Bucket List

On  his last day as a first grader, littleb wrote a bucket list of things he wanted to do over the summer.  This is his list:

1.  Go into a pool
2.  Go to Block Island
3.  A Celebration
4.  Have a vacation
5   Buy flowers
6.  Go out with my family
7.  Go to Mystic  Aquarium
8.  Go Fishing
9.  Go to Camp Ok-wa-nesset
10.  Go Kayaking

Today he meets his second grade teacher and tomorrow is the first day of school.  Summer never lingers (unfortunately) but this summer has flown by so fast, I find myself a little bereft.  Looking back at littleb's list and recalling the moments when each mission on his list was accomplished makes me smile and helps bring the summer more into focus.   It may have gone by quickly, but we sure did enjoy it.  What did you do on your summer vacation?

Chicken out

Hiking the Megunticook Trail in Camden

It's the Little Things...

This morning I was flipping through an old Ladies Home Journal that I heisted from somewhere because yes, as a matter of fact, I do want to know how Miranda Lambert got that smoking hot new body.   I flipped to a page celebrating married couples and the sweet traditions they develop over the years to help each other and show their love.

One couple, married for 50 years, stated that she's bad at directions so he always drives her to a new place the day before her appointment so that she can find it, and she is good at grammar and spelling so she always checks his emails and FB posts.  Another couple reported that she makes little baggies of homemade muesli every Sunday for him to take to work and he...well...I forget what he does  But anyway, you get the point.

I started thinking about BigB and our sweet traditions, but then I was interrupted by BigB, who is on vacation this week and was upstairs lying in bed, calling out to littleb to come snuggle with him.  And this annoyed me and redirected my train of thought towards all the little ways we annoy each other.  He is on vacation, for God's sake...it's annoying enough that he has about 10 weeks of vacation a year....can't he just vacation quietly in the comfort of our bed without waking up the energizer bunny a half hour early?

No, he can't.  He can't because if BigB is awake, everyone needs to be awake, or he gets lonely.  He will try to engage a person in conversation and if that doesn't work, he'll resort to physical means such as hugging, tickling, anything for attention.

And Lord knows, I am not perfect.   BigB gets annoyed that I'm not friendlier in the morning.   I'm not a morning person.  I'm  not playful, I'm not chatty.....I get up earlier than everyone else for the sole purpose of being by myself.  If someone gets up early and joins me, well, it just bloody pisses me off.

BigB and I have a million little ways to annoy each other.  For instance, he eats his poached eggs whole.  That's one whole egg, yolk and all, just breaking in his mouth, coating his tongue, sliding down his throat.  I'm getting a little queasy thinking about it.  I, on the other hand, do not care about malware or internet security and this is not only irresponsible, but it drives BigB insane.  Have I set up the security feature on my phone?  I don't know.  Would I like to learn how?  Must I?  Deep sigh.

And don't get me started on the air conditioning/heating.  I do not care for air conditioning.  If I wanted to live in air conditioning, I would move to Arizona.  I want my windows and doors open to the fresh air.  I want to walk in from  outside  without experiencing  a 20  degree temperature  drop that sends me running for my snorkel parka.  BigB, on the other hand, would prefer to not walk into a bread oven every day between September  and  April.

Yup, we've got a million little ways to annoy each other without even trying.  But we've learned to compromise, and that's how we show our love for each other.   He gives a  little, I give a little....plus  I  make him little  yogurt sundaes every morning for breakfast.  He always grills my burger a little more on the well done  side.  Sometimes  I pretend to be friendly in the morning.  Sometimes he eats his eggs like a normal person.

It really is the little things.

Chicken Out

Life is Like a Teeter-Totter...

It's not much fun unless it's going up and down.

I read part of an article recently about achieving balance in one's life.  The article asked various authors of self-help books what balance means to them.  I think it was Simple magazine-I can retrace my steps if anyone is interested.

I asked myself the same question, me being the supposed, but not confirmed, authority on me, and the answer I received is that balance is an urban myth.  Balancing your life, in my opinion, is like telling the tide to stop rising at that perfect place just a few feet from your beach blanket. You can't stop  the ebb and flow of your life any more than you can stop the tide from rising or going out, try as you might, with your routines, systems and advance planning.

So what is balance, then, and why do we covet it?  Do we focus on balance at the expense of flow?

The closest I come to what some might describe as balance is when I am fully engaged in the moment.  It might be cooking, playing a game of Yahtzee with littleb, writing a post, or cleaning out a cupboard. Whatever it is, I'm in the zone.  There is a feeling of contentment and good will.  If I could string a lifetime's worth of these moments together, I could live in balance, but that's not my goal.  A perfectly balanced teeter-totter might be fun for a moment, but it's the ups and downs that make it interesting.

Butter Files: Uncle Don

We were returning home from a family trip, seven of us packed like sardines into the Chrysler station wagon.  As our home came into view, my Stepmom was the first to make the connection.

"Oh no!", she groaned.

"What?" we all thought, looking at each other.  Did we forget something?  Did we hit a cat?  Did this have anything to do with us at all?

And then we, too, looked towards our house and we also saw it:  The mile long Winnebago parked  in the middle of our lawn.

"Uncle Don!" we all yelled.  We kids adored Uncle Don.  For one thing, he drove around IN his house, like an eccentric, geriatric hermit crab on permanent vacation.  The freedom of the open road was Uncle Don's.  He went where he liked, he slept where he liked.  I still was having a little trouble working out the mathematics of how a vehicle that big could turn corners but I hoped that one day I could learn to do it and join Uncle Don in his adventurous lifestyle.  The budding opportunist in me recognized that Uncle Don was approaching the age where license renewals were not a given.  At some point the man was going to need a driver.  And a nurse, probably, but that wasn't my problem.  I wasn't very nurse-like.  I did suspect, however, that I would be a very good driver.

What also occurred to me, though, as we pulled into the driveway, was that my gentle, sweet Stepmom who was nice to everybody, didn't seem happy at the prospect of a visit from Uncle Don.  Why?  Wasn't he her uncle, after all?  Didn't he always show up unexpectedly, creating a sense of excitement and possibility?  Didn't he take all of his meals with us, being careful to make us aware of his restrictions so that we didn't accidentally send him into diabetic shock?  Didn't he open his Winnebago  doors to us kids to explore and climb over and didn't we all get the opportunity to sit in the driver's seat, before he suggested we all go back into the house and have a nice long visit and maybe a snack as he was feeling a bit peckish?  And didn't he always, always tell great stories while we waited for his laundry to finish washing?  Sure, they were the same stories he'd told on his last visit and the one before that, but they were mostly good stories, if a bit long winded.  I didn't understand her visceral reaction to his unexpected presence.

Uncle Don had come calling.  How could this be bad news?  Who could understand the mysterious ways of grown ups?  Not me.  I shrugged my skinny shoulders, hopped out of the wagon and raced  across the lawn, calling first turn at the wheel.

On The Increasingly Complex Algorithm of Parenthood

When I was 15 or so I asked my dad to help me with some algebra homework.  I was not good at algebra way back then (she notes, as though she might be much better at algebra now) but my father was purported to be quite handy at math so who better to ask?

My father gave the text book a cursory glance and began telling me about the stock market.   I  hate to out my father but I really do not think that he knew a lot about the stock market. Clearly, however, he felt more secure opining about the stock market than he did about my algebra homework.  Algebra is a less nebulous subject, to be fair.  I mean,  we can talk all day about why our net worth has declined or blossomed, blaming all sorts of things-the price of twink lots in Judina, the prevalence of snark wood in Delusia-but in the end, algebra has one right answer per problem.  It's rather exact, isn't it?  And my father had no bloody idea how to solve that problem.

Why would he? Chicken Theory #134 states that 98.2% of the population has no practical use for algebra. The 1.6% who do have a use for algebra are algebra teachers.  And the other .2% (good for you for picking up on that; you are obviously very good at decimals) are advocates in Washington for algebra education. Or maybe they work for NASA.  Maybe NASA knows practical uses for algebra. But I digress.

What I'm leading up to is that I asked my father ONE time for help on my homework.  I don't recall ever asking anyone else.  I never asked for help on book reports, didn't require assistance building a catapult, and wasn't quizzed on my math facts.

Now that I'm a parent, things are different.

My first grader's homework assignments go something like this:  Regular homework-10 minutes per grade level,  math facts-15 minutes per night, reading-15-30 minutes per night, writing-4 sentences per night and don't forget to practice your spelling words and build a rocket and study for the SAT! Add in dinner, bath-time and bed-time routines and that is a pretty tight schedule which, and I can't emphasize this enough,  must be supervised.

Not only did my parents not help with homework, half the time they weren't even sure where the hell we were.  We had free reign, from a tender age, over not only our three acres, but the entire neighborhood.  My parents came home, made dinner, and we kids showed up around five, as we had been trained from an early age, to wash our hands and eat.   Then we cleared the table and watched the news. Then maybe we watched a sitcom like  Happy Days or Laverne and Shirley.  We ate ice cream, all lined up along the imaginary divide between the kitchen, where we were allowed to consume food, and the living room, where we were not.  Maybe Dad fell asleep in his LaZ-Boy. Maybe us kids did our homework after school, maybe we didn't.  My parents weren't concerned.  Homework was our problem until the principal called or report cards came out.

Because when I was a kid things were different.

You weren't allowed homework until you went to Junior High.  It was something you looked forward to because it meant you were older and more mature; a big shot.  Only  big kids got to do homework. You didn't need help doing it because you were 11 or 12 years old by that time. You knew what to do and you were motivated to do it because, my God, you waited all these years to get homework and now you finally had some.  You were one important SOB, toting home your books and five subject notebooks (back packs? planners? Please).

Back when I was a kid my parents delighted in telling us how much easier we had it than when they were kids.  They had to walk a mile to school.  Up hill in the snow. Both ways. Barefoot.  They had one outfit and by the end of the year, it stood up by itself in the corner of the bedroom they shared with their four siblings and two sets of grandparents.  They got a new pair of shoes every September whether they needed them or not.  I could go on, but you know these things about my parents, I'm sure.

It's true, I had a peaceful middle class American childhood.  The only thing I really had to worry about were those starving children I was depriving in Africa if I didn't eat all my mashed potatoes.

But back to modern day parenting...

I've spent years of my life driving my kids around because it's not safe to let them loose in our suburban neighborhood. I've memorized "Where  the Wild Things Are" and "Goodnight Moon".  I am regularly subjected to the unconventional wisdom of Captain Underpants.  I work 45-50 hours a week, bring work home, and have supervised mountains of homework. I'm literally afraid of food; does it have sugar, is it a GMO, is it organic? OMG the price is astronomical....In addition, our mortgage is 99 million and although I live several miles from the nearest water source, I wonder if we should buy flood insurance.  I'm paying into a social security fund that won't be there to collect from by the time I can retire at 75, if I live that long what with all the air pollution, resistant flu strains and nuclear weapon threats.

All that, and  I'm supposed to age like Christie Brinkley, execute a bloody bucket list, and keep up with social media.

And do yoga instead of lunch.

Mom and Dad, you had it so much easier as a parent than I do.

I'm exhausted.

At times like this I wonder about dropping off the grid.  Retreating into a simpler existence.

But it seems like so much work, you know?  Selling the house, moving to the woods, building a yurt, homeschooling, gardening, actually building shit that gets stuff done without electricity, selling that extra power we generate to buy goats and chickens, bartering eggs and goat cheese to buy raw wool to spin into yarn to make into socks, killing the chickens and goats, cooking them...

I mean, really, I might as well stay right here, stop procrastinating and do my bloody kid's homework for him so that I can watch "Friends" reruns in peace, like any decent 21st-century parent would do.

I don't have it so bad.  I could use a new pair of shoes, though.

Chicken out

This is a photo of a really nice Yurt I snatched from "The Guardian".  Suffice it to say my yurt would not turn out like this.

1006

Yahtzee: Rules of Engagement...

Last year I taught littleb how to play Yahtzee.  He's since become a master Yahtzee strategist.  He has also developed some interesting rules.

1.  If you are just one die away from getting Yahtzee you may have an extra turn.

2.  When one of the dice rolls off the playing table, all the dice must be shaken again.

3.  Unless you had a pretty good roll going.  And then you can just shake the one die

4.  Unless, of course, the one that rolled on the floor lands on the number you needed.   Then it counts and  no further dice rolling is required.

5.  If you are shaking the dice and someone offers an alternative strategy, the proper response is to continue on your chosen course.  If the result is not the one you were seeking, you may take your turn over in pursuit of the suggested strategy.  This is because the speaker should have spoken up before you started shaking the dice, in which case you would most certainly have followed their advice.

5.5  If someone starts to offer an alternative strategy before you start shaking the dice, you should immediately pick up the cup and start shaking it vigorously, pretending you never heard anything.  If things don't work out, you should inquire, "Did you say something?  I couldn't hear you over the dice."  This auditory loop hole entitles you to one do over.

6.  If the new strategy also fails, you get an extra turn because the person advising you was obviously steering you in the wrong direction for his/her own benefit, which is cheating and very unattractive, not to mention disappointing.

7.  If you are shaking the dice and there is any interference at all from another player-a hand, a jostle, a sneeze-you may take another turn.  If necessary.

8.  Blowing on the dice helps you get the numbers you want and having everyone blow on your dice is extra good luck.

9.  Unless it is not, in which case you get an extra turn because it is not your fault that someone else's halitosis breath ruined your roll.

10.  The rules above only apply to one player per game who shall be the youngest player.

11.  Everyone must be a very good sport and not cheat!

Chicken out

borrowed from:  http://ghiblicon.blogspot.com/2012/02/ghibli-blog-comix-lets-play-yahtzee.html
 For the record, littleb does not condone eating anyone's dog

If I Hadn't Been So Focused on Becoming the First Taylor Swift, I Might Have Invented the Internet

When I was 13 and firmly in the clutches of that ultimate mean girl, puberty, I discovered poetry. Months were spent producing emo ballads exploring my obsessive crushes on various high school seniors, pop stars, and, bewilderingly, MacGyver.  It eventually occurred to me, probably during a lucid dream also involving a Maxfield Parrish painting and a unicorn, that these poems should be set to music and shared with the world.  That's how good they were.

But how to do that? How does one reach out to the Titans of the Music Industry when one does not know who those Titans might be, nor their mailing addresses?

If only I had focused on that problem and invented the internet, this tale might be very different.  For one thing, I would be writing it from a much warmer locale while my good friend, Richard Branson, orders another round of tropical rum beverages with a mere twitch of one blond hairy eyebrow.

I decided to shelve the accessibility issue for the time being and set myself immediately to writing a hit song,  The  lyrics roughly matched the rhythm and word structure of, "Leaving on a Jet Plane".  This  song was, to me, the ultimate in romantic sophistication.  In my imagination I was at times the leaver and at times the left, depending on my erratic emotional state.  Mostly I was the leaver because I had never flown in an airplane and badly wanted to, plus I liked the idea of someone keening over me, for a change; someone handsome, resourceful and mature who always had an extra stick of gum to share.

After a few late nights, fueled by root beer and Hershey bars, I finished my masterpiece. My song focused on a lover reminiscing over trips to the zoo and holding hands on the train.  How could that once colorful love-filled world have become this barren, lonely landscape with only one sad-eyed gorilla and some screeching monkeys to bear witness to his brokenness, asked my MacGyver, as he walked along singing softly to himself while a solitary tear rolled down his stubbly cheek and into his popcorn.

And here we have yet another shining example of how the right focus-connecting music to video-could have landed me in an exclusive gated community saying things into my phone like, "Get me Bono!", instead of the more pedestrian, "Yes, half cheese, half pepperoni, please.  Yes.  I'll hold."

Now that my  hit song was ready for delivery, I began my search for Titans.   I remembered that in the back of my mother's True Confessions magazines there were ads inviting people to get rich submitting their stories for publication.  I pilfered an old copy and found what I was looking for; a company looking for people who wrote lyrics, music or both.  I submitted my song and waited.

Now, you might be thinking, "Oh God, how good could it have been?  The kid was thirteen!", and I wouldn't blame you, although I might remind you that Taylor Swift got her start at around the same age.  A few weeks after I sent out my inquiry I received a response from Nashville.  They wanted to publish my song!  Truth be told, I was a little surprised. I didn't know things worked that fast in Nashville. You can't blame me for assuming that they must really be in a hurry to sign me on.  There was just one teeny problem-Nashville needed a hundred dollars in up front money.  There were logistics, you see.  They needed to find someone to write the music, find a top notch vocalist to record it, and circulate copies to all the radio stations to get the word out.  If I would just send them $100, they would take care of all this for me and then forward a copy of my record for personal use.  Once the radio stations started playing my record, the dough would  start rolling in and we would have to move to Nashville, probably, so that I could be closer to my people.

I'm not sure exactly how this happened-I believe there may have been a lot of back room negotiations to which I was not privy-but my step mom and father actually pulled together $100 dollars and sent it to Nashville on my behalf.

Thankfully, my parents were not taken advantage of and just one month later my record arrived in the mail. We put it on the record player in the living room and listened.  I was disappointed in the music.  It wasn't what I would have chosen. The clarity seemed a little off, too. Maybe they actually recorded it at the zoo for authenticity?

Once I heard my song, or Nashville's version of it, rather, my ever objective inner voice said, "No one is going to pay for this record except your mother", so I gave Vi my copy to save her the expense and decided to become an artist.  I began creating complicated wall-size murals, copying the style of Maxfield Parrish but adding unicorns.

It wasn't the first time my parents supported one of my dreams nor would it be the last.  I may not have become the first Taylor Swift or the inventor of the internet but I have been lucky in love.

MacGyver aside.

Chicken out

A real hit song:  Little Feat singing Dixie Chicken

Vi Chronicles: Shut up Peanut

Uncle Ken was Tee's husband and CCool's father.  He didn't talk a lot unless the subject  was something that interested him.  Then he could talk the ears off a rabbit. He loved the outdoors..

Outdoor enthusiasts are typically beloved by kids because they are more adventurous than other adults. They innately understand that taking a risk and succeeding builds self-confidence, while taking a risk, failing and trying again build perseverance. Uncle Ken was no exception.  We all loved tagging along after him.

That said, there were two things you didn't do around Uncle Ken: You didn't whine and you didn't ask him a question if you weren't prepared for a truthful answer.

"Like my haircut, Uncle Ken?"

"Not particularly, Peanut."

"Oh.  o.k."

And then you'd have to walk off pretending like YOU liked your new haircut enough for the both of you.   And when I say YOU, I mean ME back in 1983.  But in the interest of full disclosure, I was an adult by then and I'm pretty sure he was busting my beans, because shag mullet hair styles are awesome.

He also was not stingy with unsolicited opinions.

I spent a lot of time at Uncle Ken's hanging out with CCool who was a year older than me. In the winter we would often go snowmobiling.  CCool had her own snowmobile, which was just one of the reasons she was so cool (she also had her own horse).  I would ride on the back of Uncle Ken's machine.  We would  be out in the woods for hours.

The woods in winter are beautiful in an almost spiritual way. They are also bloody cold.

As anyone in my family will tell you, I am not very hardy.  Being from  a cold region like Maine doesn't make you hardy.  It only ensures that you will become proficient at layering and, at some point, be involved in an unfortunate tobogganing incident, the probable cause a lack of visibility brought on by an abundance of ear muffs, scarves, hats and fur trimmed hoods.

During every ride, when I could no longer feel my extremities and my anemically thin blood had frozen en route, I would ask Uncle Ken to take me home.  "It's cold", I'd say.  "It's January, Peanut.  It's supposed to be cold", Uncle Ken would say.  "I'm hungry!", I'd continue.  "You're not gonna starve, Peanut".

"But. But......I'm COLD!!!!!"

"Shut up, Peanut".

If I wanted to hang out with Uncle Ken, I had to wear my big girl pants. I'd get to drive a ski-doo across an open field, watch a moose come down to the pond for a drink, swim past the drop off, catch a fish and shoot guns at coke cans. In return, he got to listen to me whine that I was cold, scared, couldn't swim or didn't like loud noises.  He'd smile, then tell me to shut up and do it anyway.

Clearly, I got the better end of the deal.

Uncle Ken, photo courtesy of Paula Kozinn

Chicken out

The Six Stages of Cable/Internet Service Disruption Adjustment

Warning:  This post is for mature audiences only.  And when I say mature, I do not necessarily mean mature in age. I mean mature.  As in the opposite of, "You are SO immature".  If no one has said this to you in the past five years, then you are probably mature enough to read this post without experiencing nightmares.

Otherwise.  Hmmm.  Hey you!  Hey!!  Have you heard that "Anchorman II" is out this weekend?  Okay, yeah, see ya later!

OMG lol.

Anyway, sometimes, maybe this has happened to you, your cable and internet service disappears for NO GOOD REASON.  I know. It's scary, right?  Imagine it happening for multiple days.

This is the tale I lived to tell.  Proceed at your own mental health risk.

The first stage is Denial/Delusion

1. Denial/Delusion:
    a.) The 7-year-old says:  "Mommy!  Haunted Hathaways is new tonight.  Fix it!  Fix it, Mommy.            fixxxxxitttttttt (insert high pitched squeal here.  Imagine crystal shattering).
    b.)  The 18-year-old says:  No way.  This cannot be happening to me.  Mom.  What's happening to me?  Mommy?
    c.)  CC:  I'm sure it's nothing boys.  I'll just reboot!! (this is the Delusion portion of our evening).

2. Anger:
    a.)  7YO:  Mommy. Spongebob.  Now.  I'm going to scream again.  (crystal shatters.  You know the drill)
    b.)  18YO:  MOM!  Just stop!  You can't fix it.  Call TECH SUPPORT!!!! OMG Why is this happening TO ME????
    c.)  Why isn't the reboot working???? X%^&*$##

3.  Bargaining:
     a.)  7 YO:   Mommy, pleeeeaasssse get Spongebob on. I'll sleep in my own bed and never say Poop again.
     b.) 18 YO:  Mom, don't cry. I'll call tech support and you can have some wine, ok?
     c.)  CC:  Please, God/Santa/Tech Support Guy, please, just fix it or deliver me to Heaven, ok?

4.  Fear:
     a.) 7 YO:  Mommy.  I'm scared.  You look scary.  Daddy?
     b.) 18 YO:  I'll never be a Professional Gamer Olympian now.
     c.)  CC:  All my blog followers will unfollow me.  All my carefully cultivated internet friends will unfriend me.

5.)  Sadness:
      a.)  7 YO: Mommy?  Is Spongebob dead?  I miss TV Mommy.
      b.)  18 YO:  My life is over.
      c.)  CC:  Internet, oh why hast thou forsaken me? Et tu Bravo?

6.)  Acceptance:
      a.) 7 YO:  Mommy, want to hear me sing Rudolph again?
      b.) 18 YO:  Hey, how about we rent some movies?
      c.)  CC:  Ok. Let's go to RedBox. Everyone in the car.  Everyone sing.........

 Bonus stage:  Nonacceptance:  NO!  NO, I do not accept this!  I cannot accept this!  Verizon.  Get someone out here now.  I WILL SWITCH TO COX. I WILL.  I'M DIALING.......

One voice is conspicuously absent here, have you noticed?  Yes, this person's response to the entire service interruption debacle was "Oh well.  It's not the end of the world."

Oh really, Person Hiding in His Office while your wife tries to keep two increasingly hostile  internet/television deprived boys entertained?  Person who is possibly, quite probably, a sociopath and is definitely acting a little morally superior right now but who has not had to miss a single important sporting event?  As of yet? Oh yes, BigB, Sunday is coming...

Chicken out

PS  I tried to find an image that might adequately portray my frustration with Verizon Tech Support, but I couldn't find one.  So then I decided to find a funny meme about IT, and couldn't find one.  Then I thought, hey, I'll find something cute, turn this frown upside down, and I couldn't find anything cute.  Then I realized it's me.  So I'm posting this instead. This is for you, BigB.




Tim Hawkins: Things You Don't Say To Your Wife

Paper or Shoes

In the town where I was raised there were two main industries, paper and shoes.  In most families one or both parents worked in either the paper mills or the shoe factories.  Kids grew up and often followed in their parents footsteps; paper or shoes.

Our family was a shoe family.  My father was an engineer for Bass shoe, founded by George Bass in 1876.  He started out on the factory floor and worked his way up. His job was to analyze the labor required to make a shoe, and then determine how much, per piece, a worker should be paid for their particular contribution. This kind of work was called "piece work", and allowed better, more experienced workers to earn more because they had harder jobs and/or were more productive. It was a non-unionized system that paid workers according to their productivity and skill.

Bass Shoe was sold to Chesebrough-Ponds in 1978.  They were famous for Vaseline, Ponds Cold Creams and other beauty products.  Why they wanted a shoe factory I couldn't say, but things continued to roll along fairly smoothly.  In 1981, President Reagan lifted the quotas on imported shoes and cheaper shoes from overseas became available.  American shoe companies, in order to compete, began moving their production overseas.  The companies that maintained factories in the US cut jobs and payroll.  My father lost his job in 1987 after Philips-Van Heusen purchased the company and again slashed jobs and payroll.  Bass closed their last Maine factory in 1998, letting go of its final 350 workers.  Over the course of 18 years, about 1,200 people employed by this one company lost their jobs. You can still buy Bass shoes, but they are not made in the US.

The paper mills have fared better but there have been union strikes, cuts and closings.  In short, my old hometown is not the insulated community it used to be.  We are not special.  The same thing has happened all across the country.

I bring these things up because it is a big shopping weekend and today is Shop Local Saturday. While it might not be practical to purchase only American-made products, it is possible to shop locally for one day and benefit your local community. Go on.  Get out there. Buy something already.

Chicken out

Nothing Left Undone

A couple of weeks ago I lent my Mother-in-law a book. It was A Paris Wife, by Paula McLain; a novel based on the first marriage of Ernest Hemingway to Hadley Richardson.  I had bought it  for myself and had already started  reading it but noticed when we saw her that she didn't have a book,  which was unusual. I thought she might like it and passed it on.  The timing seemed to be right.  She mentioned she had just finished a book.

She passed away yesterday.  It's funny, the small things that stick in your mind when a loved one passes. I'm thinking of that book sitting in her bag, maybe, or on her bedside table, waiting for her to come back and finish turning its pages.

The unread book led me to think of other things she might not have gotten to finish. Was there a card she wanted to send, a person she wanted to connect with, a song she would have liked to have heard one last time?  Was her last thought about something left undone?

I don't think so.  She took  her last breath bathed in love and surrounded by the family she nurtured. I think it was all she would have wanted.  Nothing was left undone.

Safe journey, E.  Thank you for being the mother you were, which allowed me to have the husband I have.

May the road rise up to meet you.
May the wind always be at your back.
May the sun shine warm upon your face,
and rains fall soft upon your fields.
And until we meet again,
May God hold you in the palm of His hand.

-an Irish prayer

Chicken out

Mercy

Littleb and I were in the car again.  He was sitting in the back seat munching french-fries.  I was driving.

Yes, Nancy Drew, I was also munching french-fries.  I'm sort of a Francophile.  Littleb was telling me about a new game he learned called Mercy.  It is a game of strength over brains....


Littleb:  Dad could totally beat me at Mercy.

Chicken:  Are you saying I couldn't beat you?

Littleb:  Probably not.  I think I could beat you.  You're so skinny.

Chicken:  (raises eyebrows in surprise.  Sucks in stomach)  Well, that's true, you're probably right,  I am really skinny.

Littleb:  You're not THAT skinny.

Chicken:  Are you saying I'm fat.

Littleb:  (laughs)  No.  You're not fat.

Chicken:  That's right.  I'm skinny.

Littleb:  No women are fat.  That would be weird.

Chicken:  You are wise beyond  your years, Littleb

Littleb:  Dad's fat.

Chicken:  Strong, littleb.  Dad's strong and I'm skinny.

Littleb:  OK.  Did you remember to ask for barbecue sauce?

I think I could take John Stamos.  In a game of Mercy, I mean.

The Warmest Coat Lands End Sells

This is a re-post from November 2011.  It flurried here today, which brought this post to mind, and I spent all day working on a new project, so didn't have time to post something new.  

I hope you are warm and cozy wherever you are.

For Christmas, I gave Teenager-who-lives-in-the-Basement (TWLITB) a new parka. And not just any parka, no. For TWLITB, because I love him so much, I sought out the warmest coat that Lands End claims to sell, and I bought it. This is what it looks like.

Nice, right?

But because his father and I are not the world's most effective communicators, he also received a coat from his Dad. Now, Dad's coat was nice-it was. I'll concede that. Sort of a fleece lined canvas army-inspired job. It was sharp. It wasn't the Warmest Coat Lands End Sells.


You can probably guess where this is going. He loved the coat his Dad gave him and refused to wear The Warmest Coat Lands End Sells. The hell? This was distressing to me. I need to know that my kids are warm. It is a deep-seated need. And this fashion over function bull, I'm just not buying it.

The coat sat around through a snow storm or two and I hoped that freezing temps would drive him to wear it. Well, that and repeatedly being sent out to shovel the driveway. But that did not happen.

It was time to return the coat.

First, just for kicks, I tried the coat on. And it fit. And it was the warmest. coat. ever.

I began to covet the coat. Like many Moms, I am reluctant to spend money on warm outerwear for myself. I admired the coat from afar, but still fully intended to return it. The coat and I exchanged meaningful glances over the next few days, but nothing happened.

Enter R, my youngest daughter. A couple days a week, R takes the public bus to her classes. To get there, she has to catch one bus from our neighborhood to downtown, where she waits outside for 20 minutes, and then catches another bus from there, back past our neighborhood, and to her school. The whole trip takes about an hour and half of that is spent outside. R is always cold. She complains non-stop about how cold she is. An idea began to take root. Maybe I couldn't keep TWLITB warm, but R clearly was in need of The Warmest Coat Lands End Sells.

She wouldn't wear it either.

That's when I said to myself, "Screw you ungrateful ingrates, I'm wearing the warm coat. That's right. I'm keeping it, I'm wearing it, and I'm going to be warm. I'm in love with this coat.  I want to marry this coat and have warm coat babies.".

I enjoyed a few super cozy days with my new coat. We were inseparable. In an email exchange with my best friend, GG, during which I expressed my dismay that my children would rather freeze than wear the Warm Coat, and my delight in my new smoking hot relationship with the Warm Coat, GG suggested a song and dance routine I could use to taunt my children the next time they complained about winter and all its frosty coldness.

Sing it with me: (to the tune of Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me)

Dontcha wish your body was warm like mine?
Dontcha? Dontcha?
Dontcha wish you had a nice coat like mine?
Dontcha? Dontcha?

Can't you just picture the video?

So anyway, along about 10 pm a couple of nights later, I went to pick R up from her evening class. I was wearing my new coat. She climbed into the car and said, "Brrr. I'm freezing. I should have worn the coat. You were right."

Wait. Could you repeat that? I was right?

Cue the music.

Oh yes, I did. Right then and there, in my new coat, I did my best Beyonce' imitation. It was hot. And not just because of the coat.

Fast forward a week. Suddenly, whenever I go to the closet to grab MY Warm Coat, it is not there. We seem to have a loosely formed Society of the Warm Coat situation going on. I did not authorize this community of sharingness! I oppose this regime.  However, like Mubarek, I've been outnumbered. The Youth have revolted.

R decided that being warm trumps looking hot. Her interest in the coat caused TWLITB to see the Warm Coat in a new light. A cooler light. "Wait", I imagine TWLITB thinking, "maybe an expedition-style, fur lined hood IS cool...maybe it is just as cool as the Russian-style fur hat I ordered over the internet and spent all my Christmas money on and lost within two weeks." "Maybe", thinks TWLITB, "I'd like to wear that Warm Coat".

And just like that, I'm sharing my warm coat with my fickle children. I'm not sure how I feel about that. Other than cold.

Chicken out (in the cold)

Butter Files: The Christians and The Pagans of Macomber Hill

M was the Catholic kid next door.  Our families have been neighbors for as long as I can remember.  M was raised in a structured, consistent environment, the kind Dr. Spock would have prescribed, with a Dad who worked shifts at the paper mill and a Mom who stayed home with the kids, managing their time and driving them to various activities.  They went to the Catholic Church in Jay on weekends and, when the time came, to CCD during the week.

I had no such restrictions on my time.  As long as I was at the dinner table by 5, I was good.

All of this extra instruction  going on next door, however, tipped the scales, giving M a worldly edge.  She became my main resource for information related to things going on outside of my own imagination.

On school mornings the kids in the neighborhood walked to the bus stop at the end of Fuller Road.  I learned a lot  waiting for the bus.  I learned about the birds and the bees, for one, complete with a visual aid drawn on a frosty wind shield by Timmy G.

One morning at the bus stop, compliments of M, I learned that I was doomed. M. had recently heard, through her various affiliations, that the Devil would be taking over the earth in the year 2000.  Luckily for her, she was Catholic, and God would be sending his kid to pick up all the Catholics before the destruction began.  Or maybe they would just ascend on their own. She wasn't sure how that part was going to go down.  But she did know for sure that I was screwed.

This information rocked my world.  What the bloody hell did I ever do to deserve eternal damnation? If I had had this information when I was a newly fertilized baby egg, I would have picked different parents, now, wouldn't I have?  I was upset that apocalypse knowledge was not built into my DNA, allowing me to make better parental choices.  Now, the end was near and I was stuck with my pagan family, destined to a fiery eternity. I had visions of a big, beautiful white bus emerging from the clouds, with Jesus at the wheel, picking up all the Catholics in the neighborhood, while I cried in vain, the devil blowing his searing hot breath down my neck, yelling at me to get back to work digging the coal to feed his inferno.

After a couple nights of not sleeping well, and staring up at the sky, worrying that the apocalypse might show up early, my Step Mom's radar went off, and she asked what was wrong.  I explained the bus stop religious instruction.

And she said it wasn't true.

She explained that M. must have gotten mixed up a little, but it wouldn't be polite to tell her, so I should just keep it to myself but I shouldn't worry.  This explanation allowed me to get back to sleep.

A couple days later at the bus stop  I learned that M had indeed been mistaken about the year 2000.  Jesus wasn't coming to pick up anyone and we were all screwed.

Because.  Aliens.

Chicken out

All Aboard the Jesus Bus.  Next Stop Pearly Gates.  

Littleb's To Do List

BigB and I are both list makers.  I'm a daily list keeper and BigB has one continuous list that he adds to and re-prioritizes as necessary.  If I do something that is not on my list, it gets added to the list and then crossed off.  BigB will never reach the bottom of his list.

It didn't come as any surprise to us when littleb turned out to be a list maker, as well.

This weekend, BigB told littleb that they could spend Saturday doing whatever he wanted.   Littleb promptly set about making a list of things for them to do.

Here it is:

littleb's list

Just in case you can't read his baby chicken scratch, here it is:

What to do with dad today
1. Golf
2. Free Birds (movie)
3. Target (window shopping)
4. Bike without training wheels
5. Play at the park
6. Go to battleground z (indoor play center)
7. Drive around the neighborhood
8. Go home
9. Eat while watching new t.v. shows
10. Play Trouble
11. Go to bed
12. Get up in the morning
13.  Make a new list for tomorrow

I can't be sure, but I believe he might take after me-a daily list maker.  Dad didn't get much crossed off his own list on Saturday.  Then again, what else are Saturdays for if not eating while watching new t.v. shows and driving around the neighborhood.

Happy Monday, Kids.  Feels like we were just here.

Chicken out

Hitting Repeat

We were at our friends' house for a weekend visit.  It was late.  A lot of wine and craft beers had been consumed.  Our girls were bedded down for the night-their three and our two.  We had finished playing a rousing game of Risk in which Phil, my husband's college room mate, and I, battled for final victory, our spouses having long since thrown in the towel, and our competitive spirits showing themselves, unsurprisingly for Phil, a lawyer, surprisingly for me, a housewife.

We moved into the living room and Phil put on a mix tape.  In the middle of it there was this one song. You know the song.  It might be a different song for you, but it is the song that makes you stop what you are doing and ask, "Who is this?".

They finally decided that it must be Barbara Keith singing Detroit or Buffalo.  Long story short, Phil gifted us the mix tape, which also included several favorite Van Morrison songs.

We listened to that tape on the drive home, through the pouring rain, and then I appropriated it for the yellow Plymouth I drove most often. I hit reverse on the one song over and over again.

What I didn't realize at the time was that my marriage was on a decline, heading toward a canyon, and perhaps this song resonated with me for that reason.

When you divorce someone you  break your childrens' hearts and split all your possessions.  It's never pleasant, regardless of how civil you both try to be, but you prepare yourself for it.  What hits you by surprise sometimes is the splitting of friendships. They were his friends first. Naturally, he got them in the divorce.  I wouldn't have expected any less, but I missed them. I missed her, with her tree-hugging goodness and nurturing spirit.  I missed him, with his killer wit and sharp mind. I missed them together and I missed us together, with our girls, just hanging out over a weekend, living large in a small frame.  When one of my girls told me they had divorced years later, I was sad.  I, maybe you, have those couples that stand for marriage in my mind. They are the ones you know will never break the bond; you don't even think of that happening with them.  In my life, I've had two. One couple is still together, one is not.  Fifty percent of my role models stayed together.

Tonight, when I typed in Barbara Keith on YouTube, I wasn't really expecting anything to come up, but there it was.  The magic of music is amazing to me. It will take you back in an instant. I'm listening and hitting repeat.  I'm missing those friends of mine.

I won't insist you listen, but if you are interested, here it is:



Who do you miss?

Chicken out

Skip this House....

If, while out tricking or treating this evening, you come across a house that looks like this...

Yikes!  Creepy! Is that a ghost?

You might want to skip it.
It's a documented fact that this house is haunted.
You really should think twice before ringing that doorbell.....

Sort of like Hotel California....just sayin'

Because if you do ring that doorbell, you might be greeted by THIS fearsome character...

The Tattooed Boy

He's even scarier than he looks!
Don't believe me?  Well just look at what happened to the last guy who stopped by unnanounced!

He's saying, "Man, I wish I hadn't run into that Tattooed Boy!" 

Happy  Halloween ghouls and ghosts. Stay safe out there!

Chicken out

The Vi Chronicles: Peggy-Lou Was NOT a Very Good Baby-Sitter

One night my mother went out and left Peggy-Lou in charge.  Peggy was our big sister, third oldest out of seven.  She was ten years older than me and seven years older than my brother, Victor.  That night, Peggy had an excellent idea.

She was full of good ideas, Peggy Lou was. She decided we would all walk to town.  It was late-too late for a seven-year-old to be awake-but in this branch of the family only pussies went to bed at bedtime.  I might be a chicken but I've never been a pussy.  I put on my sneakers.

It was a warm summer night.  We set out walking; myself, my brother, Victor, our older brother Michael, and Peggy-Lou.  Town was about a 1/2 mile from our house.  We walked past the lake, past the bridge, past the shoe shop and past the Western Auto.

Then Peggy-Lou whispered, "That church up ahead is where the devil lives."

"Nuh-uh", we said.

"It's true.  His workshop is in the basement."

We approached the church.  Some of us faster than others.

Home of the devil's workshop according to Peggy-Lou in 1970

There did appear to be a light on in the basement....

Peggy-Lou said,  "I'm going in."

"No don't!  Don't do it, Peggy-Lou!", I whispered.  

"Yup, I'm gonna find that devil and kick his ass", said Peggy-Lou.

Mike said, "I'll watch the door."

Me and Victor didn't say anything.  I had just wanted a bag of chips from Amato's, for Christ's sake.  I had zero bones to pick with Lucifer.

"Ok", Peggy-Lou said, "When he sees me, there's going to be trouble, so get ready to run or he'll steal your soul."

Peggy-Lou eased open the side door and started down the stairwell into the basement. We could see a lone light bulb at the bottom of the stairs. The door closed behind her.  We waited.  I'm not sure why.

We didn't have to wait long.  About two minutes later she shot out the door and started running down the sidewalk. "He's coming and he's pissed!", she yelled. "Run for your lives!"

"Hey, wait for me", I yelled.  I couldn't wait for my mother to get home.  I was so telling on these morons.  

We made it home, our souls intact, and Peggy-Lou made some cocoa, then we watched Dark Shadows. I didn't sleep again for the next  seven years.

Which was right around the time that Peggy-Lou got married in that very same Church.  She had promised me that I could be the flower girl, but then took it back and said I had to be in charge of the address book instead, because I was too old to be the flower girl.  

I wasn't walking around with a dumb address book. There was a Devil's workshop in the basement of that church, and several bored, gullible children (including one flower girl) wandering around looking for something to do.  

Chicken out

Halloween Decorating

It was late. BigB and littlb had gone to bed.  Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB) was shuffling around in the basement, as usual, and I was sitting in this very same spot just minding my own business.

TWLITB popped his head in the office door.  "Mom?"

"TWLITB?"

"What are you doing?"

"Nothing much.  What are you doing?"

"Nothing much."

*crickets*

TWLITB said, "Remember a couple days ago when I told you I thought there was a skunk in the window well?"

"Yesss"

"I think it's still there."

"Oh.  Wow.  O.k. we'll take a look in the morning."

Except I couldn't just leave the poor skunk there for another night, now, could I? Because it had already been a couple days since the first time TWLITB mentioned that he thought a skunk was trapped, and if it was the same skunk, then the poor thing had been down there without water or food for far too long.  I felt guilty for forgetting J.D.'s mention of the skunk when he first noticed it.

For those of you who might live someplace where foundations are not the norm, window wells are constructed when you have windows in your basement.  Ours are about three feet deep.  When an animal goes exploring and finds his way into one, it usually requires some help getting back out.

"Why are skunks so stupid?" my grumpy, guilty Chicken heart asked?  "Because they just are.  That's why God gave them such odorific super powers; to make up for their tiny brains.", my (equally tiny) Chicken brain answered.

I put on my coat, my gloves and my baseball hat (to protect against skunk odor and low-flying bats).  I hunted down a working flashlight and tore the garage apart looking for a long enough piece of wood to form a ramp.  Then I trudged out to the front of the house and flashed the beam into the well.

The good news was that there was no skunk in the well.

The bad news was that there was one very sorry looking possum down there.  He looked up at me and  I saw he was close to done.  He probably thought my flashlight beam was his ticket to the other side.  I slid the old shutter I had found into the window well to form a ramp.  This had worked quite well the last time a skunk had been stuck there.  The possum didn't look healthy enough to make the climb, however.

I went back inside and looked up possums on the internet. Finally, something useful to look up.  Not that the fang length of a baby vampire, or the relative amount of time it would take to walk to California aren't useful things to know, it is just that the need to know these things was not as immediate as the need to find out how sharp the teeth might be of the animal stuck in our window well.  Pretty sharp, as it turns out.  Also, I learned that possums like fruit.

By this time, TWLITB, alerted to my nocturnal ramblings, had emerged once again from the basement.  We discussed the situation and made a plan.  We gathered a bowl, a bottle of water, a banana and some strawberries and then we went back out to visit our new pet, Pat. We weren't sure whether we had a girl or boy possum but we are fond of alliteration and old SNL skits.

Our plan was to restore Pat's strength so that he/she would be able to climb out of the well.  First, we tossed in the bowl and then we poured water into it. Pat fell upon the bowl and shortly peered up at us as if to say, "May I 'ave some more, please"?  We laughed.  Then we noticed the neighbors were out on their porch watching us, so we  lowered our voices.  We filled the bowl again, then tossed down the strawberries and banana in case Pat wanted to make a smoothie later.  Then we went to bed.  I'm assuming the neighbors did, too.

Pat was still there in the morning.  I worried that the shutter was too short, making the angle too steep for Pat to climb.  I had to leave for work, but I left TWLITB with instructions to keep Pat watered throughout the day and scout out a longer length of wood.

When I returned from work I put off checking on Pat.  I had a glass of wine and waited for it to get dark. Mostly, I didn't want BigB to catch on to our possum problem because BigB is not a fan of urban wildlife.  I was afraid he would insist on calling animal control to remove Pat from the well and I didn't spend the previous night restoring Pat just to see him exterminated.  I also was a little worried that Pat didn't make it through the night, in which case my problem would have become one of removing a dead possum from a window well, and then dealing with my guilt.  I decided that if we had a dead possum,  I would consult BigB immediately.

Live adorable possums, my jurisdiction.  Gross dead possums, BigB's jurisdiction.  New rule.

I always get creative when  I drink wine and so it wasn't long before I had hatched another plan to free Pat (Get it?  Hatched?).  After dark I found a large basket with a handle, and some rope. I was trying to be very quiet so that BigB wouldn't ask questions.  I sneaked out through the front door with the basket, the rope and the flashlight.  TWLITB heard me rustling around outside the window and came to help. We were arguing over what kind of knot to tie on the basket handle when BigB suddenly appeared around the side of the house.

"What are you two doing?" he asked?

TWLITB and I looked at each other.

"Decorating for Halloween?",  I replied.

TWLITB snorted, BigB stared at me, and Littleb showed up in the doorway.

The neighbors were back on the porch.

"Decorating with Possums.  They are very Halloweeny, don't you think?"

"There's a possum in the window well, is that it?"

"Maybe"

"And you're trying to get it out?"

"Well.  You wouldn't want to have to drag a dead possum out of the window well, would you?  That's kind of the alternative."

LittleB said, "I want to see the possum!"

TWLITB shined the flashlight into the well.

The possum was gone.  Operation Free Pat was a success.

A cheer went up throughout the neighborhood.

In my mind.

BigB sighed heavily and went back in to watch the game.  TWLITB retired to the basement.  Littleb got on the computer to look up possums.  The neighbors retreated, relieved that Chicken had saved the neighborhood from a dead possum outbreak.

I poured another glass of wine and basked in the glow of a job well done.

Chicken out

Cute, right?  And Halloweeny?

Brotherly Love

One of the nice things that people often say about my husband, BigB, is that he is a humble man.

It's true.  He is.  It is one of the things I most like about him.

It seems that the trait is hereditary and has been passed down to littleb.

For fun, Teenager Who Lives in the Basement (TWLITB) often tries to get littleb to say complimentary things about himself.  It's a brother thing, I guess. For instance, the following conversation recently took place.

TWLITB:  Hi, littleb

Littleb:  Hi TWLITB

TWLITB:  What're you doing?

Littleb:  Drawing Spongebob

TWLITB:  Wow, that's really good.  You're a great artist.

Littleb:  Nooooo

TWLITB:  Yes you are.  Say it.  Say, "I'm an awesome artist."

Littleb:  blushes.  NOoooooo.

TWLITB:  C'mon, say it, littleb

Littleb:   Noooo.  I don't even know what that means..

A similar conversation takes place at least once a week; the one brother encouraging and teasing, the other brother bashful but pleased. It makes me smile.  I'm proud of my sons.

Little Brother Big Brother