Okay, that title is kind of misleading. I have never really dived into a dumpster. Well, there was that one time when I spotted a really neat piece of beveled glass sticking out of a dumpster but I pulled it out, I didn't go in to get it. I turned it into an entryway table and put it in my foyer.
That other time I didn't get into the dumpster either. It was too high so I went and got a little plastic stool and took it back there but while I was unloading and coming back for more somebody made off with my stool! The nerve of some people. I was only getting boxes for moving. Really.
Not like my mom and her friend Jeanne when my mom climbed into the dumpster and couldn't get back out. She swore she was just trying to retrieve an envelope she had accidentally thrown away but being in her seventies and only 5 feet tall she was stuck in there. I don't know if she hollered till Jeanne found her and got her out or what. I suspect that Jeanne is the one who helped her in there in the first place. I did hear Jeanne say, last time they were together, "Remember that time we found the marijuana in that purse and we turned it in to the police and they made us tell our age? We said we would never turn anything in to the police again if they make us tell our age!" I don't know exactly where they found that purse. Or how they knew what marijuana looked like anyway.
My mom is the one who taught me all I know about retrieving fine objects from the roadside. It was her idea to get that chair from someone's trash when we lived in California. It wasn't in great shape so I turned it into a plant stand but when we were transferred to Oklahoma the moving company thought they had damaged it and fixed it up like new.
I get my best stuff on trash days. Like the bar stools I picked up. I didn't need them myself so I sold them on Craig's List for $15. And I got the queen headboard that is in my guest room now right around the corner from Jake's house. The trash truck was right behind me so I might have been speeding a little. The guy putting it out for the trash actually helped me load it in my van.
I got a really cool little table from my neighbor's trash across the street the other day. If she had been home I would have asked her, but she wasn't and I didn't and then it got too late to say anything and now I can't let her in my house because there it is looking right at home next to my chair. We talk on the porch.
Dennis has never really been a fan of my little hobby. He makes me take him home first if I spot something good and he even made me lose some perfectly good patio chairs last week when I had to take him home and when I got back somebody else had snatched them. I keep telling him people don't mind. If they wanted to keep these things for themselves they wouldn't put them out by the curb, right?
It's not really dumpster diving, it's keeping things out of the landfill. I'm saving the environment.
Friday, July 29, 2011
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Reptile Disfunction
Though I have no recollection of when it began for me, there is a medical name for the condition I have. It is called Ophidiophobia. Fear of snakes. We're not talking "Oooh! Get it away from me." in girlish-squeals-fear. We're talking full-out panic, hysterical crying, embarrassing running out of the store if I see a toy one terror. I don't really even like to talk about them so I don't know why I am telling you this except maybe in self-preservation to make sure you understand. DO NOT COME NEAR ME WITH EVEN A PICTURE OF ONE!!!
I read about some celebrity who had this phobia and his "friend" thought it would be funny to rent a boa constrictor and bring it to a party at his house. The celebrity wound up in a mental hospital for several weeks. That would be me.
When my boys were small and begged to go in the Reptile House at the zoo, I risked their tiny lives by letting them go in by themselves while I waited outside. And when Jake was in first grade and I went as a helper-mom on his field trip to what was supposed to be to a nature farm with a few wolves and badgers behind chicken wire fences and then the ranger said "And now for our treat! Georgie is coming out with our wonderful pet python," I abandoned the ten little darlings I was supposed to be chaperoning and high-tailed it for the bus before you could hear the squeak of the door!
When the teacher came to look for me I was cowering behind the bus driver's seat. "Are you all right?" she wanted to know."Oh, yes," I said. "I'm just in here praying, thanking God that at least somebody gave me some warning!" I don't really remember the ride home but I think Jake somehow got attached to another group and he may have been pretending that their leader was his mother.
I've heard there is something called "Snake Away" in a can that you can buy at the hardware store and sprinkle around the yard to repel them. But I can't go buy it because I'm sure there is a picture of a snake on the can.
I have tried to get braver over the years and I think I may be succeeding. I can now be in the same room with a newspaper or magazine that I know has a picture of a snake in it. And when we bought a house in St. Louis and later found out from the neighbors that snakes had been spotted in the common back yards I eventually did go outside. You approached the yard from our very high deck so I stomped really hard on each step and yelled. And banged pans together that I kept on the deck for that very purpose. We only lived there about a year.
I guess Jake finally forgave me for the field trip debacle because when right after we moved here my worst nightmare came true and I spotted a snake in the laundry room, I called him and he got out of bed in the middle of the night, got dressed and came over to rescue me. I hid with my face to the wall in a corner of the living room instead of jumping in the car and heading out-of-state (only because I would have had to go through the laundry room to get to the garage) and let him deal with it. "You can come out now, Mom," he said. "I killed it. It was a pipe cleaner."
Well, it was a very long, brown pipe cleaner. Anybody could have made the same mistake. I'm thinking my Ophidiophobia may be blending in with Haptodysporia, which is fear of fuzzy things.
I read about some celebrity who had this phobia and his "friend" thought it would be funny to rent a boa constrictor and bring it to a party at his house. The celebrity wound up in a mental hospital for several weeks. That would be me.
When my boys were small and begged to go in the Reptile House at the zoo, I risked their tiny lives by letting them go in by themselves while I waited outside. And when Jake was in first grade and I went as a helper-mom on his field trip to what was supposed to be to a nature farm with a few wolves and badgers behind chicken wire fences and then the ranger said "And now for our treat! Georgie is coming out with our wonderful pet python," I abandoned the ten little darlings I was supposed to be chaperoning and high-tailed it for the bus before you could hear the squeak of the door!
When the teacher came to look for me I was cowering behind the bus driver's seat. "Are you all right?" she wanted to know."Oh, yes," I said. "I'm just in here praying, thanking God that at least somebody gave me some warning!" I don't really remember the ride home but I think Jake somehow got attached to another group and he may have been pretending that their leader was his mother.
I've heard there is something called "Snake Away" in a can that you can buy at the hardware store and sprinkle around the yard to repel them. But I can't go buy it because I'm sure there is a picture of a snake on the can.
I have tried to get braver over the years and I think I may be succeeding. I can now be in the same room with a newspaper or magazine that I know has a picture of a snake in it. And when we bought a house in St. Louis and later found out from the neighbors that snakes had been spotted in the common back yards I eventually did go outside. You approached the yard from our very high deck so I stomped really hard on each step and yelled. And banged pans together that I kept on the deck for that very purpose. We only lived there about a year.
I guess Jake finally forgave me for the field trip debacle because when right after we moved here my worst nightmare came true and I spotted a snake in the laundry room, I called him and he got out of bed in the middle of the night, got dressed and came over to rescue me. I hid with my face to the wall in a corner of the living room instead of jumping in the car and heading out-of-state (only because I would have had to go through the laundry room to get to the garage) and let him deal with it. "You can come out now, Mom," he said. "I killed it. It was a pipe cleaner."
Well, it was a very long, brown pipe cleaner. Anybody could have made the same mistake. I'm thinking my Ophidiophobia may be blending in with Haptodysporia, which is fear of fuzzy things.
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
Serendipity Sales
I'm writing this while sitting on the "new" office chair I got at a garage sale. Eight bucks. It was priced at ten, I offered seven and here it is.Very comfy. Garage sales are some of my favorite things in the world. I call them Serendipity sales because that means "making desirable discoveries by accident."
My two favorite things that I've gotten at garage sales are a 25 cent plastic mixing/measuring bowl I use almost everyday and an armoire that closely matches the one we bought at an antique store for $350.00. I paid twenty dollars for this one.
My mom was the queen of garage sales and she taught me all I know, although she would never bargain. I'll always ask. What can they say, "No"? Then I either buy it at their price or not. I once had a garage sale and a lady came who wanted to bargain over everything! If it was priced a dime she wanted it for a nickel. I swear, if I had offered it for free she would have asked me to pay her to take it. You don't have to be obnoxious, lady!
My mom always wanted to get out there early, like seven a.m. "If you don't go early there's no point in going." Somehow when she was still going strong at one p.m. and I was dragging behind her it escaped her that it was no longer early at the sales we still hadn't gotten to.
She always knew the best places to go and she could spot a good sale from half way down the street. If people were leaving it with their arms loaded she would say "Hurry, they're getting all the good stuff!" and if people were leaving without buying anything she would say "Prices must be too high." and she was usually right.
It is hard to judge the quality of a sale if nobody else is there when you get there. Like the time my mom and I went up onto a driveway and started looking through all the stuff. It wasn't organized very well but I found some really cool hedge trimmers I wanted, although they didn't have a price on them. So I asked the guy how much he wanted for them and he just looked at me kind of funny. Who knew he was just cleaning out his garage? He didn't want to bargain with me either.
Garage sales can actually be kind of habit-forming, maybe like gambling. I knew a woman once---I swear, I'm not making this up---who spent her whole pregnancy at garage sales, got so many cute outfits her husband had to add racks in the baby's closet and when she had baby showers, she returned the big stuff, like the stroller, pac 'n play and a bunch of other things to the store and re-purchased the same things at garage sales for about 1/10 the price. I thought she was pretty smart but her husband finally said she was addicted and made her stop. For awhile.
You can't really go to garage sales looking for specific things. That may be what's fun about it; you never know what you are going to find. Once, though, when Josh and Jerilyn were moving into a rental house that was so small there was only one drawer in the kitchen, I prayed for a hanging pot rack as I was walking up to a sale and there it was, beautiful, brass and only eight dollars! It was the only time before or since I've seen one at a garage sale.
My kids and Dennis make fun of me sometimes about garage sales, forgetting that half of what they are using in this house is from garage sales and almost all the Christmas decorations. Besides, if I buy something I can't use, I'll have a garage sale and sell it.
My two favorite things that I've gotten at garage sales are a 25 cent plastic mixing/measuring bowl I use almost everyday and an armoire that closely matches the one we bought at an antique store for $350.00. I paid twenty dollars for this one.
My mom was the queen of garage sales and she taught me all I know, although she would never bargain. I'll always ask. What can they say, "No"? Then I either buy it at their price or not. I once had a garage sale and a lady came who wanted to bargain over everything! If it was priced a dime she wanted it for a nickel. I swear, if I had offered it for free she would have asked me to pay her to take it. You don't have to be obnoxious, lady!
My mom always wanted to get out there early, like seven a.m. "If you don't go early there's no point in going." Somehow when she was still going strong at one p.m. and I was dragging behind her it escaped her that it was no longer early at the sales we still hadn't gotten to.
She always knew the best places to go and she could spot a good sale from half way down the street. If people were leaving it with their arms loaded she would say "Hurry, they're getting all the good stuff!" and if people were leaving without buying anything she would say "Prices must be too high." and she was usually right.
It is hard to judge the quality of a sale if nobody else is there when you get there. Like the time my mom and I went up onto a driveway and started looking through all the stuff. It wasn't organized very well but I found some really cool hedge trimmers I wanted, although they didn't have a price on them. So I asked the guy how much he wanted for them and he just looked at me kind of funny. Who knew he was just cleaning out his garage? He didn't want to bargain with me either.
Garage sales can actually be kind of habit-forming, maybe like gambling. I knew a woman once---I swear, I'm not making this up---who spent her whole pregnancy at garage sales, got so many cute outfits her husband had to add racks in the baby's closet and when she had baby showers, she returned the big stuff, like the stroller, pac 'n play and a bunch of other things to the store and re-purchased the same things at garage sales for about 1/10 the price. I thought she was pretty smart but her husband finally said she was addicted and made her stop. For awhile.
You can't really go to garage sales looking for specific things. That may be what's fun about it; you never know what you are going to find. Once, though, when Josh and Jerilyn were moving into a rental house that was so small there was only one drawer in the kitchen, I prayed for a hanging pot rack as I was walking up to a sale and there it was, beautiful, brass and only eight dollars! It was the only time before or since I've seen one at a garage sale.
My kids and Dennis make fun of me sometimes about garage sales, forgetting that half of what they are using in this house is from garage sales and almost all the Christmas decorations. Besides, if I buy something I can't use, I'll have a garage sale and sell it.
Tuesday, July 26, 2011
A Little Child Shall Lead Them
Long, long ago my first job was babysitting for my older cousin's four kids (I made fifty cents an hour if you're trying to figure out just how long ago it was). It was near Christmas so I decided, very grown-uply, to read the Christmas story out of Luke. I was 11 or 12 and it was familiar to me so I assumed it would be familiar to them too. Maybe I guessed wrong. They looked kind of glassy-eyed till I read "...in the City of David." The third child down, named David, beamed."Me!" he shouted. She means me!"
"No, stupid," said his older, worldlier sister. "She means Davy Crockett!"
Obviously every kid doesn't get the benefit of regular church attendance. I should have known after my sister invited her co-worker to church and she brought her four-year-old along. When an usher accidentally dropped the offering plate and it made a loud clatter, the little boy shouted" *#^& %! What was that???"
So when, as a young mom, I was asked to teach a class of five-year-olds in Sunday School, knowing there was a great need, I was sure this was what I was supposed to do. I mean, how could I not handle a few little kids? Only by the grace of God, of course.
In our room, since kids learn by doing, we had centers and while they were playing we related concepts concerning the Bible principles we wanted them to learn. My favorite center was "Kitchen" (You don't look surprised!) We made butter by shaking whipping cream in a baby food jar till our arms were jiggly. We made salad; everybody got to tear up lettuce. And we made applesauce. I brought in my electric skillet for that, set it on one of their little chairs so it was low enough for kids to see in, and it was really a hit. Even some adults were coming by and saying "What are you cooking in here? We can smell it clear out into the hall." Who knew that those little wooden chairs would scorch like that? It's not like it actually burst into flames or anything! (Wouldn't that have been a cool lesson? I guess maybe they were a little young to them the teach the concept of hell, though.)
One Sunday a mom dropped off her kid and then didn't leave. She looked at me a little snootily and said "I heard all you do in here is play, not teach. I wanted to see for myself." Never in my life did I say more often "Oh, look. Melinda is sharing! The Bible says 'Be ready to share.'" or "Look at Chris. He knows the Bible says "Be kind one to another" and on and on. She seemed satisfied when class was over. I refrained from saying to her "Oh, look, the Bible says "Judge not that you be not judged," but it was hard
I was just glad that she wasn't there the next week when I was telling the Bible story at the end of class. I always wrote out little verses on slips of paper and let the children pretend to read them, though I whispered it in their ears. I had written "Trust in Him at all times. Ps.62:8" That was when our son, Jake, was in the class and he knew that I knew he was learning to read, so he was somewhat insulted when I started to whisper the verse to him. "I can read it myself," he insisted. And he did. "Trust in Him at all times. Piss 62:8"
I'm still letting Jake do it himself and it's really kind of fun. Like when his own daughter was about two and apparently heard just snatches of the sermon when she was in big church once. She sat up, looked around, and said in her outdoor voice, "Jesus is dead? What do you mean Jesus is dead? Nobody told ME Jesus is dead!" I don't charge him fifty cents an hour when I babysit, though.
"No, stupid," said his older, worldlier sister. "She means Davy Crockett!"
Obviously every kid doesn't get the benefit of regular church attendance. I should have known after my sister invited her co-worker to church and she brought her four-year-old along. When an usher accidentally dropped the offering plate and it made a loud clatter, the little boy shouted" *#^& %! What was that???"
So when, as a young mom, I was asked to teach a class of five-year-olds in Sunday School, knowing there was a great need, I was sure this was what I was supposed to do. I mean, how could I not handle a few little kids? Only by the grace of God, of course.
In our room, since kids learn by doing, we had centers and while they were playing we related concepts concerning the Bible principles we wanted them to learn. My favorite center was "Kitchen" (You don't look surprised!) We made butter by shaking whipping cream in a baby food jar till our arms were jiggly. We made salad; everybody got to tear up lettuce. And we made applesauce. I brought in my electric skillet for that, set it on one of their little chairs so it was low enough for kids to see in, and it was really a hit. Even some adults were coming by and saying "What are you cooking in here? We can smell it clear out into the hall." Who knew that those little wooden chairs would scorch like that? It's not like it actually burst into flames or anything! (Wouldn't that have been a cool lesson? I guess maybe they were a little young to them the teach the concept of hell, though.)
One Sunday a mom dropped off her kid and then didn't leave. She looked at me a little snootily and said "I heard all you do in here is play, not teach. I wanted to see for myself." Never in my life did I say more often "Oh, look. Melinda is sharing! The Bible says 'Be ready to share.'" or "Look at Chris. He knows the Bible says "Be kind one to another" and on and on. She seemed satisfied when class was over. I refrained from saying to her "Oh, look, the Bible says "Judge not that you be not judged," but it was hard
I was just glad that she wasn't there the next week when I was telling the Bible story at the end of class. I always wrote out little verses on slips of paper and let the children pretend to read them, though I whispered it in their ears. I had written "Trust in Him at all times. Ps.62:8" That was when our son, Jake, was in the class and he knew that I knew he was learning to read, so he was somewhat insulted when I started to whisper the verse to him. "I can read it myself," he insisted. And he did. "Trust in Him at all times. Piss 62:8"
I'm still letting Jake do it himself and it's really kind of fun. Like when his own daughter was about two and apparently heard just snatches of the sermon when she was in big church once. She sat up, looked around, and said in her outdoor voice, "Jesus is dead? What do you mean Jesus is dead? Nobody told ME Jesus is dead!" I don't charge him fifty cents an hour when I babysit, though.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Practice Makes Perfect
If you read my first blog "In the Beginning...." you may remember that I warned you that I might occasionally give you little pieces of advice (From time to time I like to tell other people how to live their lives) and here is one of them: If you have young teen-age boys, make them take you out on a Practice Date so they can practice opening doors, practice making small talk and so on.
When our oldest son, Josh, got his driver's permit, I decided it was time for our date. Since he was going to get to drive, he agreed. He played bass violin in the school orchestra (Don't ask. I think the prerequisite was that your mother had to drive a station wagon) so I thought it would be neat to go the symphony. There was to be a guest, Gary Karr, a renowned bass player, so we got tickets to that performance.
Now, I had never been to a real symphony, only the Oklahoma Youth Orchestra ones that Josh played in and where another mom and I always yelled "Bravo!" at the end like it was the real thing. (Dennis acted like he didn't know me when I did that, I don't know why) But I watch television. I know how you are supposed to act at the symphony, all sophisticated and dressed up and everything. Should you have furs and jewels, you wear them.
Alas, I owned neither furs nor jewels or even a really dressy dress, but I did have a little (stop smirking!) black dress that I saved for funerals and I didn't want to embarrass Josh, so I decided to wear that. And pantyhose, church shoes and a teeny clutch purse even though the purse was so small I had to leave my coupon envelope at home. (By the way, I heard the other day that the new princess, Kate, is bringing pantyhose back in style. Nobody ever told me pantyhose were out of style! I just thought everybody was lazy about dressing up these days. I'm always the last to know!) I don't recall if Josh wore his Youth Orchestra tuxedo. I don't think so but I'm sure he dressed nicely.
We drove downtown, we parked, we went into the Civic Center in Oklahoma City. There were enormous crystal chandeliers like in Phantom of the Opera and the performance was exquisite. The soloist could play the double bass like it was a violin! He even made it sound like a guitar once. I acted very sophisticated, like I was supposed to, and pretended that we did this every weekend. I didn't even yell "Bravo!" or anything.
At the intermission Josh and I made arrangements to meet up at the refreshment counter after our bathroom break. The bathroom there is kind of old, and you know how I love beautiful public bathrooms, but it was functional, and afterward I went into the lobby to wait for Josh where I stood around, acting quite blasé and cosmopolitan in my funeral dress, pantyhose and church shoes. Many other sophisticated people milled around looking blasé' and cosmopolitan also. Some were greeting friends and air-kissing each other around their furs and jewels.
There didn't seem to be anybody there that we knew but then a lady did tap me on the shoulder. She leaned in confidentially and said "Dear, were you just in the ladies' room?" Oh rats, I thought. Did I leave my little clutch bag in the bathroom? No, I had it in my hand.
"Yes, yes I was," I said, smiling brightly at her.
"Well," she said, " I just thought you would want to know that the whole back of your dress is tucked up into your pantyhose."
I told Josh to practice not saying a word.
When our oldest son, Josh, got his driver's permit, I decided it was time for our date. Since he was going to get to drive, he agreed. He played bass violin in the school orchestra (Don't ask. I think the prerequisite was that your mother had to drive a station wagon) so I thought it would be neat to go the symphony. There was to be a guest, Gary Karr, a renowned bass player, so we got tickets to that performance.
Now, I had never been to a real symphony, only the Oklahoma Youth Orchestra ones that Josh played in and where another mom and I always yelled "Bravo!" at the end like it was the real thing. (Dennis acted like he didn't know me when I did that, I don't know why) But I watch television. I know how you are supposed to act at the symphony, all sophisticated and dressed up and everything. Should you have furs and jewels, you wear them.
Alas, I owned neither furs nor jewels or even a really dressy dress, but I did have a little (stop smirking!) black dress that I saved for funerals and I didn't want to embarrass Josh, so I decided to wear that. And pantyhose, church shoes and a teeny clutch purse even though the purse was so small I had to leave my coupon envelope at home. (By the way, I heard the other day that the new princess, Kate, is bringing pantyhose back in style. Nobody ever told me pantyhose were out of style! I just thought everybody was lazy about dressing up these days. I'm always the last to know!) I don't recall if Josh wore his Youth Orchestra tuxedo. I don't think so but I'm sure he dressed nicely.
We drove downtown, we parked, we went into the Civic Center in Oklahoma City. There were enormous crystal chandeliers like in Phantom of the Opera and the performance was exquisite. The soloist could play the double bass like it was a violin! He even made it sound like a guitar once. I acted very sophisticated, like I was supposed to, and pretended that we did this every weekend. I didn't even yell "Bravo!" or anything.
At the intermission Josh and I made arrangements to meet up at the refreshment counter after our bathroom break. The bathroom there is kind of old, and you know how I love beautiful public bathrooms, but it was functional, and afterward I went into the lobby to wait for Josh where I stood around, acting quite blasé and cosmopolitan in my funeral dress, pantyhose and church shoes. Many other sophisticated people milled around looking blasé' and cosmopolitan also. Some were greeting friends and air-kissing each other around their furs and jewels.
There didn't seem to be anybody there that we knew but then a lady did tap me on the shoulder. She leaned in confidentially and said "Dear, were you just in the ladies' room?" Oh rats, I thought. Did I leave my little clutch bag in the bathroom? No, I had it in my hand.
"Yes, yes I was," I said, smiling brightly at her.
"Well," she said, " I just thought you would want to know that the whole back of your dress is tucked up into your pantyhose."
I told Josh to practice not saying a word.
Friday, July 22, 2011
If You Cant't Stand The Heat Get Out Of The Kitchen
There was a guy on the news the other day who baked a batch of cookies on the dashboard of his car to show how hot it is. I'm thinking that could really come in handy if you are doing a lot of cooking and your oven is full.
My dad was a very innovative kind of guy and he figured out---I'm not making this up--- how to cook a TV dinner on the manifold of his car. I don't know what a manifold is, but it is something under the hood that gets real hot when you're driving. He wrapped the TV dinner in foil, experimented to find out how far he had to drive to cook it just right, and then he and my mom would go camping there. He had also figured out how to make the seats in the car into a bed. This was probably in the '70s before RVs had been invented. I'm not sure how thrilled my mom was with this arrangement, but at least she didn't have to cook.
I'm not that ingenious. The closest I have come is that I cook a roast in the crock pot in the garage. If you come in from work and smell something cooking in the crock pot it smells great but when it is for Sunday lunch and you put it on just before bed and you wake up at 3 a.m. and realize you've been smelling it all night, not so much. The boys used to call it Garage Meat.
Otherwise I stay in the kitchen for cooking. Well, there was that time I was trying to make yeast rolls and there didn't seem to be a good place in the house to let them rise so I shaped them into balls, put them in muffin tins and set them out on top of the refrigerator in the garage. It wasn't quite as hot as this summer has been but hotter than I thought, I guess, because next time I went out there they had risen like Mt. St. Helens, climbed over the top of the muffin tins and were creeping down the sides of the refrigerator like lava into the hinges and door handle. The stuff going down the sides was thinner, I guess, so the heat had baked it and made it kind of crusty. I usually like the crust on homemade bread but after the third day of trying to get that stuff out of the hinges I kind of changed my mind. I think we had crescent rolls from a can that night.
I'm usually not that messy when I cook. Well, okay, there was that time I spilled a whole pan of uncooked pecan pie down between the oven and the refrigerator. And there were a couple of oven fires before self-cleaning ovens were invented---once with my in-laws walking up the sidewalk for Thanksgiving dinner. (Everybody was cooking their turkeys in brown paper grocery bags that year to make them extra juicy. I don't think that trend lasted very long) And nobody ever told me that you are supposed to prick holes in potatoes before you bake them or they will explode!
Now that I have a self-cleaning oven it is much better. Just the occasional smoke, not even enough to set off the smoke alarm. I don't know why it is so hard to remember to just turn it to "Clean". Maybe I'm a little cautious because of an experience my sister had when she first got her self-cleaning oven. She had invited friends to come to dinner after church and thought she was setting the oven to automatically come on for the roast inside but she accidentally set it to clean. She said when they got home the 5 pound roast had turned into a long cigar ash and the carrots and potatoes didn't even show up. I guess they sent out for pizza.
I think she should have used a crock pot. She could have put it in the garage.
My dad was a very innovative kind of guy and he figured out---I'm not making this up--- how to cook a TV dinner on the manifold of his car. I don't know what a manifold is, but it is something under the hood that gets real hot when you're driving. He wrapped the TV dinner in foil, experimented to find out how far he had to drive to cook it just right, and then he and my mom would go camping there. He had also figured out how to make the seats in the car into a bed. This was probably in the '70s before RVs had been invented. I'm not sure how thrilled my mom was with this arrangement, but at least she didn't have to cook.
I'm not that ingenious. The closest I have come is that I cook a roast in the crock pot in the garage. If you come in from work and smell something cooking in the crock pot it smells great but when it is for Sunday lunch and you put it on just before bed and you wake up at 3 a.m. and realize you've been smelling it all night, not so much. The boys used to call it Garage Meat.
Otherwise I stay in the kitchen for cooking. Well, there was that time I was trying to make yeast rolls and there didn't seem to be a good place in the house to let them rise so I shaped them into balls, put them in muffin tins and set them out on top of the refrigerator in the garage. It wasn't quite as hot as this summer has been but hotter than I thought, I guess, because next time I went out there they had risen like Mt. St. Helens, climbed over the top of the muffin tins and were creeping down the sides of the refrigerator like lava into the hinges and door handle. The stuff going down the sides was thinner, I guess, so the heat had baked it and made it kind of crusty. I usually like the crust on homemade bread but after the third day of trying to get that stuff out of the hinges I kind of changed my mind. I think we had crescent rolls from a can that night.
I'm usually not that messy when I cook. Well, okay, there was that time I spilled a whole pan of uncooked pecan pie down between the oven and the refrigerator. And there were a couple of oven fires before self-cleaning ovens were invented---once with my in-laws walking up the sidewalk for Thanksgiving dinner. (Everybody was cooking their turkeys in brown paper grocery bags that year to make them extra juicy. I don't think that trend lasted very long) And nobody ever told me that you are supposed to prick holes in potatoes before you bake them or they will explode!
Now that I have a self-cleaning oven it is much better. Just the occasional smoke, not even enough to set off the smoke alarm. I don't know why it is so hard to remember to just turn it to "Clean". Maybe I'm a little cautious because of an experience my sister had when she first got her self-cleaning oven. She had invited friends to come to dinner after church and thought she was setting the oven to automatically come on for the roast inside but she accidentally set it to clean. She said when they got home the 5 pound roast had turned into a long cigar ash and the carrots and potatoes didn't even show up. I guess they sent out for pizza.
I think she should have used a crock pot. She could have put it in the garage.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Sleep Disorders
I think I've got the solution for those air traffic controllers falling asleep on the job. How can they expect regular-sleeping people to sit eight hours in a quiet, darkened room with the only light source the radar screen to keep them awake anyway? It's so simple I can't believe the people who make all that money to solve these things haven't thought of it. Hire insomniacs! They could have a bed there in case they do get sleepy. All they would have to do would be lie down on it and they'd be immediately awake again. I do that almost every night.
Insomniacs spend about eight hours awake in a darkened room where the only light source is the digital clock s-l-o-w-ly changing numbers. If I was an air traffic controller, I would be awake and they could pay me for it! Instead of laying there flipping and flopping from one side to the other and keeping Dennis awake, I could be doing something useful.
I've seen lots of people on Facebook at three in the morning and I always identify with them. I don't know if that qualifies for true insomnia or not. Somebody else's snoring could be contributing.
I'm not a true insomniac, I'm pretty sure. I worked a graveyard shift (11p.m. to 7 a.m.) the year between high school and college and liked it a lot. I don't think that counts though. Lots of times I do sleep and I lay there pretty quietly while I'm doing it.
Well, there was that one time when Josh and Jerilyn were out of town and we were babysitting and sleeping in their guest room which had a queen size bed because the room was fairly small and the bed was just a couple of feet from the wall on my side and we are used to a king. When we are there I always try to sleep kind of on the edge of the bed so Dennis can have enough room. I'm considerate that way. Only somehow in the night I fell out of bed. And the lamp fell on top of me. And the table was a goner. And there was a glass of cold water on the table. And I was I was stuck between the bed and the wall. And Dennis was laughing so hard he couldn't help me up and I was laying on my stomach except for certain parts of me that were sticking up with the lamp balanced on top. In a puddle of water. I had been sleeping before that.
But, other times I'm laying there awake just planning what I'm going to do when I win the lottery and watching the clock change numbers. Instead I could be helping out the government and making money at the same time. I'll have to write somebody and see if they are hiring.
Insomniacs spend about eight hours awake in a darkened room where the only light source is the digital clock s-l-o-w-ly changing numbers. If I was an air traffic controller, I would be awake and they could pay me for it! Instead of laying there flipping and flopping from one side to the other and keeping Dennis awake, I could be doing something useful.
I've seen lots of people on Facebook at three in the morning and I always identify with them. I don't know if that qualifies for true insomnia or not. Somebody else's snoring could be contributing.
I'm not a true insomniac, I'm pretty sure. I worked a graveyard shift (11p.m. to 7 a.m.) the year between high school and college and liked it a lot. I don't think that counts though. Lots of times I do sleep and I lay there pretty quietly while I'm doing it.
Well, there was that one time when Josh and Jerilyn were out of town and we were babysitting and sleeping in their guest room which had a queen size bed because the room was fairly small and the bed was just a couple of feet from the wall on my side and we are used to a king. When we are there I always try to sleep kind of on the edge of the bed so Dennis can have enough room. I'm considerate that way. Only somehow in the night I fell out of bed. And the lamp fell on top of me. And the table was a goner. And there was a glass of cold water on the table. And I was I was stuck between the bed and the wall. And Dennis was laughing so hard he couldn't help me up and I was laying on my stomach except for certain parts of me that were sticking up with the lamp balanced on top. In a puddle of water. I had been sleeping before that.
But, other times I'm laying there awake just planning what I'm going to do when I win the lottery and watching the clock change numbers. Instead I could be helping out the government and making money at the same time. I'll have to write somebody and see if they are hiring.
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
Driven to Distraction
Apparently one of my grandchildren has forgotten the basic tenet of Grandparent/Grandchildren relationships: What happens at Grandma's stays at Grandma's.
Miranda (to her mom): Grandma said a bad word while she was driving.
Robyn: Oh, what did she say?
Miranda: Can I say the word?
Robyn: Okay.
Miranda: Jerk!
Robyn: I see. What else did she say?
Miranda: She said "You jerk! You can't be texting and driving! You're going to kill your kid and everybody else!
Okay, maybe I do talk a little to the other drivers while I'm in the car. How else are you going to let them know that they are complete idiots and---I'm trying to merge into this lane here the least you could do is move over!!! People sometimes talk to me but I usually can't make out what they are saying.
Well, there was that one time when I was learning how to drive a stick shift and stalled the car through nine changes of the left-hand turn signal. I could hear some of them then. My girlfriend, Glenda, was in the car with me but she may not have heard. I didn't know someone could even fit all the way down onto the floorboard of a Volkswagen Bug and completely out of sight of the windows.
I don't make hand gestures, though. Well, I do kind of wave "Thank you" when somebody lets me in. Or "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to cut you off like that."
It's not like when our former pastor was passing someone whose car had a bumper sticker for our church and the guy thought Bro. Rod wasn't driving well or something and put his hand out the window to gesture but it wasn't a wave. And then they both wound up at the gas station at the next exit and Bro. Rod got out of the car to say "Hi." Surprise!
Somebody needs to develop a better way to communicate between cars on the road. Like big signs you could hold up. SORRY and THANK YOU and HANG UP THE PHONE! and like that. If they were filed alphabetically and kept in the pocket of the driver's door it wouldn't be too hard to reach down and get one.
Your kids or grandkids could hand them to you when you need one. And then maybe they wouldn't find it necessary to tell every little thing that happens in the car.
Miranda (to her mom): Grandma said a bad word while she was driving.
Robyn: Oh, what did she say?
Miranda: Can I say the word?
Robyn: Okay.
Miranda: Jerk!
Robyn: I see. What else did she say?
Miranda: She said "You jerk! You can't be texting and driving! You're going to kill your kid and everybody else!
Okay, maybe I do talk a little to the other drivers while I'm in the car. How else are you going to let them know that they are complete idiots and---I'm trying to merge into this lane here the least you could do is move over!!! People sometimes talk to me but I usually can't make out what they are saying.
Well, there was that one time when I was learning how to drive a stick shift and stalled the car through nine changes of the left-hand turn signal. I could hear some of them then. My girlfriend, Glenda, was in the car with me but she may not have heard. I didn't know someone could even fit all the way down onto the floorboard of a Volkswagen Bug and completely out of sight of the windows.
I don't make hand gestures, though. Well, I do kind of wave "Thank you" when somebody lets me in. Or "Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn't mean to cut you off like that."
It's not like when our former pastor was passing someone whose car had a bumper sticker for our church and the guy thought Bro. Rod wasn't driving well or something and put his hand out the window to gesture but it wasn't a wave. And then they both wound up at the gas station at the next exit and Bro. Rod got out of the car to say "Hi." Surprise!
Somebody needs to develop a better way to communicate between cars on the road. Like big signs you could hold up. SORRY and THANK YOU and HANG UP THE PHONE! and like that. If they were filed alphabetically and kept in the pocket of the driver's door it wouldn't be too hard to reach down and get one.
Your kids or grandkids could hand them to you when you need one. And then maybe they wouldn't find it necessary to tell every little thing that happens in the car.
Tuesday, July 19, 2011
Exercise Caution
Whew! I just finished 10K! What a workout!
Okay, it was on a bike. Yes, a recumbent bike (what's with those little bitty seats on a regular bike, anyway? There is no human behind in the world that would be comfortable on that little thing!) And it was an air-conditioned gym---and I read a book while doing it. But I did sweat a whole, whole lot. I'm sure sweating is indicative of how much you have suffered.
It seems half the people on Facebook are runners these days and they act like they like it. I'm not sure though. I've never seen anybody smiling while running; they kind of grimace, in fact. And they are red-faced. Do they look like they are having fun?
It's not that I have anything against exercising. About twenty years ago I even went to an aerobics class. Once. They wanted everybody to be doing the same thing at the same time like Rockettes or something. And then the leader said "Turn to the left" only I turned to the right and ran smack into my friend, Arlene. At the end, (after sweating a lot, so I must have suffered), they wanted you to grab your throat and count your heartbeat while walking around to cool off. I got kind of scared till I realized I was counting my footsteps instead of my pulse.
I did wind up taking a smaller exercise class at our church later, though. There were only five or six of us so there wasn't too much danger of collision and I got into it so much that I even bought a leotard and matching tights. (I told you this was years ago!) They were royal blue and I would put them on at home and throw a pair of jeans over them till I got to the class. I looked very athletic.
Well, there was that one time when I got ready to leave for the class, late as usual, and there was a hole about the size of a quarter in my tights. Not to worry. I had a blue magic marker just the right color. But when I got to the class I had to use the restroom and when I tried to put the tights back on I couldn't match up the hole with the blue spot on my leg, so then I had a hole in my tights anyway as well as a big blue spot. I can't remember what happened to that class. It didn't last much longer, as I recall.
So, I'm kind of proud that I've been riding the bike. It is very high-tech and tells you how far you have gone, your heart rate (no counting on my part) and even how many calories you have used. Calories used for 10K: equivalent to the calories in a McDonalds' small ice cream cone.
To speed things up, they have an elevator at that church gym where we go. It seems a shame not to use it. And I can wear anything I want.
Okay, it was on a bike. Yes, a recumbent bike (what's with those little bitty seats on a regular bike, anyway? There is no human behind in the world that would be comfortable on that little thing!) And it was an air-conditioned gym---and I read a book while doing it. But I did sweat a whole, whole lot. I'm sure sweating is indicative of how much you have suffered.
It seems half the people on Facebook are runners these days and they act like they like it. I'm not sure though. I've never seen anybody smiling while running; they kind of grimace, in fact. And they are red-faced. Do they look like they are having fun?
It's not that I have anything against exercising. About twenty years ago I even went to an aerobics class. Once. They wanted everybody to be doing the same thing at the same time like Rockettes or something. And then the leader said "Turn to the left" only I turned to the right and ran smack into my friend, Arlene. At the end, (after sweating a lot, so I must have suffered), they wanted you to grab your throat and count your heartbeat while walking around to cool off. I got kind of scared till I realized I was counting my footsteps instead of my pulse.
I did wind up taking a smaller exercise class at our church later, though. There were only five or six of us so there wasn't too much danger of collision and I got into it so much that I even bought a leotard and matching tights. (I told you this was years ago!) They were royal blue and I would put them on at home and throw a pair of jeans over them till I got to the class. I looked very athletic.
Well, there was that one time when I got ready to leave for the class, late as usual, and there was a hole about the size of a quarter in my tights. Not to worry. I had a blue magic marker just the right color. But when I got to the class I had to use the restroom and when I tried to put the tights back on I couldn't match up the hole with the blue spot on my leg, so then I had a hole in my tights anyway as well as a big blue spot. I can't remember what happened to that class. It didn't last much longer, as I recall.
So, I'm kind of proud that I've been riding the bike. It is very high-tech and tells you how far you have gone, your heart rate (no counting on my part) and even how many calories you have used. Calories used for 10K: equivalent to the calories in a McDonalds' small ice cream cone.
To speed things up, they have an elevator at that church gym where we go. It seems a shame not to use it. And I can wear anything I want.
Monday, July 18, 2011
V.I.P. Treatment
It may be hard for you to believe, but Dennis and I were not always little (quit smirking!) ol' grandparents. nce, long ago, we were denizens of the business world, he a rising young executive in the pharmaceutical supplies industry, I, the consummate, sophisticated corporate wife, able to entertain colleagues and customers at the clink of a silver spoon.
Okay, maybe not that far up the corporate ladder, but Dennis WAS the youngest department head that this very large (you would recognize the name if you ever worked in or around hospitals) company ever had. They had recruited him after they heard him give a presentation at a seminar, moved us from St. Louis to California, doubled his salary and installed him as manager over 129 people. And I knew how to make dinner reservations.
One evening we were called upon to entertain a gentleman and his wife who were moving in from the Midwest. In order to duly impress them I dressed in my newest outfit, a lovely lilac pantsuit consisting of a tunic type blouse worn over flowing palazzo pants, made of crepe, a delicate fabric but just right for the light Pacific breezes. My hair was in curls piled high on my head by a stylist who no doubt did hair for Country and Western singers when they came to town.
We dined at a fine French restaurant in Laguna Beach and then, to further awe them, took them for a tour of the business's facilities. The four-story building, part offices and part research and development, was made of marble blocks, assembled in Italy, numbered, shipped to California and reassembled. The furnishings were exquisite, even the ashtrays were made of marble and had cost hundreds of dollars. And the bathrooms---ahh, they just had to be seen to be believed.
After touring the offices and conference rooms and peering down the hall toward the lab where the research was done on microbes and mega-germs, etc, I decided to show Mrs. V.I.P. the bathroom. It was cool and lovely, all marble, of course, except for the large stainless steel button on the wall just inside the door. It discretely said "Push" and nothing else. Now, I had been here several times before. I had seen that button every time. No one had ever said "Don't push it." It kind of called to me. It was time. I put out my hand and lightly tapped it. WHOOOOOSH!!!!! The ceiling opened up and fifty gallons of water blasted down onto my head like the Niagara Falls of Costa Mesa, California. Had there been any microbes on me, they certainly would have drowned.
By the time we reached the lobby my curls were mop-strings on my shoulders and my elegant crepe pantsuit had become a crop-top and Bermuda shorts. I squished out to the car and we took the V.I.P.'s back to their hotel and they thanked us for a lovely, entertaining evening.
And that, dear friends, is why they have installed a plaque in my honor on the wall above that stainless steel button. It says "Shower."
Okay, maybe not that far up the corporate ladder, but Dennis WAS the youngest department head that this very large (you would recognize the name if you ever worked in or around hospitals) company ever had. They had recruited him after they heard him give a presentation at a seminar, moved us from St. Louis to California, doubled his salary and installed him as manager over 129 people. And I knew how to make dinner reservations.
One evening we were called upon to entertain a gentleman and his wife who were moving in from the Midwest. In order to duly impress them I dressed in my newest outfit, a lovely lilac pantsuit consisting of a tunic type blouse worn over flowing palazzo pants, made of crepe, a delicate fabric but just right for the light Pacific breezes. My hair was in curls piled high on my head by a stylist who no doubt did hair for Country and Western singers when they came to town.
We dined at a fine French restaurant in Laguna Beach and then, to further awe them, took them for a tour of the business's facilities. The four-story building, part offices and part research and development, was made of marble blocks, assembled in Italy, numbered, shipped to California and reassembled. The furnishings were exquisite, even the ashtrays were made of marble and had cost hundreds of dollars. And the bathrooms---ahh, they just had to be seen to be believed.
After touring the offices and conference rooms and peering down the hall toward the lab where the research was done on microbes and mega-germs, etc, I decided to show Mrs. V.I.P. the bathroom. It was cool and lovely, all marble, of course, except for the large stainless steel button on the wall just inside the door. It discretely said "Push" and nothing else. Now, I had been here several times before. I had seen that button every time. No one had ever said "Don't push it." It kind of called to me. It was time. I put out my hand and lightly tapped it. WHOOOOOSH!!!!! The ceiling opened up and fifty gallons of water blasted down onto my head like the Niagara Falls of Costa Mesa, California. Had there been any microbes on me, they certainly would have drowned.
By the time we reached the lobby my curls were mop-strings on my shoulders and my elegant crepe pantsuit had become a crop-top and Bermuda shorts. I squished out to the car and we took the V.I.P.'s back to their hotel and they thanked us for a lovely, entertaining evening.
And that, dear friends, is why they have installed a plaque in my honor on the wall above that stainless steel button. It says "Shower."
Friday, July 15, 2011
White Car Nation
I don't know this for a fact, but I'm pretty sure that when it comes to car colors, 50% of all cars are painted white and the other 50% is divided among all the other colors out there. Look around next time you are out. Five cars coming through the green light, three white, one blue or something and the next one white. If there is a blue one at all. White cars, white trucks, white vans in front of McDonalds. Even used car lots look like the Blizzard of '09. Come on, people. Have some imagination!
I have never really cared for the color white in cars, even though Dennis happily had one for quite awhile. Maybe if I got to choose I would have purple! A lovely shade of green would be nice, or a midnight blue. Alas, we have always gotten whatever color was on the car that was the best deal at the time and I have yet to get to choose a color. I only said, no matter what, don't get white.
I've had red a few times, once with faux wood-grain on the sides. Green once. And blue a long, long time ago. (It was a tiny Fiat Spider convertible and we drove it all the way to Canada and once some women saw us sitting at a stop-light and one said "Can you believe the size of those people in that little car!!!---but that's another blog.)
A few years ago the red mini-van that we had was coming to the end of it's natural life when there was a mercy killing by a brick mailbox and the insurance company totaled it. We were forced to find something else quickly. I prayed that the Lord would provide and the very next week there was an ad in our small Broken Arrow paper for a minivan being sold by owner. The only car in the paper. We called. It seemed the perfect car, right mileage, right price. We went to see it. You guessed it. White. And here we are with a white minivan in our garage. A lot of people say they like white because it is easier to keep clean. HA! Have you seen my car?
With so many cars looking like mine where ever you go I'm kind of afraid of getting into the wrong one. Back when people didn't lock their cars as much and nobody had remote locks, I once picked Jake up at Mothers' Day out and hurried him out to the parking lot. He said "Mama, this isn't our car." and I said, "Jake, just get in the car." So he did and I did but when I looked around there seemed to be a problem. The interior of that car was very clean. No wonder Jake didn't feel right about getting into it. We backed out of it. There was a lady standing there watching us, obviously a clean-freak, and she was not smiling. I just waved as we got into the other red van with the fake wood trim and drove off.
The first week we drove our new-to-us white van to church the row I parked in had---I am not making this up---seven white cars in a line, most of them minivans or small SUVs. Thank goodness I had the key fob that turns on the parking lights when you push it or I'd still be looking for the right one. Now, when I'm coming out of Wal-Mart to a sea of white cars, I push the button that raises the back gate & head toward that car. I hope no one else gets that idea.
I have never really cared for the color white in cars, even though Dennis happily had one for quite awhile. Maybe if I got to choose I would have purple! A lovely shade of green would be nice, or a midnight blue. Alas, we have always gotten whatever color was on the car that was the best deal at the time and I have yet to get to choose a color. I only said, no matter what, don't get white.
I've had red a few times, once with faux wood-grain on the sides. Green once. And blue a long, long time ago. (It was a tiny Fiat Spider convertible and we drove it all the way to Canada and once some women saw us sitting at a stop-light and one said "Can you believe the size of those people in that little car!!!---but that's another blog.)
A few years ago the red mini-van that we had was coming to the end of it's natural life when there was a mercy killing by a brick mailbox and the insurance company totaled it. We were forced to find something else quickly. I prayed that the Lord would provide and the very next week there was an ad in our small Broken Arrow paper for a minivan being sold by owner. The only car in the paper. We called. It seemed the perfect car, right mileage, right price. We went to see it. You guessed it. White. And here we are with a white minivan in our garage. A lot of people say they like white because it is easier to keep clean. HA! Have you seen my car?
With so many cars looking like mine where ever you go I'm kind of afraid of getting into the wrong one. Back when people didn't lock their cars as much and nobody had remote locks, I once picked Jake up at Mothers' Day out and hurried him out to the parking lot. He said "Mama, this isn't our car." and I said, "Jake, just get in the car." So he did and I did but when I looked around there seemed to be a problem. The interior of that car was very clean. No wonder Jake didn't feel right about getting into it. We backed out of it. There was a lady standing there watching us, obviously a clean-freak, and she was not smiling. I just waved as we got into the other red van with the fake wood trim and drove off.
The first week we drove our new-to-us white van to church the row I parked in had---I am not making this up---seven white cars in a line, most of them minivans or small SUVs. Thank goodness I had the key fob that turns on the parking lights when you push it or I'd still be looking for the right one. Now, when I'm coming out of Wal-Mart to a sea of white cars, I push the button that raises the back gate & head toward that car. I hope no one else gets that idea.
Thursday, July 14, 2011
Technology Through the Years
I apologize if you have been having trouble following my directions to get to this site. I have a little trouble entering the link---and other things computer-ish. After three times of trying to get it right I usually give up. My nephew commented on Facebook, "Just cut and paste." Yeah, like I know how to do that. Probably if I could do anything so advanced I would be able to get the darn link right in the first place. Just sayin'
My first brush with technology was in college where I worked at a hospital telephone switchboard. This was the kind of technology like you see in old movies, where an operator, wearing a long dress and her hair in a bun, used those long cords to connect the calls, sort of like an octopus doing the hand jive. "That isn't technology," you may well say, but at one time, a couple of centuries ago, it was pretty advanced. I did finally learn how to field calls, though I didn't have to wear the bun, and if you held those cords just right you could learn a lot of other things too, about doctors, and clandestine affairs and such. Not that I ever listened in or anything.
The next real job I had I used an adding machine for eight hours a day. Mine had a handle on the side that you pulled down when you had all the figures in, so it may not have been too technologically advanced, but I did get to sit where I could see a computer. It was.---and I'm not making this up, it filled up one whole side of a large room---about the size of a Chevy Suburban and that was one of the new, cutting edge ones.
When my boss at the furniture store a few years later wanted to bring in a computer and all of us had to take a class on it, I have to admit I was a little intimidated. My friend, Daisy, went with me to the Vo-tech and there were about thirty people in the class and every two people got to sit at a real computer, with a monitor, a keyboard and a CPU (see how I learned those terms right off?) Ours was right next to the wall.
The first thing the teacher did was give everybody a disc (back then I think they were called floppies) and told us to insert it in the computer, so I did. Only he didn't say exactly where and after I put it in a slot I looked around and everyone else's screen---sorry, monitor---had stuff on it and ours was blank. Apparently there was a special place where you put it in the CPU thing-y and I had put it between the CPU and the wall. And it was stuck. Daisy had a nail file so we worked and worked to get it out from between the wall and the CPU but it took almost the whole rest of the hour so I think we missed a good bit of what the teacher was saying. Not to speak of it being a little embarrassing, what with everyone else getting to use mice and all, and we apparently weren't ready for one yet so they didn't give us one. I didn't really like the thought of touching a mouse anyway. And then the class was over.
So that is one reason I'm kind of technically-challenged. I didn't get off to a very good start and am still running to catch up. At my age, running is a challenge in itself.
My first brush with technology was in college where I worked at a hospital telephone switchboard. This was the kind of technology like you see in old movies, where an operator, wearing a long dress and her hair in a bun, used those long cords to connect the calls, sort of like an octopus doing the hand jive. "That isn't technology," you may well say, but at one time, a couple of centuries ago, it was pretty advanced. I did finally learn how to field calls, though I didn't have to wear the bun, and if you held those cords just right you could learn a lot of other things too, about doctors, and clandestine affairs and such. Not that I ever listened in or anything.
The next real job I had I used an adding machine for eight hours a day. Mine had a handle on the side that you pulled down when you had all the figures in, so it may not have been too technologically advanced, but I did get to sit where I could see a computer. It was.---and I'm not making this up, it filled up one whole side of a large room---about the size of a Chevy Suburban and that was one of the new, cutting edge ones.
When my boss at the furniture store a few years later wanted to bring in a computer and all of us had to take a class on it, I have to admit I was a little intimidated. My friend, Daisy, went with me to the Vo-tech and there were about thirty people in the class and every two people got to sit at a real computer, with a monitor, a keyboard and a CPU (see how I learned those terms right off?) Ours was right next to the wall.
The first thing the teacher did was give everybody a disc (back then I think they were called floppies) and told us to insert it in the computer, so I did. Only he didn't say exactly where and after I put it in a slot I looked around and everyone else's screen---sorry, monitor---had stuff on it and ours was blank. Apparently there was a special place where you put it in the CPU thing-y and I had put it between the CPU and the wall. And it was stuck. Daisy had a nail file so we worked and worked to get it out from between the wall and the CPU but it took almost the whole rest of the hour so I think we missed a good bit of what the teacher was saying. Not to speak of it being a little embarrassing, what with everyone else getting to use mice and all, and we apparently weren't ready for one yet so they didn't give us one. I didn't really like the thought of touching a mouse anyway. And then the class was over.
So that is one reason I'm kind of technically-challenged. I didn't get off to a very good start and am still running to catch up. At my age, running is a challenge in itself.
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Are We Where Yet?
I don't own a GPS and I don't think I want one. Somehow the thought of a disembodied voice in the car saying "Turn left in 300 yards" or whatever would bug me. Like I know how far 300 yards is! Besides, I have Dennis most of the time. He does a great job of telling me which way to go and when to turn. He feels that it takes both of us to drive the car: me to steer and him to navigate. I don't know where he gets the idea that I can't find my way around.
Well, there were a few times that might have made him think that. Like when we lived in California and my mom and I went to a Swap Meet in Long Beach. When we left to go home to Fountain Valley I was kind of showing off that I could negotiate the busy freeways till, after an hour of driving, I looked up and realized that we were heading toward mountains. Fountain Valley isn't toward the mountains; I was driving in the opposite direction. It must have been my mom's fault because another time when she was in the car with me I was trying to take her to Springfield to meet my sister and somehow I was on the Muskogee turnpike and there are no exits till you get to Muskogee so we had to go all the way there and back before heading to Springfield.
Okay, I guess she wasn't with me when, pre-cell phones, I was trying to do a good deed and deliver some homemade bread I had made as part of a meal our Sunday School class was providing for a new mother. I got to the neighborhood, but it was one of those where they think it's cute to have the streets all curvy and there are five streets all named after birds like Robin Way and Robin Court and Robin Terrace and...You get the picture. I got so frustrated that I started eating the bread and when it was all gone I found a way out of there and went home. The neighbors had probably brought in plenty of food anyway.
The advent of cell phones certainly helped, like when I was in Dayton visiting Josh and Jerilyn when David was about a year old. They wanted to go out while I was there to babysit. We all went out to eat, taking two cars, then they left to go a movie and David and I headed to their house. In the dark. But it was a route I had been driven many times. An hour later, after many turns and, stops at scary convenience stores asking for directions and David saying from the back seat in his little voice "Grandma crying?", I recognized the name of a shopping center that was on the other side of town from their house. I did remember that some of their friends lived near there, though. I called Josh at the movie, got their number and their friend, Cherie, to whom I will be forever grateful, met me in a parking lot and let me follow her all the way to Josh and Jerilyn's. Into the driveway. Like she didn't trust me.
And there was the time I went around the same intersection five times trying to get home from South Oklahoma City. I called Dennis and he made me stay on the phone till I got off and actually onto a highway. I know some states have laws against talking on the phone while you are driving but if they pass one here I'm in big trouble.
I do know my way to Wal-Mart though. Duh. Who wouldn't, as many times a week as I go there. Well, there is that new one they built right down the road from us. I got there okay the other day, but it took me about half an hour to get home for some reason. I'm not going there again unless Dennis goes with me.
Well, there were a few times that might have made him think that. Like when we lived in California and my mom and I went to a Swap Meet in Long Beach. When we left to go home to Fountain Valley I was kind of showing off that I could negotiate the busy freeways till, after an hour of driving, I looked up and realized that we were heading toward mountains. Fountain Valley isn't toward the mountains; I was driving in the opposite direction. It must have been my mom's fault because another time when she was in the car with me I was trying to take her to Springfield to meet my sister and somehow I was on the Muskogee turnpike and there are no exits till you get to Muskogee so we had to go all the way there and back before heading to Springfield.
Okay, I guess she wasn't with me when, pre-cell phones, I was trying to do a good deed and deliver some homemade bread I had made as part of a meal our Sunday School class was providing for a new mother. I got to the neighborhood, but it was one of those where they think it's cute to have the streets all curvy and there are five streets all named after birds like Robin Way and Robin Court and Robin Terrace and...You get the picture. I got so frustrated that I started eating the bread and when it was all gone I found a way out of there and went home. The neighbors had probably brought in plenty of food anyway.
The advent of cell phones certainly helped, like when I was in Dayton visiting Josh and Jerilyn when David was about a year old. They wanted to go out while I was there to babysit. We all went out to eat, taking two cars, then they left to go a movie and David and I headed to their house. In the dark. But it was a route I had been driven many times. An hour later, after many turns and, stops at scary convenience stores asking for directions and David saying from the back seat in his little voice "Grandma crying?", I recognized the name of a shopping center that was on the other side of town from their house. I did remember that some of their friends lived near there, though. I called Josh at the movie, got their number and their friend, Cherie, to whom I will be forever grateful, met me in a parking lot and let me follow her all the way to Josh and Jerilyn's. Into the driveway. Like she didn't trust me.
And there was the time I went around the same intersection five times trying to get home from South Oklahoma City. I called Dennis and he made me stay on the phone till I got off and actually onto a highway. I know some states have laws against talking on the phone while you are driving but if they pass one here I'm in big trouble.
I do know my way to Wal-Mart though. Duh. Who wouldn't, as many times a week as I go there. Well, there is that new one they built right down the road from us. I got there okay the other day, but it took me about half an hour to get home for some reason. I'm not going there again unless Dennis goes with me.
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Sisters Have to Love You Even When They Don't Like You
I heard about this really cool idea for teachers to use to deal with tattling in their class rooms. They set up a toy telephone, tell the kids to leave a message if they want to tattle and the teacher will get to it later. I don't have anybody to tattle to anymore, but since my sister is on her way here from Kansas and I do have a computer...
The only thing I learned in high school biology was about dominant and recessive traits: the chances of a recessive gene showing up when two parents have one of each is 25%. I could see the example in my family. There were four of us kids and I got every recessive gene available. My siblings were tall, brown-eyed with dark hair. I was short, blue-eyed with red hair. (The plumpness gene didn't show up till after I had two kids and started eating their leftovers and baking cookies once a week.) I was also the baby and took every advantage of it.
With my sister, Arleta, whose role of baby I usurped, it was not a case of opposites attracting. She tried to boss me and I wouldn't mind her and the fight was on. Entirely her fault. OK, there was that time when we were young teens that she fell asleep in the car on a family vacation and I braided her hair in teeny braids all over and tied them with green string and she didn't know till she looked in the mirror at the restaurant later. But she was so vain that when the motel we were staying in caught fire in the night and I ran outside in my nightie and bare feet with my hair like a troll doll, she didn't come down till she had done her hair and put on full make-up. So she deserved it.
But then you somehow keep from killing each other and suddenly you get to be An Old Wife and you realize that sisters may have more to give each other than anybody else. When I had my mastectomy Arleta came from Kansas and stayed a week, sleeping (well, not really sleeping) at the hospital for the two nights I was there. I threw up on her more than once and she massaged my back where it was killing me so much that her knuckles bled from the blanket rubbing on them. Later, when I was having painful treatments, she drove six hours round-trip to take me to the doctor and back.
And today she's making the six hour round-trip just for lunch, since we haven't seen each other since our mom's funeral. When we were driving back out to the cemetery that day she said, "I guess we're orphans now." So I can't really tattle on her anymore.
Someday there will be a time when there is no one else who can tell you why mom always cut the bacon in half before she cooked it or to walk around an antique shop with you and say "Grandma had that! If we had kept it we'd be rich." Or has the same memories you do.
We do have a lot in common now: we are both Old Wives.
The only thing I learned in high school biology was about dominant and recessive traits: the chances of a recessive gene showing up when two parents have one of each is 25%. I could see the example in my family. There were four of us kids and I got every recessive gene available. My siblings were tall, brown-eyed with dark hair. I was short, blue-eyed with red hair. (The plumpness gene didn't show up till after I had two kids and started eating their leftovers and baking cookies once a week.) I was also the baby and took every advantage of it.
With my sister, Arleta, whose role of baby I usurped, it was not a case of opposites attracting. She tried to boss me and I wouldn't mind her and the fight was on. Entirely her fault. OK, there was that time when we were young teens that she fell asleep in the car on a family vacation and I braided her hair in teeny braids all over and tied them with green string and she didn't know till she looked in the mirror at the restaurant later. But she was so vain that when the motel we were staying in caught fire in the night and I ran outside in my nightie and bare feet with my hair like a troll doll, she didn't come down till she had done her hair and put on full make-up. So she deserved it.
But then you somehow keep from killing each other and suddenly you get to be An Old Wife and you realize that sisters may have more to give each other than anybody else. When I had my mastectomy Arleta came from Kansas and stayed a week, sleeping (well, not really sleeping) at the hospital for the two nights I was there. I threw up on her more than once and she massaged my back where it was killing me so much that her knuckles bled from the blanket rubbing on them. Later, when I was having painful treatments, she drove six hours round-trip to take me to the doctor and back.
And today she's making the six hour round-trip just for lunch, since we haven't seen each other since our mom's funeral. When we were driving back out to the cemetery that day she said, "I guess we're orphans now." So I can't really tattle on her anymore.
Someday there will be a time when there is no one else who can tell you why mom always cut the bacon in half before she cooked it or to walk around an antique shop with you and say "Grandma had that! If we had kept it we'd be rich." Or has the same memories you do.
We do have a lot in common now: we are both Old Wives.
Monday, July 11, 2011
Roll With It
When you have become An Old Wife there are some things you might as well admit to. The fact that there are a few embarrassing moments in my life is one of them. Just a few, of course, so that is why I've decided to hi-lite them only once a week. When I run out, I'll tell yours too, if you give me permission. Or you can remind me of some of mine if I---cough, cough---forget any. If you are in my Sunday School class, you may have even participated in this one.
Contrary to one of my daughter-in-law's opinion, there are some people who actually like some of my cooking. My supportive Sunday School class has always seemed to enjoy the Cream Cheese Croissants (the rich, creamy, sugary croissants) I frequently make when it's our turn to bring the goodies on Sunday morning. They gobble them all up, they lick their fingers, they request the recipe--usually.
A year ago or so while I was baking them early in the morning the kitchen had a strong odor of garlic. Now, I'm not the best housekeeper in the world, and we had had garlic bread that week, so I figured that the oven was definitely in need of a cleaning. I didn't remember spilling garlic in there, but ya never know.
The croissants kind of had an odd taste when I cut and sampled one. It is amazing how much not cleaning the oven makes a difference in how things taste. Then at Sunday School, I noticed there were plenty of left-overs to take home and even a few napkins with half-eaten croissants surreptitiously hidden around the sink area. Nobody said a thing. Hmmm...
When we got home I checked the packages from the trash can. Did you know that Pillsbury makes a garlic crescent roll now? I didn't. But now I am very careful to check the label when I buy the rolls. They all look alike except for the small print. There's a lot in life like that. Be sure to check the small print.
Here's the real recipe. I think I got it from a Kraft foods magazine but I have tweaked it a little. (No, not by adding garlic!)
Cream Cheese Croissants
2 cans crescent rolls 1 T. cinnamon
1 8 oz. pkg. cream cheese 1/2 c. margarine
3/4 c. sugar, divided 1/2 c. chopped nuts
Preheat oven to 375. Spray jelly roll pan (or sided cookie sheet) with Pam.
Gently unroll 1 can crescent rolls , keeping sections joined, press into bottom of pan.
In a bowl, combine cream cheese & 1/2 c. sugar. Heat in microwave 45 seconds on high, then stir till smooth. Spread evenly on crescent layer. On a sheet of waxed paper on the counter, (won't hurt to spray it with Pam) spread out 2nd can of crescent rolls to size of bottom layer. Lift paper carefully, lay on top of the cream cheese mixture and peel off the paper.
Combine remaining 1/4 c. sugar, cinnamon & chopped nuts; spread evenly over dough.
Melt margarine in microwave, then pour evenly over cinnamon-sugar mixture.
Bake 20 minutes or until done. Let cool; cut into bars.
Contrary to one of my daughter-in-law's opinion, there are some people who actually like some of my cooking. My supportive Sunday School class has always seemed to enjoy the Cream Cheese Croissants (the rich, creamy, sugary croissants) I frequently make when it's our turn to bring the goodies on Sunday morning. They gobble them all up, they lick their fingers, they request the recipe--usually.
A year ago or so while I was baking them early in the morning the kitchen had a strong odor of garlic. Now, I'm not the best housekeeper in the world, and we had had garlic bread that week, so I figured that the oven was definitely in need of a cleaning. I didn't remember spilling garlic in there, but ya never know.
The croissants kind of had an odd taste when I cut and sampled one. It is amazing how much not cleaning the oven makes a difference in how things taste. Then at Sunday School, I noticed there were plenty of left-overs to take home and even a few napkins with half-eaten croissants surreptitiously hidden around the sink area. Nobody said a thing. Hmmm...
When we got home I checked the packages from the trash can. Did you know that Pillsbury makes a garlic crescent roll now? I didn't. But now I am very careful to check the label when I buy the rolls. They all look alike except for the small print. There's a lot in life like that. Be sure to check the small print.
Here's the real recipe. I think I got it from a Kraft foods magazine but I have tweaked it a little. (No, not by adding garlic!)
Cream Cheese Croissants
2 cans crescent rolls 1 T. cinnamon
1 8 oz. pkg. cream cheese 1/2 c. margarine
3/4 c. sugar, divided 1/2 c. chopped nuts
Preheat oven to 375. Spray jelly roll pan (or sided cookie sheet) with Pam.
Gently unroll 1 can crescent rolls , keeping sections joined, press into bottom of pan.
In a bowl, combine cream cheese & 1/2 c. sugar. Heat in microwave 45 seconds on high, then stir till smooth. Spread evenly on crescent layer. On a sheet of waxed paper on the counter, (won't hurt to spray it with Pam) spread out 2nd can of crescent rolls to size of bottom layer. Lift paper carefully, lay on top of the cream cheese mixture and peel off the paper.
Combine remaining 1/4 c. sugar, cinnamon & chopped nuts; spread evenly over dough.
Melt margarine in microwave, then pour evenly over cinnamon-sugar mixture.
Bake 20 minutes or until done. Let cool; cut into bars.
Friday, July 8, 2011
Wait Staff I Have Known & Loved
I could never be a waitress. I get up to go to the kitchen for a drink of water and forget what I came for; wait staff remember orders for a table of six, and know who gets what when they get back. My sister was a waitress for over 40 years and I've seen her carry plates lined up her arms from wrist to shoulder, weaving through tables full of people to get to hers and never spill a drop. This after having gotten up at 4:30 a.m. to work the breakfast shift.
There is a waitress at Chili's in Broken Arrow, Aja, who knows our extended family when we come in, knows what our drink orders are and has them coming to the table by the time we sit down. We always ask for her at the front door. I'm not sure if she thinks "Oh, my gosh, there are those Careys again!" when she sees us but if so, she never lets on. And gives us refills in to-go cups when we leave.
Sometimes waiters are memorable for other reasons. Once in St. Louis at a business dinner in a most exclusive restaurant, the kind where they put the napkin in your lap and refill your water after each sip, the waiter was insulted that our large group did not order liquor. He made it quite obvious the whole time he attended us that he thought we were unsophisticated hicks and maybe even---gasp!---Baptists. When it was time to pay the bill, which was several hundred dollars, Dennis spoke to the manager and made sure that the tip went only to the waiter's young assistant.
And, of course, some just get our table in the luck of the draw, like the young lady who helped us last night and said she was "Sorry about our weight." I didn't say "Yeah, well, I'm sorry about it too but it is what it is!" although I wanted to. She may have been apologizing for the time they took, I'm not sure. Or the first time we went out to eat after my mastectomy the young man who, taking our order for Baby Back Ribs, turned to me and asked "Half a rack?" He may still be wondering why we burst out laughing so hard we couldn't finish ordering.
Probably I should stick to ordering through a microphone and picking my food up through a window. But, you know, I'm sure I could never master working in one of those places where there are two lanes at once and they know which car ordered what when they get there. I'll just eat and run.
There is a waitress at Chili's in Broken Arrow, Aja, who knows our extended family when we come in, knows what our drink orders are and has them coming to the table by the time we sit down. We always ask for her at the front door. I'm not sure if she thinks "Oh, my gosh, there are those Careys again!" when she sees us but if so, she never lets on. And gives us refills in to-go cups when we leave.
Sometimes waiters are memorable for other reasons. Once in St. Louis at a business dinner in a most exclusive restaurant, the kind where they put the napkin in your lap and refill your water after each sip, the waiter was insulted that our large group did not order liquor. He made it quite obvious the whole time he attended us that he thought we were unsophisticated hicks and maybe even---gasp!---Baptists. When it was time to pay the bill, which was several hundred dollars, Dennis spoke to the manager and made sure that the tip went only to the waiter's young assistant.
And, of course, some just get our table in the luck of the draw, like the young lady who helped us last night and said she was "Sorry about our weight." I didn't say "Yeah, well, I'm sorry about it too but it is what it is!" although I wanted to. She may have been apologizing for the time they took, I'm not sure. Or the first time we went out to eat after my mastectomy the young man who, taking our order for Baby Back Ribs, turned to me and asked "Half a rack?" He may still be wondering why we burst out laughing so hard we couldn't finish ordering.
Probably I should stick to ordering through a microphone and picking my food up through a window. But, you know, I'm sure I could never master working in one of those places where there are two lanes at once and they know which car ordered what when they get there. I'll just eat and run.
Thursday, July 7, 2011
In The Beginning...
Okay, so I'm not quite as old as Eve, but I'm getting there. To launch myself into the 21st Century, however, the Blog seems to be the newest way to express myself so here I am.
If you don't know me, I'm a Christian; a wife to Dennis, (for fifty years now); a mom to Josh, and Jake; a mother-in-law to long-suffering Jerilyn and Robyn; a grandma to David, sixteen; Hayley, fifteen, Emily, and Miranda, both twelve And apparently a narcissist, or else why would I be attempting to write about myself, my thoughts, my doings, and my ideas on how you should run your life?
I will tell you a true story which I hope will influence my thinking, if not yours:
Some years ago we drove to St. Louis to celebrate Thanksgiving with my sister's family and within a few hours the oven was on fire. Now, at our house we were used to this, but my sister had a gas stove so we decided to treat the occasion a little differently this time in case things should escalate. The smoke alarm was going off but none of the teen-agers got out of bed since they had heard all that before. They didn't get up until they heard someone yell "Call 911". My (former---and you will see why) brother-in-law came running in wearing only a kimono and tried to beat out the fire by flapping a towel at it (and unwittingly his kimono---not a pretty sight). Finally, he said "Would a fire extinguisher help? There's one in the back room," and someone located the gas line outside and turned it off but by then the fire engines were blazing (so to speak) into the neighborhood. We were told to wait outside.
As you may imagine, this was all a little nerve-racking, but as I paced up & down the sidewalk, suddenly I spotted my nephew's miniature dachshund, Hogan, just inside the open front door. Heroically springing into action, I ran in, grabbed the dog and ran back out to continue pacing, hugging him to my chest. He seemed to be quite nervous too. He kept jerking his head in an odd little way so I just held him tighter and tried to comfort him as I paced. Alas, what I didn't know was that there was an underground electric fence to keep him in the yard and I was walking back & forth across it giving him a jolt of electricity each time I crossed the line. Poor Hogan!
And the moral of the story is: Even though I may think I am giving you wonderful advice and that you would be much better off if you just did things my way, there may be things about your life I don't know so please bear with me. I'm an old wife, you know.
If you don't know me, I'm a Christian; a wife to Dennis, (for fifty years now); a mom to Josh, and Jake; a mother-in-law to long-suffering Jerilyn and Robyn; a grandma to David, sixteen; Hayley, fifteen, Emily, and Miranda, both twelve And apparently a narcissist, or else why would I be attempting to write about myself, my thoughts, my doings, and my ideas on how you should run your life?
I will tell you a true story which I hope will influence my thinking, if not yours:
Some years ago we drove to St. Louis to celebrate Thanksgiving with my sister's family and within a few hours the oven was on fire. Now, at our house we were used to this, but my sister had a gas stove so we decided to treat the occasion a little differently this time in case things should escalate. The smoke alarm was going off but none of the teen-agers got out of bed since they had heard all that before. They didn't get up until they heard someone yell "Call 911". My (former---and you will see why) brother-in-law came running in wearing only a kimono and tried to beat out the fire by flapping a towel at it (and unwittingly his kimono---not a pretty sight). Finally, he said "Would a fire extinguisher help? There's one in the back room," and someone located the gas line outside and turned it off but by then the fire engines were blazing (so to speak) into the neighborhood. We were told to wait outside.
As you may imagine, this was all a little nerve-racking, but as I paced up & down the sidewalk, suddenly I spotted my nephew's miniature dachshund, Hogan, just inside the open front door. Heroically springing into action, I ran in, grabbed the dog and ran back out to continue pacing, hugging him to my chest. He seemed to be quite nervous too. He kept jerking his head in an odd little way so I just held him tighter and tried to comfort him as I paced. Alas, what I didn't know was that there was an underground electric fence to keep him in the yard and I was walking back & forth across it giving him a jolt of electricity each time I crossed the line. Poor Hogan!
And the moral of the story is: Even though I may think I am giving you wonderful advice and that you would be much better off if you just did things my way, there may be things about your life I don't know so please bear with me. I'm an old wife, you know.
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