens that the solicited cake requires frosting.  There are only a few that I would consider making, and two of my short list of three were ordered for the weekend.  The one consolation for me was that both frostings are the kind that you cook, and that eased my dread just a bit.

I was on a tight schedule - you know my penchant for German planning and timing.  I got up at 6:15 and performed all sorts of important duties like making coffee and checking Facebook.  Bathing was not a top priority as I don't like to smell like dessert all day.  I threw on some real clothes to make it feel like I was really working and not just putzing around in my pajamas. I decided to bake both cakes first and worry about frosting later.

Everything was going great gumdrops.  The cakes were baking, I had sheets in the washing machine, I was correcting tests, I was rocking out on Internet radio to a U2 station that I was convinced I had invented.  It was pure bliss.  My timetable was impeccable.  Then it came to make the frosting.  The first order of business was the Coconut Pecan frosting for the German Chocolate Cake.

I studied the recipe.  "Mix the butter and the evaporated milk in a pan", it said.  I went to the cupboard for the evaporated milk.  Reaching back to the far corner of the pantry, I hauled the can out and squinted at it.  No matter how hard I tried, I could not make those words say "evaporated milk".  I was confused.  It looked like the can said "condensed milk".  Consciousness hit me like 5 pounds of brown sugar.  I searched the cupboard again, like Old Mother Hubbard.  Just like hers, my cupboard was bare.  There was no evaporated milk.  This was a crisis of great proportion.

I considered my options:  #1) change my clothes (I said they were "real" clothes, I didn't say they were fit for public consumption) and go in "to town", #2) try to google a substitute for evaporated milk and hope that I could whip something together, or #3) run down to the corner store that really is on a corner.  Option #1 was not very attractive to me, not only because of the clothing conundrum, but it would throw my German time table out the window.  Option #3 was a good Last Resort.  Option #2 seemed very sensible and thrifty to me, so that's the route I attempted first.

You maybe never have googled "substitute for evaporated milk".  If you do, you will find out that it is milk from which 60% of the water has been evaporated.  Simply use twice as much milk as you need, and boil it down without scalding or burning or getting that nasty skin on the top.  This seemed daunting to me.  Not scalding milk has never been one of my stronger talents.  Option #3 was looking decidedly better, although it did require that I wear a disguise.

Pointy Boiled Wool Slippers

You are scoffing at me, Reader, and I don't like it.  I simply could not go down there in exercise pants, a slept-in t-shirt, a well-used homemade apron with my name and floury hand prints on it, pointy boiled wool slippers from Amsterdam, and worst of all - Bed Head.  I rummaged around the closet several times, at one time cursing the housekeeper for having the nerve to put things away, and finally found a baseball cap.  It said "Lazy 5 Ranch", named for the five children that lived there.  That sort of tamed my wild locks, which were basically sticking straight out from my head in all directions.  There was probably a flat spot on the back of my head, which I hate.  I put on my glasses, which was nearly a mistake.  I hadn't worn them for a very long time, so it felt like I was on a boat.  The floor looked terribly far away and seemed to tilt every so slightly to one side and then the other.  I slipped my feet into some bejeweled flip-flops and threw on a down jacket for good measure.  It was probably 60 degrees out.

Driving the 1/4 mile to the store was a trick, as I was still living in an optical illusion with those glasses. I strolled into the store with all of the dignity I could muster, desperately trying to walk a straight line.  The girl, who was young enough to be my daughter, addressed me as "Hon" and asked me what I was looking for. Lack of time dictated that I tell her so that I could get some help.  We searched the shelves, I, crouching on the floor, and she, standing on her tip toes. (We really should have traded positions, as I am tall and she is short.)  I couldn't decide whether to look for my ingredient with or without my glasses, neither choice seemed a good one.  I alternated between squinting with and then without them, all the while making nervous clucking sounds.  The clerk called me "Hon" some more times.  We found the condensed milk, but no evaporated milk.  I wilted down to the floor.

I groaned, "oh no!  I can't go anywhere else like this!"  Obviously I must not have looked like I was wearing a disguise (which is in hindsight disconcerting), because the girl said, "Oh Hon, why not?"  My mind raced.  I didn't want to call attention to the fact that it was past noon and I was unshowered, unkempt and wearing a disguise mostly because of my atrocious Bed Head.  I mumbled the least vain thing that I could think of, "I can't go anywhere else WITHOUT SOCKS!" and then realized that it was like opposite day and actually sounded the most vain.  I slumped out of the store and putted home, my mind wildly racing.  Option #3 hadn't panned out.  Option #1 wasn't really an option due to that whole schedule thing.

In the end, I decided to try my hand at evaporating my own milk.  Heck, pioneers did it, and they did not have modern technology at their fingertips like I do.  I read a couple of websites and got busy.  While I was simmering the milk in my makeshift saucier (the new word I learned), I made the Caramel Frosting for the Dixie Spice Cake.  Evaporation, which couldn't be that difficult as it is a natural phenomenon with an important role in the life cycle of water, was incredibly slow.  In the end, I turned up the heat and desperately stirred the milk with a whisk.  After more than 20 minutes I was bored silly, not to mention I had a cramp in my whisking hand.  But guess what?  It worked!  Who would have thought that a person can successfully and safely evaporate milk in the privacy of her own home?

I concede that after three hours and a disguise, "successfully" may be up for debate.

I'm off now to include that on my resume.  Yes, I am using "successfully".