But How Does It Work?

“No!  Don’t touch that!”  

I screamed at my sixteen-year-old daughter as she reached for the long, skinny black arm on the record player that was stationed as a display at the mall department store.

“What?  Why?” Her hands flung backward as if they had touched a red glowing stove burner.

“There’s a needle in there.  It’ll scratch the record!”

“A needle?  I don’t get it.  How does it work?"

“The needle is what plays the music.  If you grab it, it’ll slide across the vinyl and put a big scratch in it.”

Michelle was born in the nineties.  When my cassettes were stacked on the bookshelf in the living room, right next to the cassette player deck that was hooked up to two bookshelf speakers.  Music arrived monthly in my mailbox via the RCA Music Club.  I vacuumed and dusted to the Beach Boys and Chicago.  Planted on the floor in front of the stereo, I did sit-ups to Jane Fonda’s 30-Minute Workout tape.

In the nineties, my shoulder-length permed hair didn’t require L’Oreal Dark Brown 4N.  It wasn’t spoiled by gray.  Michelle’s brothers played catch with a baseball in our backyard.    And went to Cub Scouts.  I drove a blue Chevrolet Impala.  A far cry from the bright orange Trans Am – complete with the eagle on the hood.

“But, how does the music get on the record?” Michelle asked. 

“I don’t know.  Google it.” I said. 

The 1976 Trans Am was orange.  It was a four-speed – fast and loud.  Sandwiched between the round black volume and tuning buttons on the radio and the cigarette lighter was an 8-track player, factory installed.  My Neil Diamond tape blasted out “I’m A Believer” as I cruised up over the hills and Simon & Garfunkel’s “Bridge Over Troubled Water” carried me down into the nooks and crannies of Gilman Valley to the house we moved to after my Grandpa passed away. 

“I mean – I can understand how music gets put on a CD,” Michelle said.  “I just don’t get the record thing.”

“Figures you would understand that,” I said.  Truth was – I didn’t know how the music got on the vinyl either.

 I didn’t care that the small round, black 45 singles with the big hole in the middle cost ninety-seven cents.  I just wanted to play them all in one big stack.  Nights in White Satin, Twist and Shout, and Good Vibrations.

“Grandpa, could I borrow some money?” I asked.  “I’ll mow your lawn for you all summer and pay you back.”

 Grandpa Eugene tugged on his wallet.  

“What for?” he asked.

“There’s a record player at the Farmer’s Store.  It’s only twenty-three dollars."  At five dollars per mowing in the late 60s, I could pay him back in a month.  I added, “You don’t have to tell Mom.

“Just accept the fact that music can be recorded on vinyl,” I told Michelle. 

“I can’t!” she replied.  “I have to know.”

The 33s were in the closet.  Mom didn't know we were messing with them.  I gawked at the brightly colored jackets that held the pieces of vinyl, revealing Brenda Lee’s dark red lipstick and teased hair, plus Herb Alpert’s Tijuana Brass of the 50s.  Mom wiggled her toes and bounced her head to the music as she sat in her wheelchair.  Not to Brenda Lee – but to my absolute favorite - The Chipmunks. 

"Maybe your Grandpa will know," I said.  "You can ask him."

Upstairs at Grandpa and Grandma's, the old Victrola stood in the corner of the spare bedroom in a walnut cabinet.  I pulled out a thick, black disc. The 78 was a lot heavier than the modern 33s.  I blew off the dust and opened the cover on the Victrola to see a shiny silver metal arm, shaped like a goose neck – with a sharp needle on the end.

“Mom!  I hollered down the staircase.  She wheeled over to the doorway.“How does this old record player work?”

“Put the needle down on the record and crank it."

"No - I mean - how does it work?”

A Lie From Day One

“Ma’am, excuse me but I don’t think you filled this out correctly,” the black-haired gentleman with glasses of the same color called out to me as I sauntered away from the counter.

Crap. Now what? My faced turned habanera pepper red.

I slung my purse back up over my shoulder and took two steps backwards.

I hadn’t renewed my driver’s license for ages. Not since they changed the renewal period to eight years. Eight years is a long time to hang on to a piece of plastic. And eight years is a long time to look at a less-than-desirable mug shot. After all, my hair was flat that day. And I never knew that my smile was crooked. Yes, literally, crooked.

Hmmm … I thought I had filled out the renewal form correctly.

Eyes – hazel. Check.

Hair – black. Well, L’Oreal black #4D, but they didn’t need to know that. Check.

Address – yup, that’s still the same. Check.

Weight – well, hello – that’s been a lie since day one, but nobody cares, right?

Oh, my gosh! I’m busted. My face quickly turned from red to white. My mug shot would be plastered in every post office in the tri-state area. I quickly looked for the exit door – so I could bolt out and disappear. Mr. Black-rimmed glasses was going to call me on my weight.

He peered at me through the Coke-bottle lenses. I looked at him, the word GUILTY plastered across my forehead, bracing myself for the condemnation.

“Ma’am, you didn’t write your social in this box.”

“Oops, I didn’t even see that box,” I replied very nonchalantly while my insides jumped up and down shouting 'whew'!

I quickly scribbled the nine digits inside the allotted space and hopped on over to the camera. This was the moment that I’d prepped all morning for – blow drying, straightening, painting on my face. After all, I would have to look at this picture for the next eight years.

A gray-haired lady stood behind the camera. Dressed in a blue flowered dress that was regurgitated from the seventies, she looked as old as my grandma. After all in driver’s license years, I was only about 7. All she had to do was push the button on the digital camera. I guess it couldn’t be any harder than it was for me to use my cell phone for texting.

“Stand on the blue box,” she barked. I looked up, licked my lips to give them a quick shine and faced the camera.

Click. Flash. Done.

My new driver’s license would be good for the next eight years. My hair was black – L’Oreal Black #4d. My eyes were still hazel. My smile was still crooked.

And my weight hadn’t changed at all. A lie from day one.

“Enjoy your birthday,” Mr. Black-rimmed glasses said.

I smiled, shoving my new license into my wallet. “Thanks, I will.”

Mmmm...

I shoved the half-eaten Ghirardelli caramel square in my purse, quickly folding over the opened end of the wrapper. I didn’t want my daughter to see me eating candy, after all, we had just eaten lunch and I wasn’t even hungry. And she is so health-conscious.

Me – not quite so. I mean yes, I am concerned about my health, but for some unbeknownst reason I frequently (every day) feel the urge to finalize my noon lunch with something sweet. Just a bite.

Why? BECAUSE I'M PART NORWEGIAN, THAT'S WHY!

After all, my Grandma Ollie always had to have just a bite of something sweet after lunch. Or with her coffee.

To further validate my theory – the next day at work we somehow got on the subject of those who salt their tomato slices versus those who sugar them. “Norwegians sugar everything,” Jay, a co-worker of mine stated matter-of-factly, as if there were to be no debate on the matter.

Which brings me back to the Ghirardelli square.

I tossed my purse into the back seat, and temporarily forgot about the candy bar until the next day at school.

Bounding into my office between classes, Mickey asked “Do you have any gum in your purse?”

“Yup, here – grab it,” I replied.

Mickey unzips my purse, sticks her fingers into my purse to grab the gum, when she all of a sudden spouts, “Ewwww….what’s this?” Her hand comes out of the purse with a long string of caramel attached to a couple of her fingers.

“Oh, just some candy. I forgot it was in there,” I said, trying to act like I hadn’t snuck it the other day without her knowledge.

She licked her fingers and took a piece of gum. “Mmmm,” she said, turning around and scooting out, just as quickly as she had come in.

When I got home from work I emptied the contents of my purse out onto the kitchen table and proceeded to wash the caramel off EVERYTHING.

Why do I get these urges? Because I’m part Norwegian – yes, I’m convinced.

Today when I grabbed my appointment book out of my purse I struggled to get the October calendar page open.

Because it was stuck to September. And November. And December. And the subsequent three months in 2010.

So I got the scissors out of my desk drawer and cut the caramel off the corner of each page that was infected with this gooey, sweet mess.

Mmmm…

Random Thoughts Not Worthy of an Entire Blog Post

My son is downsizing. When he moved away he took with him the contents of his refrigerator: 10 bottles of hot sauce. When he moved back a year and a half later, he brought with him the contents of his refrigerator: 6 bottles of hot sauce.

Lest I shall lose my mind over the fact that my back yard is all dirt and grass seed, I decided there is one tiny advantage (only one) to having your back yard torn up. You can shake the rug right out the door without having to step outside. The disadvantage is the need to sweep the floor every 30 seconds.

Just found my husband’s list for hunting in Colorado: reading glasses, long underwear, socks, beer, pop, ice, meat. Looks like all the essentials to me. Wish I could write lists that short.

Sister and I went out on the town this weekend. The walk- in-clinic, Kwik Trip for a cup of decaf coffee, and then home. Nothing like it used to be. Twenty years ago we could be found on a Friday night out on the town with friends, staying up into the wee hours of the morning and repeating the whole thing on Saturday night. Thanks for driving me, sis – and giving up your snoozing time on the sofa! P.S. I’m okay…nothing compared to the lady in the clinic who came in with a mask and sneezing!

Trying to get dressed for work and leave the house on time, I know now why Grandma wore a big string of beads around her neck. She could slip the necklace right over her head without trying to unhook a tiny, tiny, tiny gold clasp. I’ve now added a pair of glasses to my dresser also.

Back to my son – Mickey says most of her friends are sad that their older brothers and sisters have moved away to college. She told them “at least your older brother hasn’t moved back home!” Mainly, she doesn’t want to share the television with him now. And put up with his teasing. But he did let her drive his car on Sunday – just up Grandma’s driveway.

I’ve decided that when you get to be 49, it’s not a big deal what you wear to the class reunion. By this age, everyone’s either got too much gray, not enough gray, or too many love-handles (speaking for myself of course). Most importantly, no one cares anymore. It’s just good to see old friends!

Speaking of 49, I told my granddaughter Chrissy on my birthday last year that I’m not having any more birthday parties “I’m not going to get any older,” I stated to her matter-of-factly. She looked at me, the wheels turning in her head as she tried to create a vision of me getting younger instead of older and said, “well, Grandma, you’d better start eating healthy stuff then.”

Have a good weekend!

Truffles, Anyone?

I’d been driving for the past two weeks with my car’s amber check engine light staring me in the face. But since the car wasn’t spitting or sputtering, I was in no hurry to take it over the bluff once again to see what the dealer’s computer had to say about the little light. Until I realized that this weekend I would be driving my daughter and a friend, plus my two granddaughters and their mother on a two hour adventure across the Mississippi River into Minnesota. Safety is of course, a top priority.

So I called for a service appointment.

The drive over the hill was pretty. Queen Anne’s lace and black-eyed Susan’s were in full bloom along the roadside. Corn stalks yielded fuzzy tassels billowing in the gentle breeze. I even spotted a white-tailed deer grazing in the soybean field – wary of my passing through, but not quite enough to make him bolt. And as a bonus, the pot holes in the road were freshly filled.

I dropped the car at the dealership and Mickey and I decided to take a stroll around the block. It had been years since I had explored the little town of Wabasha, Minnesota. Lots of things there have changed – the dime store is gone, the grocery store has built a new building closer to the highway, and the local mercantile is now office space. In their place, Wabasha has focused its energy on the new National Eagle Center and several small specialty shops and antique stores.

And a chocolate store. An awesome chocolate store. Filled with chocolate.

I knew right away I was not leaving this place empty-handed. The only question in my mind was - which treat would I choose? The weathered pine floor boards in the old brick building creaked as I paced back and forth in front of the counter. Peering through the glass with my taste buds practically jumping out of my mouth, I spotted some cashew turtles. And some butter almond toffee. And truffles of every flavor – raspberry, mint and even oreo.

A half-pound of turtles lends you about six of them. Of course the box was too big so I told the clerk to add two more. At least that filled the box – and it looked a lot better. The half-pound of butter almond toffee fit into a box about four by six inches.

Mickey and I stepped outside and sat on the bench in front of the bookstore. I couldn’t wait and cracked open the box of turtles. The caramel enveloping the cluster of cashews was homemade as well. Sticky and buttery, it stuck to my teeth. Mmmm. The chocolate melted in my mouth (and my hand). Mmmm.

Back at the car dealership, I was happy to find out that they were able to diagnose and fix my vehicle on-site so I didn’t have to come back tomorrow. The gas cap had a leak in it. Which I guess can be a safety factor should you roll the vehicle over. So they fixed it – with a $81.17 gas cap.

Oh, and don’t forget the $26.95 worth of chocolate.

Hmmm…maybe it would have been fun to have to come back tomorrow.

To try the truffles…

Fancy Schmancy

A fancy, schmancy storm door sat on my back porch for a month. Until one day when I told my husband that we didn’t need a carpenter, we could put this up ourselves.

How hard could it be to hang a storm door anyway?

Knowing that my husband doesn’t normally read directions, I pre-empted his potential answer with, “if we read the directions carefully and gather all the tools we need ahead of time, I’m sure it will be easy.”

For the record, here are five things the directions don’t mention: a flashlight, reading glasses, caulk (the magic fix-all), shims, shims, shims (I'm counting this as one word), and patience (better know as the ability to re-do something twice without getting mad and throwing hand tools).

He lay down on the deck to try and see the tiny little spot where the bottom screw should go into the frame. But without his reading glasses and a flashlight, this was just a spot in the dark – literally. Like a surgical assistant holding the flashlight, on-cue I handed him first his glasses, then the screwdriver, and finally the screw.

After four hours, we had the frame up. This took longer than expected because we had to shim out the door jamb on the right side to equal the left side. An episode from This Old House? And then I had to paint the shims white to match the frame. Finally, caulk – the magic fix-all – covered the holes where the wood chisel made too deep of a gouge in the jamb.

By now, dusk was slowly drifting the back porch and the glow of the flashlight was no longer enough to see by. We temporarily hung the door in the frame and braced it with a big flower pot, just in case the wind decided to try and take the door away from us overnight
.
Two four-hour-days later, (which equals eight-nine hours) our fancy, schmancy storm door was completely hung and operational, double closer and all.

Nobody will ever notice the shims. You can’t tell because of my marvelous paint job.

Nobody needs to know that we hung the top door closer in the wrong spot and had to re-do it. You can’t tell because of my marvelous caulk job.

Hanging the storm door was not hard - just terribly time-consuming.

But it sure does look awesome. You might even say fancy, schmancy.

The Casino

Until this past May, I had never been to a casino in my life. The only casinos I’d ever seen were in the movies. You could say it was a life-long dream of mine – to experience it, anyway. To experience the mystery and intrigue of it all... To satisfy the urge to find out what it’s all about...

So, when Jonathan and I attended this year’s Brain Association of Wisconsin’s annual convention in Green Bay, suddenly my life-long dream became reality. Our motel was attached to the casino. We were literally just steps away from potential wealth. (Or more likely from the slim chance that this would ever happen to us.)

With twenty-dollar bills in hand, Jonathan and I made our way past the security guard at the door and strolled on into the casino, trying to look like we belonged there – or at least like we knew what we were doing. We wove our way around the various slot machines, past the black jack table, circled around to the beverage station and then back again. This casino contained probably ninety percent slots, ranging from penny machines to five dollar machines. The slot machines were alive with blinking colored lights, sweet sounding beeps, bells and whistles. And fingerprints.

(Only the second week into the swine flu outbreak, I made a mental note to myself to keep my fingers out of my mouth and to stop at the restroom to wash my hands before we left.)

Neither of us quite sure what to do, Jonathan finally sat himself down at one of the dollar machines.

Twenty seconds later his money was gone.

We walked around some more, thinking and talking potential strategy– we’d better find a different machine or we’d be out of money in a few minutes. Or at least practice on the penny machines first.

He chose a two-cent machine and I sat down beside him. The lady two stools down looked as if she had been there a while. Her elbow rested on her crossed legs as she propped her cigarette precariously on the edge of her lips, leaving her other hand free to spin. Obviously a veteran slot player, I decided to watch this woman.

She had quite a few credits (apparently they don’t spill out buckets of coins anymore) to her favor. When I figured out how she was playing the game, I decided to try it on my own. I decided to go big and risk a five dollar bill. I selected twelve rows and doubled down.

My credits lasted quite a while. I was actually up to $13.85 at one point.

But as my wealth grew, my desire to keep on spinning grew as well. I drove the machine down to zero.

We spent about forty bucks each in two days at the casino. Cheaper than dinner and a movie? Yup. Time spent with my son? Priceless.

Do I need to go again? I think it’s safe to say I’ve satisfied the urge.

Scrappy's Big Adventure

He sits by the patio door looking out at the farm cats on the porch. Once in a while he scratches his paw on the window, trying to catch their attention. His ears perk up as he hears them bickering with each other outside.

Scrappy wonders what it would be like to be out there with the farm cats.

After all, he used to be one.

Separated from his mother as she coyly moved her litter from the back of the barn to the front of the house, he spent the cold, dark November night crying in desperation. Longing to find the warmth and comfort his mother’s thick fur coat offered, he scrunched his body tightly into the corner of the window well, slightly protected from the impaling winter wind. Disoriented and literally lost, his cries went on into the night.

Until I tucked myself into bed for the night, pulled the warm quilt up over my chin and reached over to flick off the lamp.

It was at that precise moment of silence, in a house that had went to sleep for the night, that Scrappy’s cries could finally be heard.

I crawled out of bed and grabbed the flashlight from the drawer. Slipping my feet into my boots and throwing on my winter coat over my robe, I headed out the door. As I rounded the corner of the house, a gust of wind blew a swarm of leaves into my face. I pulled my hood up and held it tightly around my neck. Holding the flashlight in the other hand, I pointed it into the well below my bedroom window.

Picking up the little kitten and tucking him inside my jacket, I quickly ran back to the house.

This little yellow and white ball of fur quickly became my Scrappy little cat, the cat who I rescued from the throws of another impending Wisconsin winter.

With the snow gone and the sun shining brightly, yesterday Scrappy wanted to go outside. He wanted to explore. He wanted to check out those cool farm cats he was always gazing at through the patio door all winter long.

So I let him out.

Eight hours later, as the sun began to set and the cold March air returned for the evening, I began to call for him. And call for him.

There was no sign of Scrappy.

Not that I was worried, after all – he was just a cat.

And cats love to be outside. And explore.

But it was a little chilly for a cat with no winter coat.

It wasn’t long and the morning sun was peeking in my bedroom window. I got up to make myself a cup of coffee. As I walked past the patio door, who do you think was there?

Scrappy.

I opened the door to greet him, but he dashed right past me to his dish. Lily, our veteran house cat, immediately bounded into the kitchen to see what the ruckus was all about. Right away, Lily put her nose into gear, checking out something different about Scrappy.

He smelled different.

Like outside.

She looked at Scrappy as if to ask, “What was it like out there?” She wanted to know, “Did you have fun?” Still uncertain, she pressed him for more answers, “Were you scared?” “What did you do?” “Are you going back outside?”

Scrappy, truly exhausted from his big adventure and subsequently all the questions Lily was bugging him with, jumped onto my bed and slept the rest of the day.

Yesterday Scrappy had a big adventure. But today he didn’t want to go back out.

He just wanted to sleep.

Colors of Spring

They sat side by side in perfect rows, the colors of spring popping out before my eyes. Spring green, yellow and pink. Stripes in tan, pale orange and light blue. Bursts of multi-colored flowers and geometrics. One couldn’t escape this freshness, this newness of the season.

My eyes were drawn to the spring green color. I picked it up. I contemplated its size. I could see my sister with this one. Or the yellow one. I wondered - could I be the green one?

So many sizes to choose from. Where to begin? My desire to downsize led me to the smaller versions. But past failures still fresh in my mind, I quickly remembered the contents of my life spilled out upon the seat of my car or the kitchen table as I frantically rummaged for a pen – or my cell phone – or my tube of Chapstick. I have so many in my closet already – remnants of those failed attempts to downsize. Useless for anything, other than taking up precious space in my unorganized life.

I held the small green one. I looked inside it. I put it over my shoulder. I put it back.

I held the larger green one. I looked inside it. I put it over my shoulder. I put it back.

I held the striped one, the yellow one, the flowered one and even a tan one. I looked inside them all. I put them over my shoulder. I put them back.

Tucked in on the top shelf at the end of the row I spotted it.

A black one. Just the right size. I loved everything about it. The color. The size. The style.

Everything except one thing.

The price. I turned the price tag over. Forty-eight bucks – even on sale!I put it back.

After all, who would pay more than twenty bucks for a purse? Not me.

Besides, I already have a black one.

So I will go through the next couple months, envying every green or yellow or pink purse I see slung over the shoulder of women who are obviously more gutsy than me.

Until the fall colors come out – and then maybe I’ll spring for brown.

Or maybe not.

Our Comfort Zone (Or Discomfort Zone)

My almost five-year-old granddaughter walks in the door with her footed jammies stuffed into her snow boots. With a tremendous tug we finally get the boots off. She runs to the living room to play. What could be better than spending all day Saturday wearing your jammies?

Never mind the fact that she won’t be able to play outside in the snow later on this afternoon. Never mind the fact that she won’t be able to run errands with me.

She’s my jammie girl. And she would go to school every day in her pajamas – if her mother let her. And I can understand how she feels tucked in her snuggly fleece. It’s kind of like having your blankie wrapped around you all day long.

We’ve all had days in our comfort zone, right?

My almost forty-five year old sister gets dressed for a trip to town – bra and all. (She works at home- and I swear, wears her jammies all day long too.) Her car whizzes down the street and out onto the highway. A couple miles farther and she begins to squirm back and forth – trying to adjust the position of her bra. It doesn’t feel quite right – probably because she hasn’t worn one all week.

She wiggles some more but by now the bra has become alive and starts sucking the air out of her lungs. In desperation to get her breath, she pulls her car over into the parking lot of a vacant school building. Driving behind the building she quickly slams the car into park, sending the loose gravel flying.

My sister swiftly rips her bra off and fires it into the back seat, as her fifteen year old daughter’s eyes nearly pop out of her head in disbelief. In the wink of an eye and the squeal of a tire, the car is back on the road, headed toward town.

As they pull into the parking lot at the mall, her daughter nonchalantly remarks, “You should probably take that bra out of the back window, Mom.”

We’ve all had days when we were in our discomfort zone, right?

No Milk

We finally arrived in Milwaukee at about 7:00 on Friday night, after a long, leg cramping, shoulder tensing, four hour drive in 75 mph traffic. It felt so good to get out of the car and stretch. And carry in our bags. And quickly greet Jonathan, who we hadn’t seen since Christmas.

Of course, he was waiting to go and eat dinner with us …

You see, I had emailed him that morning. “Are you going to have dinner ready for us when we get there tonight or should we stop on the way and grab something to eat?” I asked.

“We don’t have any milk in the house,” he replied. “Maybe we could go out for dinner – a family dinner?”

Family dinner in my family usually means one thing.

Mom and Dad’s treat.

Whether it be my mom and dad taking us out.

Or me and my husband taking our kids out.

It’s just the natural order of things in this family.

Anyway, I don’t really know what not having milk had to do with any of it but our plans were made – and we enjoyed our dinner. And our conversation.

Waking up to a winter snowstorm on Saturday morning put a slight damper on the remainder of our weekend plans. After I looked out the window and saw at least six inches of snow on the car, I decided I didn’t even want to go outside. We cancelled our trip to the big mall, and settled instead on visiting the smaller mall close to Jonathan’s house, so Mickey could check out what it was like to shop in Milwaukee.

I bought vacuum cleaner bags.

And soap.

Because I felt the urge to take care of a few things.

Like vacuuming.

And just a little cleaning.

You see, my Grandma Vera could often be seen with dish rag in hand. I can still hear my mom saying, “Mom, please put that rag down and visit for a while. You don’t need to wipe that off right now.”

But Grandma was happiest with dish rag in hand.

And I was too – this weekend at Jonathan’s. I vacuumed the carpets and then cleaned both bathrooms. I washed the dishes and wiped off the countertops and stove. I swept the floors and shook and washed the bathroom rugs.

I was happiest with dish rag in hand.

Just like my Grandma.

… Oh, and I did buy him some milk.

The Rookie

“What does it mean when I turn my computer on and it says I have eleven unread messages?”

“Where do I type in where I want to go?"

“Right here … Like this?”

“Why does this box want to know if I want to win money?”

“Isn’t Hotmail and Facebook the same thing?”

“How do I send this message?”

“How did this stuff get on my screen?”


Diane takes a deep breath …


“Do I ask you how to put a new head gasket in the tractor?”

“Do I ask you how to put the lawn mower belt on?”

“Do I ask you how to change the element in the hot water heater?”

“Do I ask you how to put a new light fixture in the laundry room?”

“Do I ask you how to figure out how many pounds of fertilizer to put on the field?”

“Do I ask you how to filet a fish?”

“Do I ask you how to put new brakes in my Tahoe?”

This is the winter that I rounded up an old laptop for my husband, so he wouldn’t feel like an outcast in the family. On cold winter days he can be found sitting on the sofa, surfing the internet, checking his email, and yes – reading Facebook. The rookie is now officially a Facebook junkie.

I think I’ll write on his wall right now.

Even though we’re both in the same room.

A Tisket, a Tasket, a Stupid Clothes Basket

I’ll admit – I have an organization problem. With clothes baskets in particular.

Two years ago, I wiped the slate clean and threw out most of my clothes baskets. It makes doing laundry a little tough, (especially when you have to carry a load outside to the clothes line) but the consequences of having a clothes basket in my possession are somewhat life threatening.

Because clothes baskets can be used for many things besides laundry.

You can use a clothes basket to put the pumpkins in that you pick from your garden the night before the hard frost. But they will freeze if you leave them in there, and then you have to dump the whole mess out anyway.

You can use a clothes basket to put your donated clothes in until you get the right size box to put them in and take them to Goodwill. But if you leave the basket sit in your dining room until Easter, you have to move the basket to the basement when you have the family over for dinner.

You can use a clothes basket to store the toys in that you dig out of the closet when kids come to play. But if you don’t put the toys away, the Barbie’s hair gets full of Silly Putty, the slinky gets wound around the Poky Little Puppy’s tail and no one can play with anything anymore.

You can use a clothes basket to put groceries in that don’t fit into your pantry. But then you have to move the basket every time you want to open the refrigerator.

You can use a clothes basket to put your cleaning supplies in that don’t fit under your sink. But then the Mr. Clean will spill out on the dust rag and you will get suds when you use it to dust the coffee table.

You can even give your grandchildren a ride in a clothes basket, pulling them across the dining room floor, with them giggling as you screech around the corner – tumbling them onto the living room carpet.

And you can use a clothes basket as a hamper.

Like the one that I use as a hamper in my closet.

Last Saturday, against my better judgment, I fell off the wagon and put my laundry in one of the few clothes basket I still own and carried it to the washing machine.
I washed and dried the clothes and in my haste, threw the clean clothes back in the clothes basket.

To be folded later.

The basket stayed in the hallway all week. Then I moved the basket to my bedroom. There it sits, piled with other clean clothes that I haven’t put away yet – but plan to soon. Sometime this week. Or for sure by Saturday.

Yes, it’s almost time to do laundry again, but this time I will carry each load individually to the washer, and immediately fold each load as I take it out of the dryer and then put the clothes away.

Right away.

The papers that should be in files are in a clothes basket in my office. (The file folders are in a box on the closet shelf). When I need to find something, I dig through the basket. If I can’t find it after about an hour of looking, I just buy a new whatever it is.

Yes, it’s almost tax time again, but this year I vow to use my new label maker to label each file folder in the box and put them in the drawer in my desk. And to put the papers in the files.

Right away.

Because I shouldn't come within a mile of a clothes basket.

The Halo?

Someone in this picture is donning a halo (well, a star, I guess). I'd like to think of him as being very angelic.

But I don't know...

What do you think?

The '90s

I unpacked my laptop from its bag and put it on the kitchen table. My mom was intrigued, watching me plug it in, start it up, pop in the DVD I’d burned and navigate through the screens to my pictures.

We sat together at the kitchen table for at least a half an hour, commenting on all the pictures from the past year – from Mickey, Kaitlyn and Chrissy’s birthday parties, to the snowstorm on April 28th, to our grandkids in the pumpkin patch, and of course, most recently - Christmas Eve at my Mom’s.

After I ejected the DVD from my computer, I showed it to Mom. Explaining to her that the pictures we just looked at were all contained on this thin sliver of a disc, she just shook her head in disbelief.

The computer back in its bag, Mickey immediately went on to further wow her grandmother with technology – probably more than she needed in one Sunday afternoon. Mickey took one of her IPod ear buds out and placed it in Grandma’s ear. For a minute, they rocked together in their chairs, back and forth to the music.

For a minute, my mom didn’t look quite so old. For a minute, she didn’t look like she didn’t understand what was going on. Mom enjoyed sharing this piece of technology with Mickey. And I enjoyed watching them rock together in their chairs.

All of a sudden Mom pulled her ear bud out, turned to Mickey and asked … don’t you have any “old” music?

To which Mickey replied … “I have some from the ‘90s … “

Yes, the ‘90s.

Before DVDs. Before IPods. Before Mickey.

Dreaming Under the Influence – or – What Sudafed Does To Your Mind While You Sleep

Cold relief. One tiny, red pill. Half the recommended adult dose.

On Saturday night I was driving my car down a dusty gravel road until I finally arrived at my dad’s farm. Out in the hay field in front of the house he had a great big barbecue set up. Dad was charcoaling something for all the neighbors and friends to eat. I find this to be quite odd, because Dad only threw one party in his life – my wedding reception. The only other party at the farm was a housewarming party when we moved in – and that was a surprise planned and executed by friends.

Dad proceeded to give me a tour of the house (which is also odd, because I lived there for six years and obviously shouldn’t need a tour). But much to my surprise, inside the living room you could look up and see the upstairs through a big hole in the floor. Actually, only the perimeter of the ceiling above the living room was there. We went upstairs and looked down. All along the edges of the room I could see a maple wood floor – its jagged edges peeking through the torn carpeting. I wondered why no one had ever discovered that before.

Could it have something to do with the fact that I recently refinished two hardwood maple floors in one of my rentals?

My cold still getting the best of me, on Sunday night I took another Sudafed. It wasn’t long and I could hear my dad telling me that mom wanted me to make her some meatloaf. I asked him why but he didn’t really want to say. After prodding him just a little more, he admitted that she was sick of the meals on wheels.

I can’t parallel this to anything, except maybe the fact that I’ve been eating fast food all week while I was in town painting at the rental and I could go for some homemade dinner myself, for a change!


Breaking down and actually taking this decongestant to unclog my sinuses for the last few nights has really been pretty eventful for me. In the dream world, that is. I can’t wait to go to sleep tonight – so I can find out what journey is in store for me as I sleep, head propped up on pillows for maximum breathing effect – helping the little red pill work its magic.

Just a Peek

Peeking around the corner, I see my new sink, new cabinets, new lighting, new floor and appliances. For just a second, I don’t recognize anything.

It’s been about a week since the last of the strangers have left my house. All is quiet.

The drywall installer is gone. All of the little globs of joint compound have been scraped off and wiped clean. The primer and paint is dry. And touched up. And primed again. And dry.

The flooring installer is gone. It was a long project, and the most difficult of all aspects of this kitchen and laundry room remodel, because I had to move everything contained in those two rooms completely out of the house for four days. Some things have not yet returned, and may very well never return.

The cabinetmaker is gone. He arrived on schedule, spent thirteen hours installing my beautiful quarter-sawn oak hand crafted cabinets, complete with brushed nickel pulls and knobs. The beauty of his work escalated as he added the crown molding. What was once just a name to me now means much more. Crown molding is truly the crowning touch.

The electrician is gone. With great expertise, he wove countless wires in and out of the old house wall, bringing light and power to corners of the kitchen I have never seen before. Gone are the dark days of baking, preparing meals, and struggling for a spot to plug in the toaster. Plus, I get to look at new, cool looking light fixtures.

The appliance installer is gone. With a helping hand he moved my old appliances out and moved my new ones in. He took my old frig to my son’s house, and brought Nate’s old frig back to my basement (my son upgraded). And then he moved them back out again, along with my washer and dryer for the floor install. And then he moved them all back in again and also installed my over-the-range microwave/fan hood combo. He hooked up my new dishwasher, installed my ice maker line and even added a shut off valve for the dishwasher for me. A week later (to the day), his appliance store burned down. My heart goes out to him and his wife in the loss of their business. But that’s another blog post.

The countertop installer is gone. With great care he checked my countertop measurements, and then I again checked his math, making sure I ordered the exact size countertop. Lifting the tremendously heavy piece of quartz into place took the work of three men.

The plumber is gone. The final piece of the remodel fell into place when he hooked up the water line to the kitchen sink. A month without water in the kitchen finally came to an end.

In closing, I have realized that all these people know a lot more about me than I probably wanted them to.

They know that –
I don’t vacuum behind my refrigerator.
I don’t know how to organize a closet.
I don’t know how to operate a filing cabinet.
I don’t clean my basement very often.
I don’t always make my bed.
But most importantly –
I don’t usually complain too loud if things don’t turn out quite as anticipated.

For me, there’s always Plan B.

Enjoy the peek at my new sink.

All That Remains

“They took everything but the kitchen sink.” No. That’s gone too. All that remains of my old kitchen stands here in this spot. The hot and cold water pipes.

Everything we own that was in our kitchen is boxed up, shelved, and otherwise scattered throughout the house. I feel like I am living in a pile of stuff. The milk is in the frig in the basement, down a flight of steps and sixty feet from where it is supposed to be. The cereal is on a shelf in the hallway next to the disposable bowls and spoons. The toaster is on a cart in the living room. It’s a challenge to eat breakfast. Or any meal, for that matter.

The picture of my new kitchen is engrained in my brain – and I call upon it frequently to keep my sanity.

Like last night when I was scraping the dried joint compound off the old floor to prep for the new floor. My back and feet were aching. My husband helped me carry a few things out of the room. Then he looked at me and said, “I think I’ll go hunting for awhile.”

Thank goodness I didn’t have a hammer in my hand or I would have killed him. Well, not literally …

He paced around the room for a minute. I whined for some more help. Then he made the mistake of opening his mouth one more time.

“Well, this was all your idea,” he said sort-of-under-his-breath as he walked into the living room.

Again, I have no hammer.

Deep breath …

I finished sweeping up the joint compound crumbs.

For those of you who are dying to know, did my husband go hunting?

No.

Twenty minutes later the electrician showed up and he helped him fish a couple wires up through the wall.

Then I handed him a hammer …

So he could take a couple staples out of the old floor that he missed the other night - when the light was too dim, and the old set of eyes he has had already checked out for the night.

Seventeen Years Ago

Time flies. We all know it. We’ve all said it. It’s the topic around the water cooler at work. Where did the time go? Once in a while something really hits you though. Where were you seventeen years ago? I asked myself that today.

Seventeen years ago …

… we were just putting a new floor in our kitchen – and here we are, doing it again.

… my boys were fighting over which one would sit in the front seat of the car – and now they have their own cars.

… I had shoulder length permed hair which I dyed for the fun of it – not to cover the gray.

… my oldest son was taking hunter safety class, had just started junior high school, and was still pudgy around the middle – his own kids are in school now (and he’s replaced the pudginess with muscles).

… my middle son was learning the saxophone and had a squeaky little voice which sounded just about the same as the saxophone did when he tried to hit the high notes – the saxophone is long gone, replaced by an electric guitar which doesn’t squeak, but rather, makes a loud, sometimes annoying sound.

… we were raising hogs on our farm – now our barn sits empty, with thick cobwebs in the corner of the ladder to the haymow.

… my husband and I stayed out until the wee hours of the a.m. with friends – now we wake up at the wee hours of the a.m. when those coming home race noisily down the road past our bedroom window.

… my daughter Mickey wasn’t even a thought in the back of my mind yet – now she is a real part of my life and in the front of my thoughts.

… I was 31 years old - I don’t even remember ever being 31 years old.

And get this -

… Survivor, one of the first television reality/game shows started its first season on national tv.

Can you believe it’s been on that long? I still don’t believe it.

The Education of Man

Hope you enjoy this from my August, 1999 journal -

All summer long I struggled trying to teach my (grown-up) guys where to put their dirty clothes. When out of the blue, I came up with an idea! I decided to make signs on my computer. After all, technology is the name of the game today.

I made a sign for each of the three hampers in the laundry room. The blue hamper read “dark colored work clothes in here”; the white hamper read “light colored work clothes in here” (seems logical, doesn’t it?). The green hamper read “good clothes of any color in here” (I’ll admit that might throw someone off).

I even opened the lids on the hampers.

Then, the most awesome thing happened. For the next twenty-four hours there were no dirty clothes on the floor in front of the hampers, no clothes on top of the closed hamper, and all the dirty clothes were where they belonged.

You can only imagine what this led to.

I thought to myself, “If they can read these signs, they can read other signs.”

I quickly fired up the ‘puter to make a sign for the hamper in the bathroom – “washcloths and towels in here”. I was on a roll. I couldn’t stop. A “nothing goes here” sign was attached to the wall in the bathroom, next to the hamper, visibly prohibiting anyone from putting their clothes on the floor next to the hamper. By the way, why do they do this?

For twenty-four more hours everything was where it belonged.

For a brief moment, my hopes were high. Visions of an orderly house were rampant in my mind. I even considered making signs for the bathroom vanity reading “contact solution in here’; “hairbrush in here” – the list in my mind went on and on.

Then, just as quickly as it started, it abruptly ended. My realm as queen of the orderly house was over. Reality set in quite rapidly and quite frankly, things went right back to normal.

The education of man. Short-lived.