It's only a few days until Christmas, and while my Christmas tree has been up for maybe two weeks, more or less, I finally got around to decorating it.
Before you ask "a competely bare Christmas tree?", it had three strands of lights on it since the afternoon I'd set it up. Just no actual decorations. It's not that we don't have them, I just haven't put them on our tree for a few years now.
There's a reason for this. (Besides sheer laziness; that doesn't quite cover it.) For years, we'd bought live trees from local tree lots, lugged it home, set it up, then decorated it with lights and decorations. Somewhere along the way, we ended up with two large buckets with lids to keep our Christmas stuff in; one bucket was for lights, the other for all other decorations. The light bucket always came off the utility room shelf first; once the lights were on the tree, the other bucket came down and the decorations put up.
Each year, it was the same thing: each decoration represented a family member who'd made the ornament or given it to us. My grandmother had given us quite a few ornaments: ceramic bells shaped like mice with little ceramic clappers that caused a tinkling sound when the mice moved, several clothespins painted to look like Santa Claus, and other trinkets that held memories of going to her house at Christmas time. My ex-mother-in-law had made a few beaded ornaments that we still have, though she's been gone for decades. There are ones that my kids made when they were in grade school. And of course there are others picked up here and there over the years.
Around the time P. and I had gotten together, my daughter M.H. and her husband moved out of state. One of the things they dropped off at our place was a 4-foot artificial tree. It fit nicely on a table top, which is part of why M.H. had bought it in the first place. It's easy enough to put together: simply pull it out of the box, put the lets on the base, pull the branches down, and viola!
However, P. and I simply kept buying real trees. Using the artificial tree felt, well, artificial.
Then, one year, we were a little short on cash. By the time we finally had the money to buy a tree, three weeks before the big day, there wasn't a real tree on any lot to be found without driving miles and miles. So, out came the 4-foot tree.
After setting it up, we threw several strands of blinky lights on it; that was plenty on a tree that size. Then, grabbing the ornament bucket, we found a few ornaments that fit the smaller tree very nicely. There was no way we could use all the decorations; there simply wasn't enough room. Sighing, I put the bucket back on the shelf, half the ornaments still inside.
This tree seemed perfectly fine for the next few years. Then P. died. When I went to set up the tree that year, the lights went on it, but I only had the energy or desire to put one or two ornaments on it. The next year, the ornament bucket didn't even come off the shelf.
A few years ago, I went out and bought a 6-footer. It's still artificial, but I figured I'd get a few years' use out of it. I even bought a few extra strands of lights, since two tiny strands of blinky lights just wouldn't do. But still very few, if any, ornaments. Until now.
My friend Kevin has been spending a lot of time here. He's more like a slightly strange, slightly goofy kid brother, and a friend. Nothing more, nothing less. Contrary to what Billy Crystal's character thought in the first half of When Harry Met Sally, men and women can be friends. He acknowledged the tree and several strands of lights. My son J. even put a strand of lights on that M.H. had given him last year; this strand has maybe a dozen large blood-shot-looking plastic eyes painted on the white globes.
"Cool lights," Kevin mentioned when he saw them.
But then, after a week or so with no other ornaments, he finally asked where they were. "You got the tree, you got the lights, you need to get some ornaments!"
I had to admit, it might be nice to get the bucket down. Last year, I'd used the excuse that our two cats, Karma Kitty and Drexie Calabash, might knock them off the tree and bat them around the house. But there had to be something I could put on the tree that wouldn't cause problems for the two crazy cats. This meant that the few beaded ornaments in the bucket would stay in the bucket, along with a couple of other potentially dangerous ones (dangerous to kitties, anyway). But then, there were other ones I could put on the tree: there's a plastic one that looks almost stained-glass-like and looks nice with a light showing through; there's a star made out of little mirrors (great for reflecting light), and several others that actually look a little nicer than I remember.
The tree is now officially decorated. It won't rival anything in any fancy home decorating magazine. But that's perfectly fine with me.
Merry Christmas, Happy Solstice, Happy (belated) Hanukkah, and Happy New Year.
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Friday, November 1, 2013
Halloween, or Someone Save Me From All This Chocolate!
I'm glad that October is over. I wish October was still here. I know that may sound a little strange, but there are times when most of us feel that way, the wanting time to fly while standing still.
October had been one of my favorite months since forever for a variety of reasons: it is the first full fall month; my birthday is in October, as are my granddaughter's and my youngest niece's; Halloween is in October, which with its passing kicks the holiday season into gear; the weather cools, the days shorten. What's not to like? And yet, it's the same month when my late husband, Paul, died. So the ambivalence is understandable.
Last night, I sat on the front porch, waiting for trick-or-treaters. The first couple of kids showed up shortly after we'd finished dinner. After handing a couple of candy bars, I grabbed the bowl of candy and headed for the porch.
It took a little while for more kids to arrive. While I waited, I watched the kids playing across the street. Apparently, a bunch of parents had decided it would be more fun for everyone - adults, kids - if several families' worth of parents brought all the kids around trick-or-treating. There were times when several families in our last neighborhood did that when my kids were young enough to go out collecting candy. Parents would catch up for a good hour or two in the relaxed way that most of us usually didn't have time for in our hurried lives while our kids had a blast.
As a few more parents wandered into the neighbors' house, as their kids played in the front yard. It was kind-of a peaceful thing, waiting on the porch to see who'd show up, seeing the kids running around the yard across the street as they shrieked in anticipation of Halloween! and all it entails.
Slowly, the sky above their house changed color. There was one brilliantly deep-but-bright blue streak showing behind the branches of the huge oak in their yard; between the blue and the horizon were several shades of orange and red, ranging from pastel orange, through a shade best described as that of a Creamsicle, through red-orange on to deep red. Soon, the colors shifted so that the sky almost looked bruised. That streak of brilliant blue remained until just before the families across the street headed out at dark.
The first place the group headed was directly across the street to see what goodies I was passing out.
"Hey, Robin," our neighbor, H.G., said. "How's it going?"
"Okay," I told her. "How about you?"
"Not bad," she smiled.
The group wandered off, heading south, no doubt hitting up other houses throughout the neighborhood.
Later, the lady next door called over. She, too, was out on her porch, passing out candy. "Any idea what's going on at the park?" R. asked. The back entrance to one of the city's larger parks is only a few houses away from us. It's close enough that it takes me all of a minute to get there. We could see the lights on at the park. While the city's website had mentioned a family-style Halloween gathering at a large field near the city's main fire station, replete with candy for the kids, I'd seen nothing about anything going on at our neighborhood park.
For the next couple of hours, R. and I passed out candy, getting a kick out of different groups of trick-or-treaters, commenting back and forth between bursts of vampires and princesses.
At one point, my son M. mentioned that someone had called but he hadn't gotten to the phone in time. After dialing voicemail, I listened as an automated voice reminded me of my doctor's appointment on Monday. It was funny in that 1) the doctor's office had called around noon to reschedule the appointment to next month, and 2) it was probably 8:00 p.m. while I was outside, passing out Halloween candy. Definitely one of those That's the crazy part of automation for you moments. Then, not five minutes later, the phone rang again. It was a fund-raiser, seeing if I'd donate to..."Nope, not now," I told the fund-raiser.
"But it's for a good cause!" he told me.
"Put me on your Do Not Call list," I said, then hung up as another group came up the sidewalk.
Finally, candy gone, R. called out her good-night and I called back. I watched as the group across the street wandered home. And finally, I wandered in, turning off the front porch light.
This morning, I noticed that H.G. had posted pictures of the kids trading candy on the living room floor. The years my kids did that - "I'll trade you all my Snickers for you Now-And-Laters!" "Okay!" - were years ago. And my sister and brother and me doing that are but a dream.
But as long as there are kids who love candy and dressing up, and parents willing to take their kids around, and neighbors willing to see what kind of cool costumes the kids are wearing while passing out candy, Halloween will remain part of our culture.
I'll still think of it as the beginning of the holiday season.
October had been one of my favorite months since forever for a variety of reasons: it is the first full fall month; my birthday is in October, as are my granddaughter's and my youngest niece's; Halloween is in October, which with its passing kicks the holiday season into gear; the weather cools, the days shorten. What's not to like? And yet, it's the same month when my late husband, Paul, died. So the ambivalence is understandable.
Last night, I sat on the front porch, waiting for trick-or-treaters. The first couple of kids showed up shortly after we'd finished dinner. After handing a couple of candy bars, I grabbed the bowl of candy and headed for the porch.
It took a little while for more kids to arrive. While I waited, I watched the kids playing across the street. Apparently, a bunch of parents had decided it would be more fun for everyone - adults, kids - if several families' worth of parents brought all the kids around trick-or-treating. There were times when several families in our last neighborhood did that when my kids were young enough to go out collecting candy. Parents would catch up for a good hour or two in the relaxed way that most of us usually didn't have time for in our hurried lives while our kids had a blast.
As a few more parents wandered into the neighbors' house, as their kids played in the front yard. It was kind-of a peaceful thing, waiting on the porch to see who'd show up, seeing the kids running around the yard across the street as they shrieked in anticipation of Halloween! and all it entails.
Slowly, the sky above their house changed color. There was one brilliantly deep-but-bright blue streak showing behind the branches of the huge oak in their yard; between the blue and the horizon were several shades of orange and red, ranging from pastel orange, through a shade best described as that of a Creamsicle, through red-orange on to deep red. Soon, the colors shifted so that the sky almost looked bruised. That streak of brilliant blue remained until just before the families across the street headed out at dark.
The first place the group headed was directly across the street to see what goodies I was passing out.
"Hey, Robin," our neighbor, H.G., said. "How's it going?"
"Okay," I told her. "How about you?"
"Not bad," she smiled.
The group wandered off, heading south, no doubt hitting up other houses throughout the neighborhood.
Later, the lady next door called over. She, too, was out on her porch, passing out candy. "Any idea what's going on at the park?" R. asked. The back entrance to one of the city's larger parks is only a few houses away from us. It's close enough that it takes me all of a minute to get there. We could see the lights on at the park. While the city's website had mentioned a family-style Halloween gathering at a large field near the city's main fire station, replete with candy for the kids, I'd seen nothing about anything going on at our neighborhood park.
For the next couple of hours, R. and I passed out candy, getting a kick out of different groups of trick-or-treaters, commenting back and forth between bursts of vampires and princesses.
At one point, my son M. mentioned that someone had called but he hadn't gotten to the phone in time. After dialing voicemail, I listened as an automated voice reminded me of my doctor's appointment on Monday. It was funny in that 1) the doctor's office had called around noon to reschedule the appointment to next month, and 2) it was probably 8:00 p.m. while I was outside, passing out Halloween candy. Definitely one of those That's the crazy part of automation for you moments. Then, not five minutes later, the phone rang again. It was a fund-raiser, seeing if I'd donate to..."Nope, not now," I told the fund-raiser.
"But it's for a good cause!" he told me.
"Put me on your Do Not Call list," I said, then hung up as another group came up the sidewalk.
Finally, candy gone, R. called out her good-night and I called back. I watched as the group across the street wandered home. And finally, I wandered in, turning off the front porch light.
This morning, I noticed that H.G. had posted pictures of the kids trading candy on the living room floor. The years my kids did that - "I'll trade you all my Snickers for you Now-And-Laters!" "Okay!" - were years ago. And my sister and brother and me doing that are but a dream.
But as long as there are kids who love candy and dressing up, and parents willing to take their kids around, and neighbors willing to see what kind of cool costumes the kids are wearing while passing out candy, Halloween will remain part of our culture.
I'll still think of it as the beginning of the holiday season.
Friday, October 25, 2013
Karma and Drexie Calabash
My two cats have been acting a little crazy the past few weeks. Whether it's from the shortening days, the weather, just feeling extra good, or the fact that they're cats (or all of the above) is anyone's guess. But they've been going through periods throughout the day when I swear the two of them are banking off the walls. As hard as they've been playing, it's kind-of amazing they haven't gone through the walls, especially Karma.
Karma Kitty is a black male cat, replete with cattitude. He has a habit of getting on the arm of the couch and straddling it, the way a panther would straddle a large branch. From there, it's relatively easy for our miniature panther to survey his domain, take a nap, pounce on unsuspecting people (or his sister) or take a swipe at bare arms. He had topped out at twelve pounds and change, but after being put on a special diet the end of last year, he's dropped down to ten. It's all muscle, though. He's also, without a doubt, the smartest cat I've ever known, as well as the coolest. Think Einstein/jazz musician/male model/snuggle bug rolled up in one. (Okay, that might be over the top, but you get the idea.)
Drexie, on the other hand, is a delicate six-pounder, a loveable ditz whose taste for exploration (as well as occasionally whooping up on Karma) is so ingrained in her personality (cat-ality?) that, had she been human, would have landed her in the history books.
It was this tendency toward exploration that got her into trouble this afternoon. Actually, it got her stuck in the dryer.
Normally, if I'm doing laundry, I'll check to see where Karm and Drex are before starting the washer or dryer, since they've been known to try climbing into the machines when the doors are open. Doesn't matter if they're full of laundry or not.
Drexie is worse at this than Karm is. She's also been known to duck into the pots-and-pans cupboard, then get into the silverware drawer. This takes a little doing, but entails climbing on a shelf near the back of the storage area, then climb into the back of the silverware drawer, flattening her tiny self into the small space, then putting her front paws into the silverware trays.
The first time she did this, it was a total surprise. I had fixed myself a cup of tea and wanted to get a spoon to stir it with. Opening the drawer, I discovered I could only pull it out so far before I got swatted by a white paw on the end of a tabby leg. Hmmm... I thought. Either I'd better do a better job of washing the furry silverware, or there's a certain cat in there. I had to take the trays out before I could get Drexie out. And yes, the silverware got rewashed.
I've since secured the cupboards under the sink so that a certain explorer can't get back in there.
Getting back to the dryer...I'd taken the laundry out, stuck it into a basket, and turned my back on the dryer for all of maybe thirty seconds, if that. Then I shut the machine.
About half-an-hour later, Karma was sitting in front of the dryer when I went to put a last load in. He kept chatting at me, then looking at the dryer.
"What is it, Karm?" I asked. He kept meowing, then looking back at the dryer. He's smart, but has yet to move beyond meowing, which does occasionally make communication a little dicey.
Then I heard a very faint mew. Karma was sitting there, staring at me like he was thinking, Well...? I opened the back door, but there was no cat in sight. Again, the faint mew, at which point, Karma swatted my leg, then patted the dryer door. (Did I mention he's smart? He's just not subtle.)
When I didn't respond immediately, there was another faint mew and Karma smacked my leg harder, then touched the front of the dryer, before running off.
At that point, I opened the dryer and out walked Drexie, who gave me a look like, It's about time!
Guess I'll have to make sure I know where the little wench is at all times. Guess I'll also have to listen to Karma, too.
Karma Kitty is a black male cat, replete with cattitude. He has a habit of getting on the arm of the couch and straddling it, the way a panther would straddle a large branch. From there, it's relatively easy for our miniature panther to survey his domain, take a nap, pounce on unsuspecting people (or his sister) or take a swipe at bare arms. He had topped out at twelve pounds and change, but after being put on a special diet the end of last year, he's dropped down to ten. It's all muscle, though. He's also, without a doubt, the smartest cat I've ever known, as well as the coolest. Think Einstein/jazz musician/male model/snuggle bug rolled up in one. (Okay, that might be over the top, but you get the idea.)
Drexie, on the other hand, is a delicate six-pounder, a loveable ditz whose taste for exploration (as well as occasionally whooping up on Karma) is so ingrained in her personality (cat-ality?) that, had she been human, would have landed her in the history books.
It was this tendency toward exploration that got her into trouble this afternoon. Actually, it got her stuck in the dryer.
Normally, if I'm doing laundry, I'll check to see where Karm and Drex are before starting the washer or dryer, since they've been known to try climbing into the machines when the doors are open. Doesn't matter if they're full of laundry or not.
Drexie is worse at this than Karm is. She's also been known to duck into the pots-and-pans cupboard, then get into the silverware drawer. This takes a little doing, but entails climbing on a shelf near the back of the storage area, then climb into the back of the silverware drawer, flattening her tiny self into the small space, then putting her front paws into the silverware trays.
The first time she did this, it was a total surprise. I had fixed myself a cup of tea and wanted to get a spoon to stir it with. Opening the drawer, I discovered I could only pull it out so far before I got swatted by a white paw on the end of a tabby leg. Hmmm... I thought. Either I'd better do a better job of washing the furry silverware, or there's a certain cat in there. I had to take the trays out before I could get Drexie out. And yes, the silverware got rewashed.
I've since secured the cupboards under the sink so that a certain explorer can't get back in there.
Getting back to the dryer...I'd taken the laundry out, stuck it into a basket, and turned my back on the dryer for all of maybe thirty seconds, if that. Then I shut the machine.
About half-an-hour later, Karma was sitting in front of the dryer when I went to put a last load in. He kept chatting at me, then looking at the dryer.
"What is it, Karm?" I asked. He kept meowing, then looking back at the dryer. He's smart, but has yet to move beyond meowing, which does occasionally make communication a little dicey.
Then I heard a very faint mew. Karma was sitting there, staring at me like he was thinking, Well...? I opened the back door, but there was no cat in sight. Again, the faint mew, at which point, Karma swatted my leg, then patted the dryer door. (Did I mention he's smart? He's just not subtle.)
When I didn't respond immediately, there was another faint mew and Karma smacked my leg harder, then touched the front of the dryer, before running off.
At that point, I opened the dryer and out walked Drexie, who gave me a look like, It's about time!
Guess I'll have to make sure I know where the little wench is at all times. Guess I'll also have to listen to Karma, too.
Wednesday, October 16, 2013
Shutting Down the Shut-Down...
Finally, we can breathe a sigh of relief. The country has avoided going over the fiscal cliff. Of course, this has come after the U.S. has gone through a major shut-down.
I'm not sure how everyone else felt, watching the possible cliff zoom closer and closer, but I alternated between being furious with the Republicans, a feeling a sheer hopelessness, and wanting to head for Canada.
Okay, so I wasn't pissed off at all of the Republicans. There are plenty of them - most Republicans I personally know - who are, for the most part rational, centrist sort-of people who, when push comes to shove, can sit and have a decent talk about life and politics without going into hysterics. Most, like most of my left-wing friends (and yes, I'm a left-wing Democrat), will admit that if we don't agree on politics, then fine, as long as we both agree to let each live his or her own life without berating the other or kicking each other's dog or cat. It's just certain members of Congress (the non-Democrat ones), the ones who are so far to the right that they make Rush Limbaugh seem liberal enough to be the head of the Barack Obama/Nancy Pelosi fan club, liberal enough to have cried when Abbie Hoffman died. Speaker John Boehner definitely heads up my list of people who make me see red and want to change my last name to Spitfire.
Why? you ask.
The government shut-down!
Okay, I know, Boehner is upset about the Affordable Care Act, otherwise known as Obamacare. Fine. Be upset about it. Some Americans are. There are a few points about it that I'm not wild about, but then, as with most things voted and signed into existence, there's bound to be some fine-tuning along the way. I personally know several people who are irate about Obamacare and who liken it to socialized medicine, replete with "death panals."
Note: Obamacare isn't the first program that detractors claimed would end democracy as we know it. When Social Security and Medicare were first implemented (the first by FDR, the second by LBJ), both were considered dangerous: "...[O]ne program would end freedom in American, and...another was akin to socialism."
But getting back to Boehner, Congress, and the shut-down...Several days ago, while watching the national news, the shut-down and possible fiscal cliff were mentioned; hey, it was big news and on everyone's minds, right? But when even John McCain was shown telling Congress that they needed to end the shut-down and avoid the fiscal cliff, you'd think Boehner would listen. But noooo... Of course, when a shut-down has been planned, with rich backers, it gets even dicier. Then, there's the fact if the shut-down wasn't resolved by October 17, the U.S. would go over a fiscal cliff for the first time in its history. What does that mean? Well, for one thing it's entirely possible that those on Social Security - including disabled Americans on SSDI - may not get their checks in November.
No way? you say?
While not too many news sources were flat-out saying it, several were hinting around that it was a distinct possibility. Can you imagine trying to get by on Social Security to pay all your bills and having to worry about not getting that money because some millionaires in Washington are arguing about healthcare?
While we're at it, the federal government is holding billions to help expand Medicaid as part of the ACA...if only Florida Governor Rick Scott and the Florida legislature would take it. Mind you, we're talking about a bunch of legislators who pay $8.34 a month for their health insurance, or, if they include their families, $30 a month. But God forbid they allow Florida's families who fall under 133% of the poverty level to get Medicaid.
But getting back to the feds: Friday, I was on Facebook, trying to forget about the possibility of the fiscal cliff, when wouldn't you know, someone posted John Boehner's Washington phone and fax numbers.
"Where's the phone?" I asked J. He gave me a look that indicated he knew that tone of voice and was glad he wasn't the one I was pissed off at.
"It's somewhere on the table," he said. Then, looking over, he picked it up and handed it to me. "Who are you going to call?"
"John Boehner's office," I said, pointing to the number on the computer screen. J. looked over, rolled his eyes, smirked a little, and went back to working on the other computer. He knows better than to get in my way when I'm in war-path mode.
Long story short, I waited on hold for a long time...a very long time. During the first half hour, I must have heard the recording of Boehner maybe a dozen times. I listend as the recording said that if I want to hear about this issue, press one, that issue, press two...if I want to leave a message, press five or six, or, to talk with one of his representatives, simply wait. During the waiting period, I listened to a selection of patriotic music: the national anthem, When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again, and several others. After an hour, it became a matter of principle; I'm going to talk to that representative and have my say! But by the time I'd waited an hour-and-a-half, J. glanced over and asked, "You're really still holding?"
"Yeah," I said. "I keep getting a recording that says I can leave a message on Boehner's voice mail or keep holding for a representative."
J.'s jaw dropped. "You could've left a message? Mom, what if, because of all the furloughed workers, there is no representative?"
That thought had started to wander around my mind...Finally, after an hour-and-forty-five-minutes on hold, I left a message. I started with my name, spelled it out, gave my phone number, then mentioned that if the U.S. went over the fiscal cliff, there would be many Americans who rely on Social Security (including disability) who might very well become homeless, not to mention the thousands of furloughed workers, etc. "You guys voted the ACA into law, the president signed it, and now a bunch of rich people in DC are going to totally screw the economy because you're p.o.ed that the people who elected you want health care like you have?"
About this time, a recording told me I had maybe fifteen seconds to wrap it up. I did, without resorting to any foul language, which, as angry as I was, is a minor miracle.
Then, at the last minute, the senate and congress started voting to reopen the government, keeping us - at least temporarily - from falling off the cliff. While that may have been predictable - the whole last minute vote - it still did a number on many of the people I spoke with and saw posting on social media over the past week or two.
I have no doubt that many of the same people will remember this at election time. We remembered 17 years ago when Congress did this during Clinton's time in office.
Here's hoping that the next time, we get people who understand empathy.
For a brief bio of Arthur Joseph Altmeyer, aka "Mr. Social Security," click here. For a very brief historical Q&A on Social Security, click here.
The information from the note was taken from October 1's NBC News/business.
I'm not sure how everyone else felt, watching the possible cliff zoom closer and closer, but I alternated between being furious with the Republicans, a feeling a sheer hopelessness, and wanting to head for Canada.
Okay, so I wasn't pissed off at all of the Republicans. There are plenty of them - most Republicans I personally know - who are, for the most part rational, centrist sort-of people who, when push comes to shove, can sit and have a decent talk about life and politics without going into hysterics. Most, like most of my left-wing friends (and yes, I'm a left-wing Democrat), will admit that if we don't agree on politics, then fine, as long as we both agree to let each live his or her own life without berating the other or kicking each other's dog or cat. It's just certain members of Congress (the non-Democrat ones), the ones who are so far to the right that they make Rush Limbaugh seem liberal enough to be the head of the Barack Obama/Nancy Pelosi fan club, liberal enough to have cried when Abbie Hoffman died. Speaker John Boehner definitely heads up my list of people who make me see red and want to change my last name to Spitfire.
Why? you ask.
The government shut-down!
Okay, I know, Boehner is upset about the Affordable Care Act, otherwise known as Obamacare. Fine. Be upset about it. Some Americans are. There are a few points about it that I'm not wild about, but then, as with most things voted and signed into existence, there's bound to be some fine-tuning along the way. I personally know several people who are irate about Obamacare and who liken it to socialized medicine, replete with "death panals."
Note: Obamacare isn't the first program that detractors claimed would end democracy as we know it. When Social Security and Medicare were first implemented (the first by FDR, the second by LBJ), both were considered dangerous: "...[O]ne program would end freedom in American, and...another was akin to socialism."
But getting back to Boehner, Congress, and the shut-down...Several days ago, while watching the national news, the shut-down and possible fiscal cliff were mentioned; hey, it was big news and on everyone's minds, right? But when even John McCain was shown telling Congress that they needed to end the shut-down and avoid the fiscal cliff, you'd think Boehner would listen. But noooo... Of course, when a shut-down has been planned, with rich backers, it gets even dicier. Then, there's the fact if the shut-down wasn't resolved by October 17, the U.S. would go over a fiscal cliff for the first time in its history. What does that mean? Well, for one thing it's entirely possible that those on Social Security - including disabled Americans on SSDI - may not get their checks in November.
No way? you say?
While not too many news sources were flat-out saying it, several were hinting around that it was a distinct possibility. Can you imagine trying to get by on Social Security to pay all your bills and having to worry about not getting that money because some millionaires in Washington are arguing about healthcare?
While we're at it, the federal government is holding billions to help expand Medicaid as part of the ACA...if only Florida Governor Rick Scott and the Florida legislature would take it. Mind you, we're talking about a bunch of legislators who pay $8.34 a month for their health insurance, or, if they include their families, $30 a month. But God forbid they allow Florida's families who fall under 133% of the poverty level to get Medicaid.
But getting back to the feds: Friday, I was on Facebook, trying to forget about the possibility of the fiscal cliff, when wouldn't you know, someone posted John Boehner's Washington phone and fax numbers.
"Where's the phone?" I asked J. He gave me a look that indicated he knew that tone of voice and was glad he wasn't the one I was pissed off at.
"It's somewhere on the table," he said. Then, looking over, he picked it up and handed it to me. "Who are you going to call?"
"John Boehner's office," I said, pointing to the number on the computer screen. J. looked over, rolled his eyes, smirked a little, and went back to working on the other computer. He knows better than to get in my way when I'm in war-path mode.
Long story short, I waited on hold for a long time...a very long time. During the first half hour, I must have heard the recording of Boehner maybe a dozen times. I listend as the recording said that if I want to hear about this issue, press one, that issue, press two...if I want to leave a message, press five or six, or, to talk with one of his representatives, simply wait. During the waiting period, I listened to a selection of patriotic music: the national anthem, When Johnny Comes Marching Home Again, and several others. After an hour, it became a matter of principle; I'm going to talk to that representative and have my say! But by the time I'd waited an hour-and-a-half, J. glanced over and asked, "You're really still holding?"
"Yeah," I said. "I keep getting a recording that says I can leave a message on Boehner's voice mail or keep holding for a representative."
J.'s jaw dropped. "You could've left a message? Mom, what if, because of all the furloughed workers, there is no representative?"
That thought had started to wander around my mind...Finally, after an hour-and-forty-five-minutes on hold, I left a message. I started with my name, spelled it out, gave my phone number, then mentioned that if the U.S. went over the fiscal cliff, there would be many Americans who rely on Social Security (including disability) who might very well become homeless, not to mention the thousands of furloughed workers, etc. "You guys voted the ACA into law, the president signed it, and now a bunch of rich people in DC are going to totally screw the economy because you're p.o.ed that the people who elected you want health care like you have?"
About this time, a recording told me I had maybe fifteen seconds to wrap it up. I did, without resorting to any foul language, which, as angry as I was, is a minor miracle.
Then, at the last minute, the senate and congress started voting to reopen the government, keeping us - at least temporarily - from falling off the cliff. While that may have been predictable - the whole last minute vote - it still did a number on many of the people I spoke with and saw posting on social media over the past week or two.
I have no doubt that many of the same people will remember this at election time. We remembered 17 years ago when Congress did this during Clinton's time in office.
Here's hoping that the next time, we get people who understand empathy.
For a brief bio of Arthur Joseph Altmeyer, aka "Mr. Social Security," click here. For a very brief historical Q&A on Social Security, click here.
The information from the note was taken from October 1's NBC News/business.
Thursday, October 10, 2013
Hello, Phone Company, Can You Fix My Phone? Yes, It's The One I'm Calling From...
There are days when things just don't go exactly the way we plan 'em. How does the joke go? How do you make God laugh? Tell Him/Her your plans. I had a day like that recently.
Because I was the only one home and awake after my three-hour online shift yesterday morning, I pretty much had the day to myself, and figured I'd spend the time working on my Master's thesis. I was moving along nicely when the phone rang. We have the phone set up so that the voicemail kicks in after four or five rings--enough time to let the Caller ID show who's calling, allow us to answer (if we're available and want to answer), while letting the caller leave a message without having it ring a zillion times first.
But this time, the phone only rang once; since it has to ring twice before the Caller ID spits out the number, there was no way of knowing (beyond hitting *69, which adds to the bill) who had called. I'd noticed that the phone had been ringing only once or twice a lot the previous day or two. Sometimes, whoever called would leave a message, so I knew they weren't crank calls. After this particular call, though, one of the phone jacks made several weird clicking noises, like it was trying to decide whether to ring, hang up, or croak.
Weird, I thought, before going back to work. But then, a few minutes later, when I went to use the portable phone, it showed that line was in use. What? How is that possible? I'd never even picked up the phone! So I hit the on button and listened to a ton of static, as well as that weird screeching noise that lets you know you've left your phone off the hook.
Note: For anyone of a certain age, say, under 35 or so, and is into the cool catch-phrases of the past ten years or so, no, I'm not trying to sound cool by using the phrase off the hook. There really was a time when the phrase meant that someone had forgotten to hang-up their phone at the end of a call. These people were oh, so not cool.
We still had cable TV and the internet, and our bill was current, so that wasn't the problem. I went around to each phone in the house--the two portables, the two actual landlines--and made sure that the two cats hadn't knocked the handsets off the phones. I also checked to make sure that the phones were actually plugged into the wall jacks. There was still that static, screeching, and no dial tone. So, I went online to correct the problem...or so I thought. After getting to the proper carrier's website, I went through all their systems' checks, then tried to contact someone using the internet, only to receive the message that We're sorry, but we're not sure how to help out beyond telling you to call us at 1-800... Yeah, like if I could do that, there wouldn't be a problem...Of course, my cell phone was down at the moment, so that didn't help.
Finally, I got a bright idea. Grabbing a couple of screwdrivers, I headed out to the outside phone box, opened it up where it said Customer Access, and opened the box up. There were two places to plug in a phone. I tried using our desk phone, a funky-looking thing I'd bought at an antique store a few years back. Of course, it's a rotary phone, which was incompatible with the prompts the automated system gave me. ("Are you calling about 727-...-....? If yes, press one, if no, press two...") No amount of waiting would convince the prompt to connect me with a real human being.
Bringing the antique phone back inside, I ended up having to use the portable phone, which meant taking the phone's charger, plugging one cord into an indoor wall socket, and the phone line cord into the outside box. (Yes, it was a pain...) Now, I was in business...
When I finally got through to a live human, there seemed to be a language problem. The man with customer service had no discernible accent, and seemed to be able to understand and respond to simple questions, such as names and phone numbers.
But then things got weird. "What number are you calling about? Okay, what seems to be the problem?" I said that the inside phone lines weren't working. "So how are you calling?" he asked.
"I had to plug the phone into the outside box."
"What?" he asked, sounding astonished. "Did you have to climb the power pole to get to the phone lines?"
"Um, no, there's a box on the side of the house that takes the phone lines from the underground fios line into the house?"
"Why would it be there?"
The conversation went down hill from there. But finally, after ascertaining that the phone I was on actually works, he told me to take the phone and the base, plug them into one of the indoor jacks while he ran a diagnostic test on the line. "I'll call you back in five minutes."
After plugging the phone into the indoor jack, I could tell that the indoor line still wasn't working. Static, screeching...
Back outside, I got the phone plugged back in maybe thirty seconds before the guy called back. "Great!" he exclaimed. "We have it working!"
"No, we don't," I answered.
"What do you mean?" He sounded completely confused. "I'm talking to you on the phone."
"I'm back outside."
He then offered to call me on my cell phone. "That's out of minutes," I explained.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's a prepaid phone, and once you get below a dollar on it, especially when you haven't used it that day, you can't get or receive calls."
"But I'll be able to call you on it. You'll be inside your house then," he said, a hint of Oh, these silly people with their ridiculous ideas in his voice.
"Okay, you've got my cell phone number on file, right?"
"Yes, I'm calling now." He put me on hold, and as I waited, seriously wondered two things: Where the phone company had gotten this winner from, and how long this charade would go on. Finally, he came back. "The phone doesn't seem to be accepting calls."
"See?" I said, feeling a little bit vindicated.
After several more twists and turns in the conversation, he finally decided it would be best if he sent a technician out the next morning.
That actually helped...The problem is solved. Wouldn't be so aggravating if the company hadn't had someone call me less than ten minutes after the technician left to see if I'd like to upgrade my services for a mere $10 a month! I thanked them, and said No.
If they really want to upgrade, how about a person - born here or not, it really doesn't matter - who actually listens and understands the language...
Because I was the only one home and awake after my three-hour online shift yesterday morning, I pretty much had the day to myself, and figured I'd spend the time working on my Master's thesis. I was moving along nicely when the phone rang. We have the phone set up so that the voicemail kicks in after four or five rings--enough time to let the Caller ID show who's calling, allow us to answer (if we're available and want to answer), while letting the caller leave a message without having it ring a zillion times first.
But this time, the phone only rang once; since it has to ring twice before the Caller ID spits out the number, there was no way of knowing (beyond hitting *69, which adds to the bill) who had called. I'd noticed that the phone had been ringing only once or twice a lot the previous day or two. Sometimes, whoever called would leave a message, so I knew they weren't crank calls. After this particular call, though, one of the phone jacks made several weird clicking noises, like it was trying to decide whether to ring, hang up, or croak.
Weird, I thought, before going back to work. But then, a few minutes later, when I went to use the portable phone, it showed that line was in use. What? How is that possible? I'd never even picked up the phone! So I hit the on button and listened to a ton of static, as well as that weird screeching noise that lets you know you've left your phone off the hook.
Note: For anyone of a certain age, say, under 35 or so, and is into the cool catch-phrases of the past ten years or so, no, I'm not trying to sound cool by using the phrase off the hook. There really was a time when the phrase meant that someone had forgotten to hang-up their phone at the end of a call. These people were oh, so not cool.
We still had cable TV and the internet, and our bill was current, so that wasn't the problem. I went around to each phone in the house--the two portables, the two actual landlines--and made sure that the two cats hadn't knocked the handsets off the phones. I also checked to make sure that the phones were actually plugged into the wall jacks. There was still that static, screeching, and no dial tone. So, I went online to correct the problem...or so I thought. After getting to the proper carrier's website, I went through all their systems' checks, then tried to contact someone using the internet, only to receive the message that We're sorry, but we're not sure how to help out beyond telling you to call us at 1-800... Yeah, like if I could do that, there wouldn't be a problem...Of course, my cell phone was down at the moment, so that didn't help.
Finally, I got a bright idea. Grabbing a couple of screwdrivers, I headed out to the outside phone box, opened it up where it said Customer Access, and opened the box up. There were two places to plug in a phone. I tried using our desk phone, a funky-looking thing I'd bought at an antique store a few years back. Of course, it's a rotary phone, which was incompatible with the prompts the automated system gave me. ("Are you calling about 727-...-....? If yes, press one, if no, press two...") No amount of waiting would convince the prompt to connect me with a real human being.
Bringing the antique phone back inside, I ended up having to use the portable phone, which meant taking the phone's charger, plugging one cord into an indoor wall socket, and the phone line cord into the outside box. (Yes, it was a pain...) Now, I was in business...
When I finally got through to a live human, there seemed to be a language problem. The man with customer service had no discernible accent, and seemed to be able to understand and respond to simple questions, such as names and phone numbers.
But then things got weird. "What number are you calling about? Okay, what seems to be the problem?" I said that the inside phone lines weren't working. "So how are you calling?" he asked.
"I had to plug the phone into the outside box."
"What?" he asked, sounding astonished. "Did you have to climb the power pole to get to the phone lines?"
"Um, no, there's a box on the side of the house that takes the phone lines from the underground fios line into the house?"
"Why would it be there?"
The conversation went down hill from there. But finally, after ascertaining that the phone I was on actually works, he told me to take the phone and the base, plug them into one of the indoor jacks while he ran a diagnostic test on the line. "I'll call you back in five minutes."
After plugging the phone into the indoor jack, I could tell that the indoor line still wasn't working. Static, screeching...
Back outside, I got the phone plugged back in maybe thirty seconds before the guy called back. "Great!" he exclaimed. "We have it working!"
"No, we don't," I answered.
"What do you mean?" He sounded completely confused. "I'm talking to you on the phone."
"I'm back outside."
He then offered to call me on my cell phone. "That's out of minutes," I explained.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's a prepaid phone, and once you get below a dollar on it, especially when you haven't used it that day, you can't get or receive calls."
"But I'll be able to call you on it. You'll be inside your house then," he said, a hint of Oh, these silly people with their ridiculous ideas in his voice.
"Okay, you've got my cell phone number on file, right?"
"Yes, I'm calling now." He put me on hold, and as I waited, seriously wondered two things: Where the phone company had gotten this winner from, and how long this charade would go on. Finally, he came back. "The phone doesn't seem to be accepting calls."
"See?" I said, feeling a little bit vindicated.
After several more twists and turns in the conversation, he finally decided it would be best if he sent a technician out the next morning.
That actually helped...The problem is solved. Wouldn't be so aggravating if the company hadn't had someone call me less than ten minutes after the technician left to see if I'd like to upgrade my services for a mere $10 a month! I thanked them, and said No.
If they really want to upgrade, how about a person - born here or not, it really doesn't matter - who actually listens and understands the language...
Saturday, September 21, 2013
Autumn...And October...
Fall has always been my favorite season. I'm not really sure why. Spring is nice enough, with the snow in the northern states finally starting to melt, and things are starting to bloom. Even in Florida, the air starts to feel a little nicer, and there really are things blooming then.
Summer is great, too, what with summer vacation, swimming, the 4th of July, at least in the U.S. No doubt other countries have summer holidays, too, or, at the very least, decent weather and summery fun and foods. Almost every 4th of July, I fix homemade ice cream. It's a tradition that my dad started when my brother Greg, sister Amy and I were kids. Each one of us would take turns cranking the darn thing to get ice cream; fortunately, the new ones are electric, which makes things a lot easier.
Winter is nice, too, especially in the northern parts of the U.S. I used to look forward to snow, with the fun of sliding, tobogganing, skiing, and ice skating - though I never quite got the hang of ice skating. Probably has something to do with having weak ankles. When the winter olympics are on, I love watching the figure skaters; the leaps, twirls, the "graceful dancing on ice," (that was how my late husband described it), and I can hardly stand on those blades. So I sit and watch in awe at the figure skaters - me and my weak ankles. (Skiing was always interesting, and I did manage to learn how to fall without getting too badly hurt, but that's a whole 'nother story.) There's also the whole winter food thing; stews and hot cocoa can't be beat - though not necessarily at the same time.
Fall, though, has always been my favorite season. Up north, school would start back the day after Labor Day (the first Monday in September, here in the U.S.). Here in Florida, school starts a week or two earlier, but no mind; it's still close enough to fall. The weather starts to change; the air cools somewhat, even in Florida. (Florida does get maybe a couple of degrees cooler, and the air gets dryer, which definitely helps.) Smells change, leaves start changing color, days get shorter, food shifts from cool summer salads to an occasional stew...
I always thought of October as my favorite month in fall. It was a no-brainer: it's the first full month of fall, the days are really getting shorter, the weather a little brisker without being cold, my birthday is in October, as are two other family members, and the end of the month is Halloween. Of course, the proliferation of pumpkins (and, therefore, pumpkin pies, breads, and all sorts of yummy recipes) showing up in stores and farmers' markets is not a bad thing. But with Halloween, jack-o'-lanterns, trick-or-treaters, and candy, not to mention the beginning of the holiday season...Yup, love October. (Did I mention my birthday?)
The past few years, though, October has been a little rough. True, I've always felt myself contemplating the whole end-of-the-year,-I-love-fall,-but-still mood that seems to accompany it. But the past few years have been a little more intense. Seven years ago, my husband died. It was one of those deaths that, had things been a little different, could have been avoided at that time. I won't go into the hows and whys; there's already a blog out there about it. And while most of the year I can pretty much get on with my life, October kind-of brings back the memories. Right between my birthday (when he handed me a huge bouquet of flowers and a card) and Halloween is the anniversary of his death. He always loved watching the parade of kids coming up the driveway to yell Trick or Treat! We'd talk about the costumes afterward, the way this child marched up for candy but got scared at the last second, or how that child asked for an extra piece for a brother or sister in the stroller next to Mom and Dad.
I'll get through October, and, for the most part, be perfectly fine. I still love the month, for the most part. But if you happen to run into me around the 24th, and I seem a little quieter than usual, don't worry...things'll be back to normal on the 25th. Then, watch out...I've got tons of candy to buy for those ghouls, vampires, Spiderman, and whoever else the kids decide to be. Anyone got a scary hat I can wear while passing out the treats?
Summer is great, too, what with summer vacation, swimming, the 4th of July, at least in the U.S. No doubt other countries have summer holidays, too, or, at the very least, decent weather and summery fun and foods. Almost every 4th of July, I fix homemade ice cream. It's a tradition that my dad started when my brother Greg, sister Amy and I were kids. Each one of us would take turns cranking the darn thing to get ice cream; fortunately, the new ones are electric, which makes things a lot easier.
Winter is nice, too, especially in the northern parts of the U.S. I used to look forward to snow, with the fun of sliding, tobogganing, skiing, and ice skating - though I never quite got the hang of ice skating. Probably has something to do with having weak ankles. When the winter olympics are on, I love watching the figure skaters; the leaps, twirls, the "graceful dancing on ice," (that was how my late husband described it), and I can hardly stand on those blades. So I sit and watch in awe at the figure skaters - me and my weak ankles. (Skiing was always interesting, and I did manage to learn how to fall without getting too badly hurt, but that's a whole 'nother story.) There's also the whole winter food thing; stews and hot cocoa can't be beat - though not necessarily at the same time.
Fall, though, has always been my favorite season. Up north, school would start back the day after Labor Day (the first Monday in September, here in the U.S.). Here in Florida, school starts a week or two earlier, but no mind; it's still close enough to fall. The weather starts to change; the air cools somewhat, even in Florida. (Florida does get maybe a couple of degrees cooler, and the air gets dryer, which definitely helps.) Smells change, leaves start changing color, days get shorter, food shifts from cool summer salads to an occasional stew...
I always thought of October as my favorite month in fall. It was a no-brainer: it's the first full month of fall, the days are really getting shorter, the weather a little brisker without being cold, my birthday is in October, as are two other family members, and the end of the month is Halloween. Of course, the proliferation of pumpkins (and, therefore, pumpkin pies, breads, and all sorts of yummy recipes) showing up in stores and farmers' markets is not a bad thing. But with Halloween, jack-o'-lanterns, trick-or-treaters, and candy, not to mention the beginning of the holiday season...Yup, love October. (Did I mention my birthday?)
The past few years, though, October has been a little rough. True, I've always felt myself contemplating the whole end-of-the-year,-I-love-fall,-but-still mood that seems to accompany it. But the past few years have been a little more intense. Seven years ago, my husband died. It was one of those deaths that, had things been a little different, could have been avoided at that time. I won't go into the hows and whys; there's already a blog out there about it. And while most of the year I can pretty much get on with my life, October kind-of brings back the memories. Right between my birthday (when he handed me a huge bouquet of flowers and a card) and Halloween is the anniversary of his death. He always loved watching the parade of kids coming up the driveway to yell Trick or Treat! We'd talk about the costumes afterward, the way this child marched up for candy but got scared at the last second, or how that child asked for an extra piece for a brother or sister in the stroller next to Mom and Dad.
I'll get through October, and, for the most part, be perfectly fine. I still love the month, for the most part. But if you happen to run into me around the 24th, and I seem a little quieter than usual, don't worry...things'll be back to normal on the 25th. Then, watch out...I've got tons of candy to buy for those ghouls, vampires, Spiderman, and whoever else the kids decide to be. Anyone got a scary hat I can wear while passing out the treats?
Friday, August 9, 2013
Coupons and Saving, part two
We did it again: we saved money at the local grocery store. Actually, if you want to get technical, my daughter M.H. save a bunch of money. I simply came along for part of the ride.
So, here's how it went: I'd gone to Publix first thing in the morning. I figured if I had my friend Kevin, the cab driver, drive, I could get a case of cat food from the vets' office and a case of bottled water at Publix, then get home and have the rest of the day to work. Of course, it turned out Kev needed a few items, so the trip took a little longer than planned. No biggie.
I'd been home maybe 15 minutes when M.H. called. "I need to go shopping. Want to come along?"
Sure, why not. Hitting Publix, or almost any place M.H. plans to shop can turn into a small adventure.
Disclaimer: I am not, by nature, a shopper, at least not the way my daughter is. I lean towards the hit-and-run method. Yes, I'll use coupons and occasionally even come up with a list. I don't dare leave that list in Kev's cab, though. I made a stop once on the way to the store, leaving the list on the front seat and came back to read, "Lots and lots of RED MEAT, cake mix boxes (one each of chocolate, vanilla, and yellow cake), six cans of frosting mix, soda, hot dogs (10 packages),lots and lots RED MEAT." But, as far as shopping with M.H., it is definitely an adventure.
Last Sunday, Publix had a $10-off-$50-or-more coupon. At the store, M.H. told me that had to buy enough to ring up $50 at the cash register. (This doesn't include the BOGOs, which kick the cost of the freebie off before it all rings up.) After wandering through the store with coupons and shopping list in hand, we headed for check out. I'd put a box of Tazo Chi Tea into the cart and handed her the $3.99 for it; this tipped the amound to just over $50 without costing M.H. anything.
Then the coupons were handed over. I went to sit down and watched as the cashier scanned first the $10 coupon, then an entire fist-ful of the pieces of paper. M.H. had six boxes of cereal (it was one that she, her husband, and my granddaughter like, it was buy-one-get-one free, and she had six coupons for the stuff), several four-packs of yogurt, Kraft Mac and Cheese, coffee creamer...all stuff they use on a regular basis. After the coupons were scanned, the register read $17.33. However, she had a $10 Publix gift card that she had gotten for clipping three or four UPCs a month or so again and sending them in, along with the receipt. So a $51 shopping trip cost her $7.33 ($4 of which I paid for).
It gets better. Her husband B. pointed out that they were almost out of something-or-other (yes, that's the technical term!), so M.H. would have to go back out. Fortunately, someone else had given her a second coupon. That $58 trip cost her right around $7. So, because of couponing, BOGOs, shopping lists, and buying only things that they really use, they ended up with almost $110 worth of food for less than $15.
While B.H. may never be seen on Extreme Couponing, she does know how to save some serious money for what her family needs. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go check on some couponing sites. (Yes, I'll pass 'em along...eventually.)
So, here's how it went: I'd gone to Publix first thing in the morning. I figured if I had my friend Kevin, the cab driver, drive, I could get a case of cat food from the vets' office and a case of bottled water at Publix, then get home and have the rest of the day to work. Of course, it turned out Kev needed a few items, so the trip took a little longer than planned. No biggie.
I'd been home maybe 15 minutes when M.H. called. "I need to go shopping. Want to come along?"
Sure, why not. Hitting Publix, or almost any place M.H. plans to shop can turn into a small adventure.
Disclaimer: I am not, by nature, a shopper, at least not the way my daughter is. I lean towards the hit-and-run method. Yes, I'll use coupons and occasionally even come up with a list. I don't dare leave that list in Kev's cab, though. I made a stop once on the way to the store, leaving the list on the front seat and came back to read, "Lots and lots of RED MEAT, cake mix boxes (one each of chocolate, vanilla, and yellow cake), six cans of frosting mix, soda, hot dogs (10 packages),lots and lots RED MEAT." But, as far as shopping with M.H., it is definitely an adventure.
Last Sunday, Publix had a $10-off-$50-or-more coupon. At the store, M.H. told me that had to buy enough to ring up $50 at the cash register. (This doesn't include the BOGOs, which kick the cost of the freebie off before it all rings up.) After wandering through the store with coupons and shopping list in hand, we headed for check out. I'd put a box of Tazo Chi Tea into the cart and handed her the $3.99 for it; this tipped the amound to just over $50 without costing M.H. anything.
Then the coupons were handed over. I went to sit down and watched as the cashier scanned first the $10 coupon, then an entire fist-ful of the pieces of paper. M.H. had six boxes of cereal (it was one that she, her husband, and my granddaughter like, it was buy-one-get-one free, and she had six coupons for the stuff), several four-packs of yogurt, Kraft Mac and Cheese, coffee creamer...all stuff they use on a regular basis. After the coupons were scanned, the register read $17.33. However, she had a $10 Publix gift card that she had gotten for clipping three or four UPCs a month or so again and sending them in, along with the receipt. So a $51 shopping trip cost her $7.33 ($4 of which I paid for).
It gets better. Her husband B. pointed out that they were almost out of something-or-other (yes, that's the technical term!), so M.H. would have to go back out. Fortunately, someone else had given her a second coupon. That $58 trip cost her right around $7. So, because of couponing, BOGOs, shopping lists, and buying only things that they really use, they ended up with almost $110 worth of food for less than $15.
While B.H. may never be seen on Extreme Couponing, she does know how to save some serious money for what her family needs. Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go check on some couponing sites. (Yes, I'll pass 'em along...eventually.)
Tuesday, July 23, 2013
Coupons, or How We Saved a Bundle
My daughter, M.H., moved here a year ago with her husband and daughter. It's definitely nice having them around, although I don't see nearly enough of my son-in-law or granddaughter. Such is life.
One of the things I've really learned to appreciate about M.H. (among other things) is the way she can save money, and not just a little. She's been into saving as much money as possible; between couponing, looking at the deals in the local stores, and rebates, she's been able to save a bundle. She's also been after me to follow her example. I'm beginning to see how she does it. Granted, I doubt she'll end up on an episode of Extreme Couponing, but she does do a great job of saving.
When M.H., B., and G. still lived in Rhode Island, M.H. would periodically call to tell me about her saving exploits. There was the time when she called to let me know I'd be receiving a rebate check. How so? I wondered. Turns out she had made out her shopping list, then checked the local grocery store's website, as well as Wal-Mart and Target's sites. She worked at one of the box stores at the time, and had an employee discount card. She and B. started where she worked. Between the buy-one-get-one-free offers (BOGOs), her employee discount, and her coupons, as well as only buying what she'd put on her list for that particular store, she ended up with around $150 worth of stuff and paid all of $5. (Yes, you read that right.) Sure, she ended up with enough disposable razors to last several months, as well as laundry and dish detergent, but those were all on sale, they have a longer shelf life than, say, a gallon of milk, and they're stuff that they honestly needed. Ever try doing a load of laundry or a sinkful of dishes without detergent? Exactly. On top of that, she also qualified for a rebate check of almost $9. End result? $150 worth of stuff the family needed, and she ended up almost $4 ahead of the game. Phew!
M.H.'s shopping seldom went that well, but as she's told me numerous times since moving here, "I hate paying full price for that!", as she pointed to detergent, coffee creamers, and the like.
Two weeks ago, I had M.H. drive me to the nearest Publix. I'm sure there are people who don't like Publix, but it's where I do most of my shopping. (And no, I'm not getting paid or rewarded in any way for writing that.) I picked up a few items, while M.H. picked up stuff for her family. At the end, between the BOGOs and her coupons, she ended up with around $67 worth of groceries and parted with a little over $22 in cash. That's roughly a 66-percent savings!
Yesterday, M.H. came by. As her first load of laundry went through the washer, she drove me to one of the local drugstore chains (where she happens to work). They had laundry detergent on sale, as well as toilet paper and 12-packs of soda. We do occasionally drink soda, though not nearly as much as we used to. (I can get by with maybe a glass or can of it every couple of weeks.) Had I bought the detergent (the brand I usually buy) at Publix, it would have run between $4.99 and $5.79. It's presently on sale, but M.H. could do better than an 80-cent savings. The stuff was on sale for between $2 and $3 a bottle; between the sale price, her employee discount, her savings card, and the nine $1-off coupons, we loaded up. Then we threw in a 12-pack of toilet paper and three 12-packs of soda, which will hold us for quite a while. The nine bottles of detergent would have run $45 plus tax at the grocery store; between the sale prices of everything, the discount cards, and the coupons, we shelled out $20.73! I can live with that.
At least I won't have to buy t.p., detergent, or soda for a while...
One of the things I've really learned to appreciate about M.H. (among other things) is the way she can save money, and not just a little. She's been into saving as much money as possible; between couponing, looking at the deals in the local stores, and rebates, she's been able to save a bundle. She's also been after me to follow her example. I'm beginning to see how she does it. Granted, I doubt she'll end up on an episode of Extreme Couponing, but she does do a great job of saving.
When M.H., B., and G. still lived in Rhode Island, M.H. would periodically call to tell me about her saving exploits. There was the time when she called to let me know I'd be receiving a rebate check. How so? I wondered. Turns out she had made out her shopping list, then checked the local grocery store's website, as well as Wal-Mart and Target's sites. She worked at one of the box stores at the time, and had an employee discount card. She and B. started where she worked. Between the buy-one-get-one-free offers (BOGOs), her employee discount, and her coupons, as well as only buying what she'd put on her list for that particular store, she ended up with around $150 worth of stuff and paid all of $5. (Yes, you read that right.) Sure, she ended up with enough disposable razors to last several months, as well as laundry and dish detergent, but those were all on sale, they have a longer shelf life than, say, a gallon of milk, and they're stuff that they honestly needed. Ever try doing a load of laundry or a sinkful of dishes without detergent? Exactly. On top of that, she also qualified for a rebate check of almost $9. End result? $150 worth of stuff the family needed, and she ended up almost $4 ahead of the game. Phew!
M.H.'s shopping seldom went that well, but as she's told me numerous times since moving here, "I hate paying full price for that!", as she pointed to detergent, coffee creamers, and the like.
Two weeks ago, I had M.H. drive me to the nearest Publix. I'm sure there are people who don't like Publix, but it's where I do most of my shopping. (And no, I'm not getting paid or rewarded in any way for writing that.) I picked up a few items, while M.H. picked up stuff for her family. At the end, between the BOGOs and her coupons, she ended up with around $67 worth of groceries and parted with a little over $22 in cash. That's roughly a 66-percent savings!
Yesterday, M.H. came by. As her first load of laundry went through the washer, she drove me to one of the local drugstore chains (where she happens to work). They had laundry detergent on sale, as well as toilet paper and 12-packs of soda. We do occasionally drink soda, though not nearly as much as we used to. (I can get by with maybe a glass or can of it every couple of weeks.) Had I bought the detergent (the brand I usually buy) at Publix, it would have run between $4.99 and $5.79. It's presently on sale, but M.H. could do better than an 80-cent savings. The stuff was on sale for between $2 and $3 a bottle; between the sale price, her employee discount, her savings card, and the nine $1-off coupons, we loaded up. Then we threw in a 12-pack of toilet paper and three 12-packs of soda, which will hold us for quite a while. The nine bottles of detergent would have run $45 plus tax at the grocery store; between the sale prices of everything, the discount cards, and the coupons, we shelled out $20.73! I can live with that.
At least I won't have to buy t.p., detergent, or soda for a while...
Monday, July 8, 2013
Life Imitating Art, Imitating Life
Does life imitate art, or does art imitate life? Maybe a little of both.
I've been getting back into the working groove. While looking for work - something very few of us like doing - I've come to realize that if I'm going to make any money writing, I really need to write. (Yes, I heard that. You were thinking, Well, duh! I was thinking it, too.) I also need to send the writing out to try selling it. Same goes for my photography. But let's get back to the writing...
Much of my writing has a sliver of my real life in it. If you've ever glanced at my e-portfolio and read You Asked or Night Walk on the fiction and poetry page, you'll see art imitating life. Ditto for the poetry. Other short stories, such as Another Day In Paradise, have their start from something I've read. And other stories start with a dream. Most writers (and other artists) are like this, to some extent. I've always maintained that if you know an artist, it's best not to get on that person's bad side; it might come back to bite you.
A side note: That said (about how writing and art come about), can you imagine the kind of life and/or dreams Stephen King has had? I'd hate to get him p.o.ed.
So...A few days ago, I decided to take a nap. It was a Saturday, I'd gotten maybe four hours of sleep the night before, then got some work done around the house. A nap was definitely in order...At one point, I was at that sweet spot where I wasn't completely asleep, but I wasn't really awake. I was just sort-of drifting between levels of consciousness.
It was during this drifing that I half-dreamt, half-remembered something from my childhood. It went like this: We were living in Yorktown Heights, New York. Nice neighborhood, nice neighbors. Middle-class. Walking distance to Crompond Elementary School; at that time, it held grades kindergarten through sixth grade. I started kindergarten the year it opened; when I graduated in 1965, I was part of the first class to have its entire elementary school experience there.
When we lived in Yorktown, there were woods on three sides of the school, though some of the woods directly north of Crompond gave way to what, in memory, seems like tall grass and some sort of scrub brush. Neighborhood kids would play in the woods, skate on the small frozen pond on the edge of the driveway to school - the same pond that we'd catch tadpoles in in spring...
One year, during late summer (again, if memory serves me well), there was a fire. By a kid's imagination, it was huge, though in reality, it may have been more of a middling-sized fire. It was in the wooded area just northeast of the school grounds. A bunch of us kids heard the sirens, saw the fire trucks, and, naturally, had to check it out. This was exciting!
By the time the fire was almost out, the firefighters started to pack up their truck. The trucks pulled away one at a time. One of the last trucks had a couple of firefighters checking for hot spots before leaving. One of the firefighters, there with a crew of four or five, was checking the area where two of the neighborhood boys and I were walking. It seems that one of the two boys was my friend Robbie, who lived next door to us. We were heading toward home, talking excitedly about how cool it was that we got to see real firefighters putting out a real fire. Firemen, we called them back then, since the closest women could get to the fire department during the early 1960s was to join the ladies' auxillary, which meant bringing sandwhiches and drinks to the men. (See the note at the end.)
Anyway, the fireman reminded me a little of my cousin Dave. Dave was - is - thirteen years older than me, and his sister Janet is ten years older. I'd always loved both of them, and considered them like cool older siblings. This firefighter actually spoke to us kids, telling us to be careful, he didn't want to see us get hurt here at the fire scene.
Before we got to the dividing line between scrub brush and school grounds, the fireman cast one final glance around before heading back to his crew. At the same time, Robbie and the other boy headed off toward the school's playground to play in the afternoon's fading light while I continued on the path toward home.
I'd just gotten onto the school grounds for the shortcut to home when I saw it: flames and heavy smoke were coming from a corner where the scrub brush and woods merged. Fire! Immediately, I turned and ran for all I was worth. Far ahead, I spotted the young firefighter's helmet bobbing away from me.
"Hey!" I screamed. "Fire!"
The firefighter turned and ran toward me, yelling into his portable radio for help. "Where is it?" he called as he got closer.
By now, I was already running back in the direction of the flames. "This way! I'll show you!"
In a minute, we were where the fire had reignited and he'd radioed where to bring the pumper. It wasn't long before the fire was out. Just before the crew left, the looks-like-cousin-Dave firefighter told a man in a white shirt, "That's the girl who pointed out the fire." After making sure I was thanked, the younger man told me that when girls could grow up to be firefighters, he could picture me being one, then rustled my hair before climbing onto the back of the truck. As it rumbled off, heading back to the station, he waved good-bye and I waved back at him.
I couldn't wait to tell Robbie when I saw him tomorrow. Wow, would he be sorry he left for the playground!
Note: For the record, even during the 1960s, when I was a kid, I thought it horribly unfair that women could only join the ladies' auxillary and not become a firefighter. Also for the record, in March, 1980, six months after becoming a volunteer firefighter in Pinellas County, Florida, another woman and I were hired on as the first women firefighter trainees with another Pinellas County fire department. There was only maybe one other female firefighter (a paid one, anyway) in the county at that time, and she'd been on the job less than a year. In all, I was managed to be associated, either as a volunteer or paid firefighter with four area departments. Was it fun? Yup. Did I ever question my sanity about taking the job? Heck, yeah. Was I ever scared working a fire? Anyone who's worked the job for more than six months and says they've never been scared is either lying or crazier than anyone I'd ever want to work with.
I also figure that while the dream was triggered from remembering this, it felt like I was that kid again. I also plan to write a short story/essay about it. And Robert...you missed the good part!
I've been getting back into the working groove. While looking for work - something very few of us like doing - I've come to realize that if I'm going to make any money writing, I really need to write. (Yes, I heard that. You were thinking, Well, duh! I was thinking it, too.) I also need to send the writing out to try selling it. Same goes for my photography. But let's get back to the writing...
Much of my writing has a sliver of my real life in it. If you've ever glanced at my e-portfolio and read You Asked or Night Walk on the fiction and poetry page, you'll see art imitating life. Ditto for the poetry. Other short stories, such as Another Day In Paradise, have their start from something I've read. And other stories start with a dream. Most writers (and other artists) are like this, to some extent. I've always maintained that if you know an artist, it's best not to get on that person's bad side; it might come back to bite you.
A side note: That said (about how writing and art come about), can you imagine the kind of life and/or dreams Stephen King has had? I'd hate to get him p.o.ed.
So...A few days ago, I decided to take a nap. It was a Saturday, I'd gotten maybe four hours of sleep the night before, then got some work done around the house. A nap was definitely in order...At one point, I was at that sweet spot where I wasn't completely asleep, but I wasn't really awake. I was just sort-of drifting between levels of consciousness.
It was during this drifing that I half-dreamt, half-remembered something from my childhood. It went like this: We were living in Yorktown Heights, New York. Nice neighborhood, nice neighbors. Middle-class. Walking distance to Crompond Elementary School; at that time, it held grades kindergarten through sixth grade. I started kindergarten the year it opened; when I graduated in 1965, I was part of the first class to have its entire elementary school experience there.
When we lived in Yorktown, there were woods on three sides of the school, though some of the woods directly north of Crompond gave way to what, in memory, seems like tall grass and some sort of scrub brush. Neighborhood kids would play in the woods, skate on the small frozen pond on the edge of the driveway to school - the same pond that we'd catch tadpoles in in spring...
One year, during late summer (again, if memory serves me well), there was a fire. By a kid's imagination, it was huge, though in reality, it may have been more of a middling-sized fire. It was in the wooded area just northeast of the school grounds. A bunch of us kids heard the sirens, saw the fire trucks, and, naturally, had to check it out. This was exciting!
By the time the fire was almost out, the firefighters started to pack up their truck. The trucks pulled away one at a time. One of the last trucks had a couple of firefighters checking for hot spots before leaving. One of the firefighters, there with a crew of four or five, was checking the area where two of the neighborhood boys and I were walking. It seems that one of the two boys was my friend Robbie, who lived next door to us. We were heading toward home, talking excitedly about how cool it was that we got to see real firefighters putting out a real fire. Firemen, we called them back then, since the closest women could get to the fire department during the early 1960s was to join the ladies' auxillary, which meant bringing sandwhiches and drinks to the men. (See the note at the end.)
Anyway, the fireman reminded me a little of my cousin Dave. Dave was - is - thirteen years older than me, and his sister Janet is ten years older. I'd always loved both of them, and considered them like cool older siblings. This firefighter actually spoke to us kids, telling us to be careful, he didn't want to see us get hurt here at the fire scene.
Before we got to the dividing line between scrub brush and school grounds, the fireman cast one final glance around before heading back to his crew. At the same time, Robbie and the other boy headed off toward the school's playground to play in the afternoon's fading light while I continued on the path toward home.
I'd just gotten onto the school grounds for the shortcut to home when I saw it: flames and heavy smoke were coming from a corner where the scrub brush and woods merged. Fire! Immediately, I turned and ran for all I was worth. Far ahead, I spotted the young firefighter's helmet bobbing away from me.
"Hey!" I screamed. "Fire!"
The firefighter turned and ran toward me, yelling into his portable radio for help. "Where is it?" he called as he got closer.
By now, I was already running back in the direction of the flames. "This way! I'll show you!"
In a minute, we were where the fire had reignited and he'd radioed where to bring the pumper. It wasn't long before the fire was out. Just before the crew left, the looks-like-cousin-Dave firefighter told a man in a white shirt, "That's the girl who pointed out the fire." After making sure I was thanked, the younger man told me that when girls could grow up to be firefighters, he could picture me being one, then rustled my hair before climbing onto the back of the truck. As it rumbled off, heading back to the station, he waved good-bye and I waved back at him.
I couldn't wait to tell Robbie when I saw him tomorrow. Wow, would he be sorry he left for the playground!
Note: For the record, even during the 1960s, when I was a kid, I thought it horribly unfair that women could only join the ladies' auxillary and not become a firefighter. Also for the record, in March, 1980, six months after becoming a volunteer firefighter in Pinellas County, Florida, another woman and I were hired on as the first women firefighter trainees with another Pinellas County fire department. There was only maybe one other female firefighter (a paid one, anyway) in the county at that time, and she'd been on the job less than a year. In all, I was managed to be associated, either as a volunteer or paid firefighter with four area departments. Was it fun? Yup. Did I ever question my sanity about taking the job? Heck, yeah. Was I ever scared working a fire? Anyone who's worked the job for more than six months and says they've never been scared is either lying or crazier than anyone I'd ever want to work with.
I also figure that while the dream was triggered from remembering this, it felt like I was that kid again. I also plan to write a short story/essay about it. And Robert...you missed the good part!
Monday, June 10, 2013
Dinner Time...
I'd planned to fix vegetarian chili this evening, but the universe decided otherwise. That, and the tofu was bad.
Now, I know there are people out there who are uninitiated in eating tofu. You might even be one such person. That's fine; we all have our food preferences. But trust me when I tell you that tofu has a bland taste and smell, or lack thereof. It is a lot like white bread or vanilla pudding: not exactly exciting, but it does work well in many meals, taking in the flavors of whatever it is cooked in.
So I pulled out everything needed to fix the meal...onions, peppers, a large can of crushed tomatoes, two cans of beans (one black, the other navy), carrots, garlic, and, of course, tofu. I usually drain the tofu in a colander while cutting up the veggies, so I pulled the top off the tofu tub and dumped it into the colander, then turned to get the cats' water bowl to refill it. By the time I got back to the sink, I was hit with a horrible stench that can only be described as a cross between a six-week-old litter box and really funky feet.
I looked at the bottom of the water bowl, then checked my feet, just to be safe. Nothing. Then I sniffed the tofu. Talk about disgustingly rancid.
Into the trash it went. The tub is in a plastic grocery bag, handles tied, along with the receipt. Fortunately, I had some homemade spaghetti sauce in the freezer.
But it got me to thinking about the other weird things than happen with food, things we end up looking back at and laughing at. Some of them are outright good memories: My paternal grandma used to cook what we called turnips, but what are really rutabagas, for Sunday dinner, so I associate the taste and smell as a comfort food. Your grandmother may have made the world's best mac and cheese.
And then there are the weird, funny food stories. For example: My maternal grandmother, Grandma Hallock, was the cookie grandma. Take any of her cookie recipes, and she'd bake them better than anyone else. I've only recently gotten close to being that good with her cookie recipes. My first attempt at making her oatmeal cookies, though, was a failure. The recipe calls for three cups of quick-cook oatmeal (now sold as "old fashioned oats"). So, even though the recipe didn't call for cooking the oatmeal first, I figured it was only logical that if it called for quick-cook oats, you had to quickly cook them first. I then proceeded with the rest of the recipe.
Later, when I took the mixture out of the freezer to cut and bake, it was still a gloppy mess. So, off to Mom to find out what the problem was.
"What did you do to it?" she asked, looking slightly puzzled.
"Well, first I cooked the oatmeal..."
When she quit laughing, Mom asked why I'd done that, then explained that if the recipe doesn't say to cook the oatmeal first, one probably should figure that it really isn't recommended. What can I say; I was maybe 12 at the time. It was an honest mistake.
Then there was the chocolate cream pie. Shortly after my 16th birthday, my parents moved us from Connecticut to Rochester, New York. A week or so later, my boyfriend drove up in my dad's old VW beetle. (We'd left it at a garage, since it needed some repairs before making the trip.) Anyway, Tom loved chocolate cream pie. What's a girlfriend to do but make her sweetie his favorite dessert, right?
That Sunday, the evening before he was to fly back to Connecticut, while dinner cooked, I fixed the pie. It consisted of three things: a baked pie crust, chocolate pudding, and whipped cream. What could go wrong, right?
Turns out, a lot. The pie crust came out the consistancy of a burned yet undercooked pizza dough (it tasted that way, too); I burned the chocolate pudding; the cream was whipped half-way to butter. He was impressed. Turned out the only one who could eat the darn thing without gagging or laughing hysterically was my kid brother. At 9, Greg'd eat anything.
For the rest of his life, my dad would tell me that he'd eat anything I cooked, as long as it wasn't that chocolate cream pie. Siiigggh.
Then there's the lasagna. There was a recipe for the stuff in one of the cookbooks I'd picked up over the years ago, when we first moved to Florida, a funky cookbook titled Country Commune Cooking, by Lucy Horton. I'd made the lasagna numerous times, and loved the stuff. But it needed something...
My oldest tried cooking it once to surprise me on my birthday, but instead of using meat, as the recipe called for, he used cut-up eggplant. Turned out great.
After that, the experimentation was on, and I finally developed a kick-butt vegetarian lasagna. It calls for tofu crumbles in place of the meat, and is absolutely wonderful.
Around this time, a coworker of mine decided I was the one he was destined to spend his life with. He was a nice enough guy, but let's just say the feelings were not reciprocated. He was merely nice...and boring.
One afternoon, several of us were talking about food, and I mentioned my lasagna. Turns out lasagna was guy's favorite food.
"When'll you fix lasagna again?" guy would ask.
"No clue," I'd respond.
One day, I decided to take the day off. Guy calls up to see what I'm doing, just as I'm fixing...you guessed it...a huge pan of lasagna. While I was on the phone, my youngest came into the kitchen and asked, "Are you getting ready to put the lasagna into the oven?" Of course, guy heard that and told me he was on his way over.
Great, I thought. Just what I didn't want after a nice, relaxing day.
The next day, guy made a point of finding me. "That was the best lasagna I ever had!" he gushed. "What kind of meat was that in it?"
"It wasn't meat," I replied.
"Okay, so it wasn't hamburger. What was it? Ground turkey? Chicken?"
"Actually, it was tofu crumbles."
He looked at me funny and asked what tofu crumbles were. After learning it was soybean curd, he got a horrified look on his face, gasped, and asked, "What are you, some kind of vegetarian?" When I replied that I was, he turned and stalked off...never to call or stop by ever again!
If only I'd known months earlier...
Now, I know there are people out there who are uninitiated in eating tofu. You might even be one such person. That's fine; we all have our food preferences. But trust me when I tell you that tofu has a bland taste and smell, or lack thereof. It is a lot like white bread or vanilla pudding: not exactly exciting, but it does work well in many meals, taking in the flavors of whatever it is cooked in.
So I pulled out everything needed to fix the meal...onions, peppers, a large can of crushed tomatoes, two cans of beans (one black, the other navy), carrots, garlic, and, of course, tofu. I usually drain the tofu in a colander while cutting up the veggies, so I pulled the top off the tofu tub and dumped it into the colander, then turned to get the cats' water bowl to refill it. By the time I got back to the sink, I was hit with a horrible stench that can only be described as a cross between a six-week-old litter box and really funky feet.
I looked at the bottom of the water bowl, then checked my feet, just to be safe. Nothing. Then I sniffed the tofu. Talk about disgustingly rancid.
Into the trash it went. The tub is in a plastic grocery bag, handles tied, along with the receipt. Fortunately, I had some homemade spaghetti sauce in the freezer.
But it got me to thinking about the other weird things than happen with food, things we end up looking back at and laughing at. Some of them are outright good memories: My paternal grandma used to cook what we called turnips, but what are really rutabagas, for Sunday dinner, so I associate the taste and smell as a comfort food. Your grandmother may have made the world's best mac and cheese.
And then there are the weird, funny food stories. For example: My maternal grandmother, Grandma Hallock, was the cookie grandma. Take any of her cookie recipes, and she'd bake them better than anyone else. I've only recently gotten close to being that good with her cookie recipes. My first attempt at making her oatmeal cookies, though, was a failure. The recipe calls for three cups of quick-cook oatmeal (now sold as "old fashioned oats"). So, even though the recipe didn't call for cooking the oatmeal first, I figured it was only logical that if it called for quick-cook oats, you had to quickly cook them first. I then proceeded with the rest of the recipe.
Later, when I took the mixture out of the freezer to cut and bake, it was still a gloppy mess. So, off to Mom to find out what the problem was.
"What did you do to it?" she asked, looking slightly puzzled.
"Well, first I cooked the oatmeal..."
When she quit laughing, Mom asked why I'd done that, then explained that if the recipe doesn't say to cook the oatmeal first, one probably should figure that it really isn't recommended. What can I say; I was maybe 12 at the time. It was an honest mistake.
Then there was the chocolate cream pie. Shortly after my 16th birthday, my parents moved us from Connecticut to Rochester, New York. A week or so later, my boyfriend drove up in my dad's old VW beetle. (We'd left it at a garage, since it needed some repairs before making the trip.) Anyway, Tom loved chocolate cream pie. What's a girlfriend to do but make her sweetie his favorite dessert, right?
That Sunday, the evening before he was to fly back to Connecticut, while dinner cooked, I fixed the pie. It consisted of three things: a baked pie crust, chocolate pudding, and whipped cream. What could go wrong, right?
Turns out, a lot. The pie crust came out the consistancy of a burned yet undercooked pizza dough (it tasted that way, too); I burned the chocolate pudding; the cream was whipped half-way to butter. He was impressed. Turned out the only one who could eat the darn thing without gagging or laughing hysterically was my kid brother. At 9, Greg'd eat anything.
For the rest of his life, my dad would tell me that he'd eat anything I cooked, as long as it wasn't that chocolate cream pie. Siiigggh.
Then there's the lasagna. There was a recipe for the stuff in one of the cookbooks I'd picked up over the years ago, when we first moved to Florida, a funky cookbook titled Country Commune Cooking, by Lucy Horton. I'd made the lasagna numerous times, and loved the stuff. But it needed something...
My oldest tried cooking it once to surprise me on my birthday, but instead of using meat, as the recipe called for, he used cut-up eggplant. Turned out great.
After that, the experimentation was on, and I finally developed a kick-butt vegetarian lasagna. It calls for tofu crumbles in place of the meat, and is absolutely wonderful.
Around this time, a coworker of mine decided I was the one he was destined to spend his life with. He was a nice enough guy, but let's just say the feelings were not reciprocated. He was merely nice...and boring.
One afternoon, several of us were talking about food, and I mentioned my lasagna. Turns out lasagna was guy's favorite food.
"When'll you fix lasagna again?" guy would ask.
"No clue," I'd respond.
One day, I decided to take the day off. Guy calls up to see what I'm doing, just as I'm fixing...you guessed it...a huge pan of lasagna. While I was on the phone, my youngest came into the kitchen and asked, "Are you getting ready to put the lasagna into the oven?" Of course, guy heard that and told me he was on his way over.
Great, I thought. Just what I didn't want after a nice, relaxing day.
The next day, guy made a point of finding me. "That was the best lasagna I ever had!" he gushed. "What kind of meat was that in it?"
"It wasn't meat," I replied.
"Okay, so it wasn't hamburger. What was it? Ground turkey? Chicken?"
"Actually, it was tofu crumbles."
He looked at me funny and asked what tofu crumbles were. After learning it was soybean curd, he got a horrified look on his face, gasped, and asked, "What are you, some kind of vegetarian?" When I replied that I was, he turned and stalked off...never to call or stop by ever again!
If only I'd known months earlier...
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Film At 11...Or Maybe Next Week
I've been using my film camera a lot more, lately. I love film, for many reasons, not the least being that that's what I grew up using. Granted, it wasn't always with a 35 mm SLR camera. There were a couple of Instamatics, possibly a Brownie (wow, am I dating myself!), a disposable camera or two...
Finally, though, I had access to a decent camera: my other half bought a Minolta 35mm SLR. Once he figured out how to use it, then showed me how to change film, focus, and all that fun stuff, it was frequently a toss-up as to who got to take what, photo-wise. Some things were his to photograph, as I had no interest in them; but then, I'm sure he wondered about some of my interests, photograpically and otherwise.
Fast forward to recently: I now own several cameras, all Canons. I have nothing against other brands; it's just easier to stick with one brand, so that when one buys accessories - lenses, for example - there's a better chance of it fitting multiple camers of the same brand. But that's beside the point. I have a 35mm SLR and a DSLR, both Canons. I like the film camera for sentimental reasons, while I like the digital for the fact that I don't have to develop film...just shoot, plug it into the computer, and then photoshop away.
A little over a week ago, my friend Boo invited me to come along to take some photos of St. Petersburg's monthly art walk. I only had access to my film camera, so I brought that along. Would have preferred to bring the digital camera, but there are times when we have to work with what we have. In retrospect, the digital camera would have been sooo much better...For starters, I only had a few rolls of film, so I had to pick and choose what to photograph. Also, while a few of the photos came out fairly well, the darker it got, the grainier the photos turned out. Then, there was the whole developing problem of...developing.
Several years ago, during my final year as an undergrad, I took photojournalim I and II at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg. At the time, I only had a film SLR, so I worked with that. Never had any problem getting film developed, then put on a CD. Made it a lot cheaper than printing all the photos on every roll, especially since I wouldn't need all those photos. There was one particular drug store (part of a chain) that I almost always dealt with. However, if there was a problem with that one, every other drug store (including the main competing chain) could develope the film. Obviously, getting the film developed this past week wouldn't be a problem, right?
Wrong!
I called the drug store and spoke with someone who hemmed and hawwwed before admitting that, yes, he could develope the film and put it on a CD. Yes, I could have it that same afternoon. However, it couldn't be done in the one-hour I had come to expect. This was because no one works with film anymore, I was told, so the machine used to develope the stuff was off; it would take a couple of hours to warm up. The place, however, still sells film; but they like sending it out to be developed...Sort-of like a tire store selling tires for your car, but telling you to then take the tires elsewhere to have them put on your car.
So, I called around. My daughter mentioned a box store (which I won't name) that develops film, or, at least, used to. By the time they finally got someone in the photo area, I was informed that they could send the film out for developing and have it back in only seven to ten business days.
"But I thought you did one-hour developing!" I said. That's how they were listed in the phone book.
"We are, as long as it's digital. We no longer do film here." Of course, when asked, they do sell film, if I wanted to buy some...
So I called a drug store near my house and explained what I needed. "Okay," the guy answered. "Not a problem."
"So you can develope it there?"
"Of course."
"You don't have to send it out?"
No, I was told. He could develop it there, print up the photos or put the pics on a CD, all within an hour, and relatively inexpensively.
"Great," I said. "I'll be there in maybe half an hour."
"Okay." Then, half a second later, "Wait a minute." He put the phone down, then came back. I could hear him mumbling under his breath before picking up the phone. "Um, you're not going to believe this, but they took the machine."
Excuse me?
"Yeah, apparently they took the machine out. My boss said we're not developing any more film."
I checked the Yellow Pages, and found several places (non-drug store places) that developed film. The one I've dealt with is a long drive, so that was out, this time. Another place, one that a friend recommended, is open Monday through Thursday; this was Friday, and I needed the film that day! The third place listed was relatively nearby and was open.
"Sure, we develop film. Bring it on it and we'll give you a great price."
My daughter, M.H., picked me up and we headed to this third place. By the time we got there, it was about 12:30. The one person working the front desk kept getting called away to answer the phone. In the meantime, M.H. and I looked around the waiting area. It looked like this place dealt mostly with wedding and celebration-type photographers, most of whom had mega-rich clients.
Finally, the woman working the front was able to help us. "Sure, we develop film," she told us. "We'll get right on it, Monday morning."
"Monday morning?" I gasped.
"Well, we only develop film in the morning. Once we hit noon, that's it. So, yes, Monday morning. Now, our prices..." These included a little more for developing than other places, $5 for the CD, and almost 40 cents per photo to scan them into the computer to put onto the CD. For a roll of 24 photos, we're talking $8 for developing and CD, then $9.60 to put the photos onto the disk, for a total of just under $18 per roll. (Oops, don't forget tax...now we're talking $20!)
M.H. and I left.
At this point, we decided to go to the first drug store. I'd already told the guy at the photo section to "start that machine" (the one for film developing...the one that would take several hours to warm up.) Let's just say the guy had sounded as enthusiastic as if I'd offered to pull all his teeth using a pair of rusty pliers and a bent scalpel.
"Ooookay," he enthused...
Several hours, when M.H. and I came back, he was still slowly working on the order, while taking care of other customers. When his manager arrived - just as he was ringing up my order, he kept telling her, "This is the nice lady with the film." Over the next two minutes, I was the nice lady, the patient lady, the wonderful person...If it had gone on much longer, I would have headed back to the pharmacy to see if they had anything to help me keep from throwing up...
Let's put it this way: From here on out, I'll probably work as much in digital as possible, and when I need to develop film, it's going to Lake Shore Camera Exchange in Palm Harbor. At least I know they can handle the job, and do a great job with it!
Finally, though, I had access to a decent camera: my other half bought a Minolta 35mm SLR. Once he figured out how to use it, then showed me how to change film, focus, and all that fun stuff, it was frequently a toss-up as to who got to take what, photo-wise. Some things were his to photograph, as I had no interest in them; but then, I'm sure he wondered about some of my interests, photograpically and otherwise.
Fast forward to recently: I now own several cameras, all Canons. I have nothing against other brands; it's just easier to stick with one brand, so that when one buys accessories - lenses, for example - there's a better chance of it fitting multiple camers of the same brand. But that's beside the point. I have a 35mm SLR and a DSLR, both Canons. I like the film camera for sentimental reasons, while I like the digital for the fact that I don't have to develop film...just shoot, plug it into the computer, and then photoshop away.
A little over a week ago, my friend Boo invited me to come along to take some photos of St. Petersburg's monthly art walk. I only had access to my film camera, so I brought that along. Would have preferred to bring the digital camera, but there are times when we have to work with what we have. In retrospect, the digital camera would have been sooo much better...For starters, I only had a few rolls of film, so I had to pick and choose what to photograph. Also, while a few of the photos came out fairly well, the darker it got, the grainier the photos turned out. Then, there was the whole developing problem of...developing.
Several years ago, during my final year as an undergrad, I took photojournalim I and II at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg. At the time, I only had a film SLR, so I worked with that. Never had any problem getting film developed, then put on a CD. Made it a lot cheaper than printing all the photos on every roll, especially since I wouldn't need all those photos. There was one particular drug store (part of a chain) that I almost always dealt with. However, if there was a problem with that one, every other drug store (including the main competing chain) could develope the film. Obviously, getting the film developed this past week wouldn't be a problem, right?
Wrong!
I called the drug store and spoke with someone who hemmed and hawwwed before admitting that, yes, he could develope the film and put it on a CD. Yes, I could have it that same afternoon. However, it couldn't be done in the one-hour I had come to expect. This was because no one works with film anymore, I was told, so the machine used to develope the stuff was off; it would take a couple of hours to warm up. The place, however, still sells film; but they like sending it out to be developed...Sort-of like a tire store selling tires for your car, but telling you to then take the tires elsewhere to have them put on your car.
So, I called around. My daughter mentioned a box store (which I won't name) that develops film, or, at least, used to. By the time they finally got someone in the photo area, I was informed that they could send the film out for developing and have it back in only seven to ten business days.
"But I thought you did one-hour developing!" I said. That's how they were listed in the phone book.
"We are, as long as it's digital. We no longer do film here." Of course, when asked, they do sell film, if I wanted to buy some...
So I called a drug store near my house and explained what I needed. "Okay," the guy answered. "Not a problem."
"So you can develope it there?"
"Of course."
"You don't have to send it out?"
No, I was told. He could develop it there, print up the photos or put the pics on a CD, all within an hour, and relatively inexpensively.
"Great," I said. "I'll be there in maybe half an hour."
"Okay." Then, half a second later, "Wait a minute." He put the phone down, then came back. I could hear him mumbling under his breath before picking up the phone. "Um, you're not going to believe this, but they took the machine."
Excuse me?
"Yeah, apparently they took the machine out. My boss said we're not developing any more film."
I checked the Yellow Pages, and found several places (non-drug store places) that developed film. The one I've dealt with is a long drive, so that was out, this time. Another place, one that a friend recommended, is open Monday through Thursday; this was Friday, and I needed the film that day! The third place listed was relatively nearby and was open.
"Sure, we develop film. Bring it on it and we'll give you a great price."
My daughter, M.H., picked me up and we headed to this third place. By the time we got there, it was about 12:30. The one person working the front desk kept getting called away to answer the phone. In the meantime, M.H. and I looked around the waiting area. It looked like this place dealt mostly with wedding and celebration-type photographers, most of whom had mega-rich clients.
Finally, the woman working the front was able to help us. "Sure, we develop film," she told us. "We'll get right on it, Monday morning."
"Monday morning?" I gasped.
"Well, we only develop film in the morning. Once we hit noon, that's it. So, yes, Monday morning. Now, our prices..." These included a little more for developing than other places, $5 for the CD, and almost 40 cents per photo to scan them into the computer to put onto the CD. For a roll of 24 photos, we're talking $8 for developing and CD, then $9.60 to put the photos onto the disk, for a total of just under $18 per roll. (Oops, don't forget tax...now we're talking $20!)
M.H. and I left.
At this point, we decided to go to the first drug store. I'd already told the guy at the photo section to "start that machine" (the one for film developing...the one that would take several hours to warm up.) Let's just say the guy had sounded as enthusiastic as if I'd offered to pull all his teeth using a pair of rusty pliers and a bent scalpel.
"Ooookay," he enthused...
Several hours, when M.H. and I came back, he was still slowly working on the order, while taking care of other customers. When his manager arrived - just as he was ringing up my order, he kept telling her, "This is the nice lady with the film." Over the next two minutes, I was the nice lady, the patient lady, the wonderful person...If it had gone on much longer, I would have headed back to the pharmacy to see if they had anything to help me keep from throwing up...
Let's put it this way: From here on out, I'll probably work as much in digital as possible, and when I need to develop film, it's going to Lake Shore Camera Exchange in Palm Harbor. At least I know they can handle the job, and do a great job with it!
Tuesday, May 14, 2013
Art Walk
A week or two ago, my friend Boo emailed me, then alerted me on Facebook that I had an email waiting for me. Boo is an artist, a liberal, and a bit of a rabble-rouser. I like those traits in a person.
But back to the email: St. Petersburg has a monthly art walk in its Grand Central District. Boo and several others were planning to film several artists showing off their work in a free-form short film, and she asked if I wanted to come along. I said sure, then began wondering what the heck I was thinking. I do that a lot: I'll commit to something, then spend time wondering why I agreed to it; in the end, I'm usually glad I came along. But that's beside the point.
Boo showed up Saturday afternoon around 3:00. After bringing my camera and tripod out, we headed off. Boo had several things to drop off before we met up with the group.
It turned out we were a little early. As we waited, I wandered off a little. There was some live music nearby, and I figured I'd check it out. After listening a little and taking some photos, I asked the drummer, one Edward Burrows, the name of the group.
"Rare Phorm Band," I was told, as he handed over one of their business cards.
Quick Note: If you happen to find out that Rare Phorm Band is playing anywhere, and you get a chance, go. Definitely cool, definitely good. I hope they make it big.
Wandering back, Boo was gathering artists for filming, directing as she went along. I managed to take photos, some on her camera, some on mine, until two things happened: Boo's camera ran out of memory, and I ran out of film. Isn't that the way it goes? (Anyone who knows me well knows my one question when it comes to planning: How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.)
But we continued on...We still had access to video, so that was how the rest of it went. Video was what Boo had wanted the most of, so that helped.
We were finished by maybe 7:30-ish, then hung out for an hour, gabbing away, until it was time to leave.
And yes, I'm glad I went along. Boo, if you're reading this, I'll have the pics to you by the end of the week. Edward Burrows and the Rare Phorm Band, please check back here for the photos, as well as at Robin Shwedo Productions. You might see someone you know!
But back to the email: St. Petersburg has a monthly art walk in its Grand Central District. Boo and several others were planning to film several artists showing off their work in a free-form short film, and she asked if I wanted to come along. I said sure, then began wondering what the heck I was thinking. I do that a lot: I'll commit to something, then spend time wondering why I agreed to it; in the end, I'm usually glad I came along. But that's beside the point.
Boo showed up Saturday afternoon around 3:00. After bringing my camera and tripod out, we headed off. Boo had several things to drop off before we met up with the group.
It turned out we were a little early. As we waited, I wandered off a little. There was some live music nearby, and I figured I'd check it out. After listening a little and taking some photos, I asked the drummer, one Edward Burrows, the name of the group.
"Rare Phorm Band," I was told, as he handed over one of their business cards.
Quick Note: If you happen to find out that Rare Phorm Band is playing anywhere, and you get a chance, go. Definitely cool, definitely good. I hope they make it big.
Wandering back, Boo was gathering artists for filming, directing as she went along. I managed to take photos, some on her camera, some on mine, until two things happened: Boo's camera ran out of memory, and I ran out of film. Isn't that the way it goes? (Anyone who knows me well knows my one question when it comes to planning: How do you make God laugh? Tell Him your plans.)
But we continued on...We still had access to video, so that was how the rest of it went. Video was what Boo had wanted the most of, so that helped.
We were finished by maybe 7:30-ish, then hung out for an hour, gabbing away, until it was time to leave.
And yes, I'm glad I went along. Boo, if you're reading this, I'll have the pics to you by the end of the week. Edward Burrows and the Rare Phorm Band, please check back here for the photos, as well as at Robin Shwedo Productions. You might see someone you know!
Monday, April 29, 2013
Out For A Walk After A Rainy Night
It rained last night. Not one of those hard rains that wake you up with the noise of it pounding on the roof, but more of a gentle rain that helps wash away all sorts of stuff and in the aftermath leaves the air smelling better, intensifying the earthy outdoor smells. When I got up this morning, it was still early enough that the sun hadn't had a chance to dry the grass or roads completely or to turn the day into a sauna, the way it does when it rains early on a summer's afternoon. Somehow, it made it easier to get changed and head out for a walk. The fact that a good part of my favorite walking/running route is cross-country helps a lot here.
I headed south, figuring I'd start through the eastern edge of a nearby park. It's only a block away, if that, and has horse trails, riding rings for horse shows, picnic areas, a playground, the works. Usually, I only skirt the edge of it when walking or running, using a dirt path.
There was a cool breeze and a definite earthy smell. From somewhere nearby came the sounds of one peacocks. There are several flocks of them in there area, and it's quite common to hear them screeching. The first few times I heard peacocks' cries, I was positive there was a hurt cat nearby. Actually, it sounded like possibly a hurt wild cat - not a feral house cat, mind you, but something like a bobcat in pain. It was eerie sounding. It wasn't until much later that I learned it was a peacock.
A runner was heading north as I headed for the park. We nodded at each other, the way runners or walkers do.
"Those peacocks sure are loud," she said as she passed.
"Yeah, they are," I answered, heading into the park.
Peacock near the entrance to the park
Heading south through the park, I was amazed at the changes along this route. The first area used to be nothing but a large field bordered on two side with woods, scrub brush, and palmettos, more palmettos and a drainage ditch on the east side, and a border of trees as a buffer between a cul-de-sac of houses on the fourth. Now the scrub and palmettos are gone from near the ditch, most of the trees between field and houses are gone, as on the south side of the field. There are fenced riding rings where frequent horse shows take place; these have cropped up over the past few years.
Farther along, across the ditch, there's a stable.
It's been there since for years, and there are always horses there, most of them boarded by different horse owners. At one point, the number of horses dwindled down to one old lone horse, Smokey, owned by the property owner. At one point, I used to occasionally bring Smokey carrots. She has since died, though by that time, they'd started boarding other horses there again.
Smokey
At this point, I cross the street. It's a secondary avenue, frequently busy enough to warrant a crosswalk for horses and runners, replete with a flashing yellow light that runners and riders can trigger so that traffic gives them the right of way (theoretically). This crosswalk and light are relatively new additions.
As I head cross country, there are a few newer houses that face the avenue, as well as a house that was moved in from its original property. These are on the east side of the dirt road. The newer house - one bordering the trail, but facing the road - has a batch of banana trees at the edge of their property. My family and I once lived in a place that had banana trees; in the four-plus years we lived there, we never once had bananas from the tree, so I find it amazing to see so many banana bunches growing from the trees along this new property line.
Banana trees
Next comes the moved in house. It sits on a lake that was once surrounded by woods and scrub brush. I remember being somewhat upset at the loss of some of the woods around the lake; fortunately, when the 100-year-old house was set down near the lake, the property owner kept most of the woods intact.
Just west of the dirt road is a drainage ditch (actually, a continuation of the same ditch bordering the park); beyond that, a subdivision hugs the road I've just crossed. Where that ends, another property with stable for boarding horses begins. This property is for sale; I can't help but think that if I had the money, it wouldn't be for sale for long. It's a comfortable-looking place. Several times, I've had conversations with the owners, calling back and forth across the ditch. Yeah, I think, as I get ready to turn back to head home, if only I had the money...
By the time I arrive home, I'm ready for a shower, glad I've gone out walking.
I headed south, figuring I'd start through the eastern edge of a nearby park. It's only a block away, if that, and has horse trails, riding rings for horse shows, picnic areas, a playground, the works. Usually, I only skirt the edge of it when walking or running, using a dirt path.
There was a cool breeze and a definite earthy smell. From somewhere nearby came the sounds of one peacocks. There are several flocks of them in there area, and it's quite common to hear them screeching. The first few times I heard peacocks' cries, I was positive there was a hurt cat nearby. Actually, it sounded like possibly a hurt wild cat - not a feral house cat, mind you, but something like a bobcat in pain. It was eerie sounding. It wasn't until much later that I learned it was a peacock.
A runner was heading north as I headed for the park. We nodded at each other, the way runners or walkers do.
"Those peacocks sure are loud," she said as she passed.
"Yeah, they are," I answered, heading into the park.
Peacock near the entrance to the parkHeading south through the park, I was amazed at the changes along this route. The first area used to be nothing but a large field bordered on two side with woods, scrub brush, and palmettos, more palmettos and a drainage ditch on the east side, and a border of trees as a buffer between a cul-de-sac of houses on the fourth. Now the scrub and palmettos are gone from near the ditch, most of the trees between field and houses are gone, as on the south side of the field. There are fenced riding rings where frequent horse shows take place; these have cropped up over the past few years.
Farther along, across the ditch, there's a stable.
It's been there since for years, and there are always horses there, most of them boarded by different horse owners. At one point, the number of horses dwindled down to one old lone horse, Smokey, owned by the property owner. At one point, I used to occasionally bring Smokey carrots. She has since died, though by that time, they'd started boarding other horses there again.
SmokeyAt this point, I cross the street. It's a secondary avenue, frequently busy enough to warrant a crosswalk for horses and runners, replete with a flashing yellow light that runners and riders can trigger so that traffic gives them the right of way (theoretically). This crosswalk and light are relatively new additions.
As I head cross country, there are a few newer houses that face the avenue, as well as a house that was moved in from its original property. These are on the east side of the dirt road. The newer house - one bordering the trail, but facing the road - has a batch of banana trees at the edge of their property. My family and I once lived in a place that had banana trees; in the four-plus years we lived there, we never once had bananas from the tree, so I find it amazing to see so many banana bunches growing from the trees along this new property line.
Banana treesNext comes the moved in house. It sits on a lake that was once surrounded by woods and scrub brush. I remember being somewhat upset at the loss of some of the woods around the lake; fortunately, when the 100-year-old house was set down near the lake, the property owner kept most of the woods intact.
Just west of the dirt road is a drainage ditch (actually, a continuation of the same ditch bordering the park); beyond that, a subdivision hugs the road I've just crossed. Where that ends, another property with stable for boarding horses begins. This property is for sale; I can't help but think that if I had the money, it wouldn't be for sale for long. It's a comfortable-looking place. Several times, I've had conversations with the owners, calling back and forth across the ditch. Yeah, I think, as I get ready to turn back to head home, if only I had the money...
By the time I arrive home, I'm ready for a shower, glad I've gone out walking.
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Cold Showers...
Call me picky, but there are some things that I've come to expect in life: food, a roof over my head, a hot shower. I know I'm being a little weird, but you grow up having those things, you kind-of get hooked on them. Sure, there are other things that I thoroughly enjoy (sooo glad I bought some more coffee yesterday!), and probably always will.
This morning, I went to take my shower and got cold water. Now, granted, the hot water usually takes a few seconds to get from the water heater to the shower, but then it runs predictably well: turn the hot and cold knobs, and whoever is in the shower gets water that's neither too hot nor too cold...but just right, sort-of like Goldilock's porridge in the three bears' place. (Don't get me started on trippy lit for kids...) The other thing is that if you leave the hot water knob on too long, you'll eventually need to turn it off and let the water heater work its magic. No big deal...unless the water heater has decided to call it quits, without the proper two-week-notice. So annoying when things like this happen without notice.
So, this morning, M. was in the shower bright and early, since he has to be out of the house by 6-ish for his part-time job. While I can't vouch for it, I'm pretty sure he had hot water. He's been known to emit an ear-piercing shriek when hit with ice cold water first thing in the morning. Go figure. That'll wake you up quicker'n a pot of cappuccino. (That referring to both the cold water and the shriek.)
The second person hit the shower without problems...or, in the case, without ice water.
Several hours after the second running-of-the-shower, I decided to make a go of it. That's when I discovered that the water heater had gone AWOL. At first, I thought that maybe I'd cranked the cold water knob too far and the hot water not far enough. But finally, I turned them both on (with the shower knob in the full-force rain position), then turned only the hot water knob back on. It was wonderful...if you like cold showers.
Now, don't get me wrong, there are times I do enjoy a fairly cold shower. But it's usually in late August when I've spent the afternoon mowing the lawn. Those of you who have ever lived in Florida during August can relate; if you're from upstate New York, say, Buffalo or Rochester or upper New England; think February, then think its polar opposite. There you go. August in Florida is like sitting in a hot and humid sauna that is cranked up to the max and packed with the gold metal Olympic Sumo Wrestling team. Mow the lawn on an August afternoon, that cold shower'll feel real nice. Any other time, fuhgeddaboudit! (Yup, my NY accent might be showing.)
So, I called the landlord's answering service. This is, after all, Saturday. I kept thinking that I really hoped someone would call back today, since I don't relish the thought of another two days of cold showers. Fortunately, the property manager did call back. But since she's booked up this morning with repairs, she couldn't promise that she'd be here this afternoon, other than to find out if it's simply the heating element or the whole water heater that'll need replacing.
In the meantime, I think I'll go grab another cup of coffee. At least my coffee maker works and I have the coffee I bought yesterday to put into said coffee maker. I might as well have coffee; I'm already awake.
This morning, I went to take my shower and got cold water. Now, granted, the hot water usually takes a few seconds to get from the water heater to the shower, but then it runs predictably well: turn the hot and cold knobs, and whoever is in the shower gets water that's neither too hot nor too cold...but just right, sort-of like Goldilock's porridge in the three bears' place. (Don't get me started on trippy lit for kids...) The other thing is that if you leave the hot water knob on too long, you'll eventually need to turn it off and let the water heater work its magic. No big deal...unless the water heater has decided to call it quits, without the proper two-week-notice. So annoying when things like this happen without notice.
So, this morning, M. was in the shower bright and early, since he has to be out of the house by 6-ish for his part-time job. While I can't vouch for it, I'm pretty sure he had hot water. He's been known to emit an ear-piercing shriek when hit with ice cold water first thing in the morning. Go figure. That'll wake you up quicker'n a pot of cappuccino. (That referring to both the cold water and the shriek.)
The second person hit the shower without problems...or, in the case, without ice water.
Several hours after the second running-of-the-shower, I decided to make a go of it. That's when I discovered that the water heater had gone AWOL. At first, I thought that maybe I'd cranked the cold water knob too far and the hot water not far enough. But finally, I turned them both on (with the shower knob in the full-force rain position), then turned only the hot water knob back on. It was wonderful...if you like cold showers.
Now, don't get me wrong, there are times I do enjoy a fairly cold shower. But it's usually in late August when I've spent the afternoon mowing the lawn. Those of you who have ever lived in Florida during August can relate; if you're from upstate New York, say, Buffalo or Rochester or upper New England; think February, then think its polar opposite. There you go. August in Florida is like sitting in a hot and humid sauna that is cranked up to the max and packed with the gold metal Olympic Sumo Wrestling team. Mow the lawn on an August afternoon, that cold shower'll feel real nice. Any other time, fuhgeddaboudit! (Yup, my NY accent might be showing.)
So, I called the landlord's answering service. This is, after all, Saturday. I kept thinking that I really hoped someone would call back today, since I don't relish the thought of another two days of cold showers. Fortunately, the property manager did call back. But since she's booked up this morning with repairs, she couldn't promise that she'd be here this afternoon, other than to find out if it's simply the heating element or the whole water heater that'll need replacing.
In the meantime, I think I'll go grab another cup of coffee. At least my coffee maker works and I have the coffee I bought yesterday to put into said coffee maker. I might as well have coffee; I'm already awake.
Wednesday, April 24, 2013
Walking/Running/Getting Out of the House
I went out for a walk this morning. I used to run and hope to get back into running.
Unfortunately, I haven't been out walking or hitting the gym the way I used to and the way I know I should. I'd started walking a little before friend hubby and I got married, when we were simply seeing each other. Back then, I walked maybe all of half-a-mile, then got ready for work.
Sometime after P. and I got married, I started running. Actually, I think it started off as walking Osha, our Cocker Spaniel. She loved going for walks. For her, it was a big deal. But then, I got to the point where I'd walk her several days, then go out for a run on the other days. Got to where I was really getting good at it, and enjoying it. Even started a running blog about how my runs (or walks) had gone.
After several deaths in the family, I slowed down on the running. Every time I'd start back, it seemed to take longer and longer to really get back into it. Then, on Halloween, 2010, I fell off a ladder at roof level and ended up in a local emergency room. It was a good two months before I could go out for any kind of a walk.
There are three holidays when I absolutely love going for a long walk. On Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter, I'll bake up pies and pumpkin bread first thing in the morning. Then, after getting the turkey in the oven, I'll throw on my shoes and walk through the nearby park. It usually takes about an hour, maybe a little more if I really take my time and enjoy the scenery. But by Thanksgiving after the ladder incident, there was no way I was up to going through the park. Heck, I barely had the energy to get the pies done and the turkey into the oven. Thank goodness I was up to walking on Christmas that year.
Since then, my walking or running has been sporatic, at best. But this morning, I figured it was now or never. It would have been too easy to come up with any number of excuses not to go out. Instead, I got changed as though I was actually going to go out for a walk. Then, I got out the door and actually went for a walk.
I'd forgotten how much I actually enjoy getting out the door for a morning walk or run. First off, I tend to notice things that have changed since I've started different routes, or even since the last time I've walked a certain route.
It tends to go something along like this: Oh, wow, that house is up for sale again. They just bought that house last year; I wonder why they're selling now? Wow, they bulldozed more of the woods. On the plus side, they planted a bunch of trees over there. I can't believe how much that colt over there has grown since last year! And on it goes.
Then there's the whole thinking aspect of it. Since I don't bring along a radio, iPod, or any other gadget to listen to music, I really have very little to distract me. Sure, I bring along my cell phone, since I tend to go cross country a lot on my walks. I've found myself face down on a dirt path more than once after tripping over a tree root or having a stone roll under my foot. Heck, I've been known to trip over bumps in the sidewalk! (Check out that Grace post again.) But as far as bringing along anything that would distract me from my surroundings, forget it. So, while I'm noticing the scenery, my mind is also mulling over stuff, wondering if I'll hear back on a job, if something I've written will sell, how best to edit a section of film, if...
...maybe I'll head out again tomorrow morning. (I think I will...)
Unfortunately, I haven't been out walking or hitting the gym the way I used to and the way I know I should. I'd started walking a little before friend hubby and I got married, when we were simply seeing each other. Back then, I walked maybe all of half-a-mile, then got ready for work.
Sometime after P. and I got married, I started running. Actually, I think it started off as walking Osha, our Cocker Spaniel. She loved going for walks. For her, it was a big deal. But then, I got to the point where I'd walk her several days, then go out for a run on the other days. Got to where I was really getting good at it, and enjoying it. Even started a running blog about how my runs (or walks) had gone.
After several deaths in the family, I slowed down on the running. Every time I'd start back, it seemed to take longer and longer to really get back into it. Then, on Halloween, 2010, I fell off a ladder at roof level and ended up in a local emergency room. It was a good two months before I could go out for any kind of a walk.
There are three holidays when I absolutely love going for a long walk. On Thanksgiving, Christmas and Easter, I'll bake up pies and pumpkin bread first thing in the morning. Then, after getting the turkey in the oven, I'll throw on my shoes and walk through the nearby park. It usually takes about an hour, maybe a little more if I really take my time and enjoy the scenery. But by Thanksgiving after the ladder incident, there was no way I was up to going through the park. Heck, I barely had the energy to get the pies done and the turkey into the oven. Thank goodness I was up to walking on Christmas that year.
Since then, my walking or running has been sporatic, at best. But this morning, I figured it was now or never. It would have been too easy to come up with any number of excuses not to go out. Instead, I got changed as though I was actually going to go out for a walk. Then, I got out the door and actually went for a walk.
I'd forgotten how much I actually enjoy getting out the door for a morning walk or run. First off, I tend to notice things that have changed since I've started different routes, or even since the last time I've walked a certain route.
It tends to go something along like this: Oh, wow, that house is up for sale again. They just bought that house last year; I wonder why they're selling now? Wow, they bulldozed more of the woods. On the plus side, they planted a bunch of trees over there. I can't believe how much that colt over there has grown since last year! And on it goes.
Then there's the whole thinking aspect of it. Since I don't bring along a radio, iPod, or any other gadget to listen to music, I really have very little to distract me. Sure, I bring along my cell phone, since I tend to go cross country a lot on my walks. I've found myself face down on a dirt path more than once after tripping over a tree root or having a stone roll under my foot. Heck, I've been known to trip over bumps in the sidewalk! (Check out that Grace post again.) But as far as bringing along anything that would distract me from my surroundings, forget it. So, while I'm noticing the scenery, my mind is also mulling over stuff, wondering if I'll hear back on a job, if something I've written will sell, how best to edit a section of film, if...
...maybe I'll head out again tomorrow morning. (I think I will...)
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Sand Candles
I spent the past few days making sand candles. That almost sounds like I've spent the entire day, several days in a row, making candles. But it's more like an hour here, half-an-hour there to come up with four nice-looking candles.
As with most things in life, especially if one is past a certain age, there's a back story. One doesn't simply decide I'm bored, I think I'll make sand candles today and then jump in and do it. For starters, you have to have wax with which to make the candles, unless you're making soy or bees wax candles.
Most of what is commonly called wax these days is actually paraffin, a petroleum-based substance. (Candlescience.com is a basic site for candle stuff; for a short, easy to read blurb on paraffin, check here.)
But back to the sand candles. Besides wax, you've got to have sand. I know, shocking, right? Sand candles, sand. You also need wicks so you can light the candles, and some way to anchor the bottom of the wick so that it doesn't float to the surface of the liquid wax. Then, if you want your candles to be something other than white, and maybe even have a nice scent, you'll need these, too.
Okay, so I had all this stuff. I'd bought wax - tons and tons of it - that I'd bought over the years. Maybe not tons of it, but I'd bought enough of the stuff in 14-pound blocks to be ridiculous. I still had the busted up remnants of a block of wax, as well as some leftover coloring, scents, molds, and wicks.
Over the past ten years or so, I'd made chunk candles. This involved melting several blocks of wax in small amounts, adding different colors to each batch, pouring each batch into a large pan (old, beat-up metal baking pans are great for this), then, letting each batch harden. Somewhere along the hardening process, when the wax is starting to firm up and no longer liquidy, but not hard hard, I'd take a sharp knife and cut criss-cross lines in the wax. That way, when the wax was hard, it'd break up fairly easily.
Once I had enough variety of colored chunks, I'd take the candle molds out, oil up the inside of them (this makes sliding the hardened candles out a lot easier), start melting some colored wax, making sure to dip the wicks into the hot liquid, then put the wicks into the molds. (There are holes in the bottom of most of the molds I used, through which to thread the wicks. You then have to have a way to finish plugging the hole.) Then, as the wax melted, I'd take chunks of wax in complimentary colors and arrange them throughout the molds in such a way that they show up around the edges of the candle after the main color was poured.
The nice thing with these chunk candles is that you can use the colors to make candles for different holidays and times of the year: a combination of red, green and white for winter holidays; red, white and blue for, say, the 4th of July; reds, oranges, yellows and browns for fall, etc. The main problem with the chunk candles happens to be the fact that you need tons of different colored chunks and a ton of time. Even with all the chunks ready, making a batch of chunk candles will easily eat up a couple of hours at a time - and that's not counting letting the candles cool and harden.
Sand candles are easier. You take sand, put it into a container, such as a small casserole dish, then use your hands to scoop out the candle's shape. While chunk candles (or most candles, for that matter) tend to be vertical, sand candles are horizontal. Once you dig out the shape, making sure that the bottom will be flat (and anchoring the wick[s]), you can add shells around the edges. This is what I like to do, since it adds a little more interest to the candle.
So, getting back to the candle-making: I knew I had wax set aside, just being there. I also knew I didn't have the time or energy to make chunk candles. Also, my daughter, M.H., and her family live near the beach. M.H. is frequently offering to drive me to the beach. We've actually managed to make it there once without a car mishap.
I'd mentioned once or twice that I needed sand for sand candles. M.H. offered to pick sand up the next time she went to the beach. Of course, when she'd get there, she wouldn't have anything to bring any sand home in. Several weeks ago, though, she swung by my place.
"How about coming with me?" she asked when she was ready to leave. "I've got to stop by work for a little while, and then wanted to go to the beach."
Off we went. After stopping by work, we picked up a couple of small pails to carry sand home in, then headed for the beach.
The sky was gray and looked like it might rain before the end of the day; it fit in well with the gray water and lighter-colored sand. M.H. and I walked around, picking up shells, walking ankle-deep into the water, enjoying the almost-empty beach. Between the sound of the waves, the raucous cawing of seagulls, the sound of the wind, and the skittishness of the small sandpipers, it was wildly peaceful. (If you've ever walked on the beach before a storm, you know that wildly peaceful in not an oxymoron.) The occasional person walking by didn't bother me the way seeing people on a packed beach would have.
Just before we left the beach with our shells, we filled the two small pails with sand, then put the pails into a couple of bags and tied the tops to keep the sand in.
Periodically, M.H. would ask if I'd made any sand candles yet, and I'd have to tell her I hadn't. We hang up and I'd think I really should get around to making them. After all, I'd mentioned needing the sand and shells so often to make them, it would be crazy not to.
A couple of days ago, I pulled down a small casserole container and filled it with sand. Then, as the wax melted into a blue-ish green, I set some broken shells around the edges of the scooped-out mold.
The first candle came out beautifully; so did the next three that I made yesterday. When M.H. and her daughter G. came by today, I showed her four sand candles.
"They're neat," M.H. said. "But why is there sand all over the outside of the candles?" I explained that was how I'd made the molds; she'd thought I added the sand to the wax. We both had different ideas of what sand candles meant.
I have to admit: adding sand to the wax might not be a bad idea.
Now if I could get another hour or two to try making sand candles with sand in the wax, that just might be something to see!
As with most things in life, especially if one is past a certain age, there's a back story. One doesn't simply decide I'm bored, I think I'll make sand candles today and then jump in and do it. For starters, you have to have wax with which to make the candles, unless you're making soy or bees wax candles.
Most of what is commonly called wax these days is actually paraffin, a petroleum-based substance. (Candlescience.com is a basic site for candle stuff; for a short, easy to read blurb on paraffin, check here.)
But back to the sand candles. Besides wax, you've got to have sand. I know, shocking, right? Sand candles, sand. You also need wicks so you can light the candles, and some way to anchor the bottom of the wick so that it doesn't float to the surface of the liquid wax. Then, if you want your candles to be something other than white, and maybe even have a nice scent, you'll need these, too.
Okay, so I had all this stuff. I'd bought wax - tons and tons of it - that I'd bought over the years. Maybe not tons of it, but I'd bought enough of the stuff in 14-pound blocks to be ridiculous. I still had the busted up remnants of a block of wax, as well as some leftover coloring, scents, molds, and wicks.
Over the past ten years or so, I'd made chunk candles. This involved melting several blocks of wax in small amounts, adding different colors to each batch, pouring each batch into a large pan (old, beat-up metal baking pans are great for this), then, letting each batch harden. Somewhere along the hardening process, when the wax is starting to firm up and no longer liquidy, but not hard hard, I'd take a sharp knife and cut criss-cross lines in the wax. That way, when the wax was hard, it'd break up fairly easily.
Once I had enough variety of colored chunks, I'd take the candle molds out, oil up the inside of them (this makes sliding the hardened candles out a lot easier), start melting some colored wax, making sure to dip the wicks into the hot liquid, then put the wicks into the molds. (There are holes in the bottom of most of the molds I used, through which to thread the wicks. You then have to have a way to finish plugging the hole.) Then, as the wax melted, I'd take chunks of wax in complimentary colors and arrange them throughout the molds in such a way that they show up around the edges of the candle after the main color was poured.
The nice thing with these chunk candles is that you can use the colors to make candles for different holidays and times of the year: a combination of red, green and white for winter holidays; red, white and blue for, say, the 4th of July; reds, oranges, yellows and browns for fall, etc. The main problem with the chunk candles happens to be the fact that you need tons of different colored chunks and a ton of time. Even with all the chunks ready, making a batch of chunk candles will easily eat up a couple of hours at a time - and that's not counting letting the candles cool and harden.
Sand candles are easier. You take sand, put it into a container, such as a small casserole dish, then use your hands to scoop out the candle's shape. While chunk candles (or most candles, for that matter) tend to be vertical, sand candles are horizontal. Once you dig out the shape, making sure that the bottom will be flat (and anchoring the wick[s]), you can add shells around the edges. This is what I like to do, since it adds a little more interest to the candle.
So, getting back to the candle-making: I knew I had wax set aside, just being there. I also knew I didn't have the time or energy to make chunk candles. Also, my daughter, M.H., and her family live near the beach. M.H. is frequently offering to drive me to the beach. We've actually managed to make it there once without a car mishap.
I'd mentioned once or twice that I needed sand for sand candles. M.H. offered to pick sand up the next time she went to the beach. Of course, when she'd get there, she wouldn't have anything to bring any sand home in. Several weeks ago, though, she swung by my place.
"How about coming with me?" she asked when she was ready to leave. "I've got to stop by work for a little while, and then wanted to go to the beach."
Off we went. After stopping by work, we picked up a couple of small pails to carry sand home in, then headed for the beach.
The sky was gray and looked like it might rain before the end of the day; it fit in well with the gray water and lighter-colored sand. M.H. and I walked around, picking up shells, walking ankle-deep into the water, enjoying the almost-empty beach. Between the sound of the waves, the raucous cawing of seagulls, the sound of the wind, and the skittishness of the small sandpipers, it was wildly peaceful. (If you've ever walked on the beach before a storm, you know that wildly peaceful in not an oxymoron.) The occasional person walking by didn't bother me the way seeing people on a packed beach would have.
Just before we left the beach with our shells, we filled the two small pails with sand, then put the pails into a couple of bags and tied the tops to keep the sand in.
Periodically, M.H. would ask if I'd made any sand candles yet, and I'd have to tell her I hadn't. We hang up and I'd think I really should get around to making them. After all, I'd mentioned needing the sand and shells so often to make them, it would be crazy not to.
A couple of days ago, I pulled down a small casserole container and filled it with sand. Then, as the wax melted into a blue-ish green, I set some broken shells around the edges of the scooped-out mold.
The first candle came out beautifully; so did the next three that I made yesterday. When M.H. and her daughter G. came by today, I showed her four sand candles.
"They're neat," M.H. said. "But why is there sand all over the outside of the candles?" I explained that was how I'd made the molds; she'd thought I added the sand to the wax. We both had different ideas of what sand candles meant.
I have to admit: adding sand to the wax might not be a bad idea.
Now if I could get another hour or two to try making sand candles with sand in the wax, that just might be something to see!
Monday, April 15, 2013
Boston Marathon Explosions
This afternoon, while checking out Facebook, I noticed a post from a friend, K.C., that seemed almost cryptic: "Not. Cool. I hope everybody's okay!" She then included a link, along with the headline that read "Explosions Reported At The Boston Marathon; Dozens Injured [Updating]".
At first, I didn't pay any attention: didn't read the headline, was aware of a photo but didn't look close, didn't check the link. But when another person, a professor that K.C. and I know from school, posted a comment: "This looks really bad. Here's another link to what's going on in Boston right now:" and a link. I went back and looked at K.C.'s post, followed both links, then turned on CNN, then, after a few minutes, turned to MSNBC.
What had happened, what is known so far, is this: The Boston Marathon ran today. It runs every year on Patriot's Day (the third Monday in April), beginning in 1897. This afternoon, two bombs went off at the finish line, after the first wave of runners had crossed the finish line. An incident also occurred at the JFK Library; at first, the incident was reported as a fire, then as a third bomb. (At this time, reports on whether it was, in fact, a fire or third bomb are conflicting.)
I lived in the northeast corner of Connecticut for a little over four years, first in Thompson, right across the line from Webster, Mass., then in South Woodstock. During those years, living equidistance from Providence, Hartford, and Boston (*see below), my parents would frequently bring my sister, brother and me to each of those cities; each of them hold a special place in my memories. For years, I'd thought how wonderful it would be to someday run the Boston Marathon, then spend a day or two (or more) hanging out there.
Years later, when I first started running, the idea of running a marathon and eventually qualifying for Boston reemerged. Sure, I'd watch the New York Marathon, multiple Olympic Marathons, was aware of local marathons...But the Boston Marathon has remained the marathon that sparks the imagination, especially for one who lived in New England for a few years.
As I listened and watched the news, I was as stunned as I'm sure most people watching the unfolding news were. And it's still unfolding: The FBI would be sending agents to investigate; two people are now reported dead, over 100 injured; Logan Airport is closed; people are being told not to be in crowds for safety's sake.
With athletes from around the world in Boston to run the marathon, this becomes not just an attack on the U.S., but on the international community to a degree.
As President Barack Obama has just stated in a press conference, in something like this, "There are no Democrats or Republicans." We can add that there are no Americans, Africans, Europeans, Asians...there are simply people.
May God/Allah/Jehovah/Great Spirit/Mother Earth bless and care for us all.
*Providence is the capital of Rhode Island, Hartford, the capital of Connecticut, and Boston, the capital of Massachusettes.
At first, I didn't pay any attention: didn't read the headline, was aware of a photo but didn't look close, didn't check the link. But when another person, a professor that K.C. and I know from school, posted a comment: "This looks really bad. Here's another link to what's going on in Boston right now:" and a link. I went back and looked at K.C.'s post, followed both links, then turned on CNN, then, after a few minutes, turned to MSNBC.
What had happened, what is known so far, is this: The Boston Marathon ran today. It runs every year on Patriot's Day (the third Monday in April), beginning in 1897. This afternoon, two bombs went off at the finish line, after the first wave of runners had crossed the finish line. An incident also occurred at the JFK Library; at first, the incident was reported as a fire, then as a third bomb. (At this time, reports on whether it was, in fact, a fire or third bomb are conflicting.)
I lived in the northeast corner of Connecticut for a little over four years, first in Thompson, right across the line from Webster, Mass., then in South Woodstock. During those years, living equidistance from Providence, Hartford, and Boston (*see below), my parents would frequently bring my sister, brother and me to each of those cities; each of them hold a special place in my memories. For years, I'd thought how wonderful it would be to someday run the Boston Marathon, then spend a day or two (or more) hanging out there.
Years later, when I first started running, the idea of running a marathon and eventually qualifying for Boston reemerged. Sure, I'd watch the New York Marathon, multiple Olympic Marathons, was aware of local marathons...But the Boston Marathon has remained the marathon that sparks the imagination, especially for one who lived in New England for a few years.
As I listened and watched the news, I was as stunned as I'm sure most people watching the unfolding news were. And it's still unfolding: The FBI would be sending agents to investigate; two people are now reported dead, over 100 injured; Logan Airport is closed; people are being told not to be in crowds for safety's sake.
With athletes from around the world in Boston to run the marathon, this becomes not just an attack on the U.S., but on the international community to a degree.
As President Barack Obama has just stated in a press conference, in something like this, "There are no Democrats or Republicans." We can add that there are no Americans, Africans, Europeans, Asians...there are simply people.
May God/Allah/Jehovah/Great Spirit/Mother Earth bless and care for us all.
*Providence is the capital of Rhode Island, Hartford, the capital of Connecticut, and Boston, the capital of Massachusettes.
Sunday, April 7, 2013
So, We're a Crafty Bunch of Artists...
My daughter, M.H., stopped by this afternoon. She couldn't stay long, but she did want to drop off some stuff, as well as pick up a few things. Nothing earth-shattering.
Sometimes, though, she'll drop off craft stuff, or we'll go out and pick up a few odds and ends. It's always kind-of fun to figure out what crafty, artist-y things we'll end up with. I'm still wondering what kind of painting she did on the black canvas she picked up last month; I know what I'd paint on a one. (Note to self: Must pick up a few black canvases ASAP.)
Artistic talent runs in our family. Mom was a writer, though her writing output seems to have dwindled over the past few years. But when I was a kid growing up in New York (state, not city) decades ago, she had an old typewriter on a desk in a small out-of-the-way nook in the kitchen. I'd watch her write, then, later, as she started fixing dinner, I'd write stories on the same typewriter, hunting and pecking away. One of my job-search cover letters starts out, "I am a writer. According to certain relatives, I was born, not with a silver spoon, but a pencil in one hand and a stack of paper in the other. It took me a while to crawl to the typewriter. (Mom and Dad may have exaggerated a little.)" The apple - or writer - doesn't fall too far...
She also did quite a bit of painting over the years; I have two of her watercolor paintings of flower arrangements on my wall. Years earlier, she'd worked in oils.
Mom and I have two cousins, a brother and sister, who are also very artistic. D. had a small studio in his parents' basement for painting; his sister was also so inclined.
My paternal grandfather's artistry tended toward the mechanical workings of radios, which he repaired in his electronic repair shop for years. But on my dad's side of the family, there are definitely artists and craftsmen. (Check out Art-N-Time Creations.)
My oldest son, J.A., also has a painting hanging on the same wall as his grandmother's watercolors. It's a really cool oil painting of a sunset, and looks like it's of the Southwestern U.S. I've had numerous people admire it; they're almost always surprised upon hearing that J.A. was 13 when he painted it, it's that good. He's now trying his hand at craft beers, with thoughts of eventually starting a microbrewery. (Butternut squash ale, anyone?) I wish he also kept up with the painting, too. He also wrote a lot; I keep running across old notebooks of his with stories and drawings in them.
My younger two, who still live at home, also write. A lot.
Getting back to M.H...When she discovered that some of my old acrylic paints were no longer usable, she decided it was time for us to get some more. Ditto on stuff to make Sculpey creations.
Note: For anyone who is unfamiliar with Sculpey, it's a type of polymer clay that is hardened in a regular oven. I first heard of it from my ex-, who used to make beads with it, then hand out bracelets to various people. I've also used it to make all sorts of creations. (Here is one of the sites for Sculpey.)
The next thing that M.H. and I have to pick up is a bucket of sand; since M.H. lives near the beach (remember the Tampa Bay (Car) Triangle fiasco?), that shouldn't be a problem. Between that and a bunch of shells (both whole and in pieces), we'll be making a bunch of sand candles. We won't get into my photography and videos (you could check out http://robinshwedoproductions.weebly.com).
Sand candles, Sculpey creations, paintings, writing, ale, time piecs, photography, videos...we're just a crafty bunch of artists.
Sometimes, though, she'll drop off craft stuff, or we'll go out and pick up a few odds and ends. It's always kind-of fun to figure out what crafty, artist-y things we'll end up with. I'm still wondering what kind of painting she did on the black canvas she picked up last month; I know what I'd paint on a one. (Note to self: Must pick up a few black canvases ASAP.)
Artistic talent runs in our family. Mom was a writer, though her writing output seems to have dwindled over the past few years. But when I was a kid growing up in New York (state, not city) decades ago, she had an old typewriter on a desk in a small out-of-the-way nook in the kitchen. I'd watch her write, then, later, as she started fixing dinner, I'd write stories on the same typewriter, hunting and pecking away. One of my job-search cover letters starts out, "I am a writer. According to certain relatives, I was born, not with a silver spoon, but a pencil in one hand and a stack of paper in the other. It took me a while to crawl to the typewriter. (Mom and Dad may have exaggerated a little.)" The apple - or writer - doesn't fall too far...
She also did quite a bit of painting over the years; I have two of her watercolor paintings of flower arrangements on my wall. Years earlier, she'd worked in oils.
Mom and I have two cousins, a brother and sister, who are also very artistic. D. had a small studio in his parents' basement for painting; his sister was also so inclined.
My paternal grandfather's artistry tended toward the mechanical workings of radios, which he repaired in his electronic repair shop for years. But on my dad's side of the family, there are definitely artists and craftsmen. (Check out Art-N-Time Creations.)
My oldest son, J.A., also has a painting hanging on the same wall as his grandmother's watercolors. It's a really cool oil painting of a sunset, and looks like it's of the Southwestern U.S. I've had numerous people admire it; they're almost always surprised upon hearing that J.A. was 13 when he painted it, it's that good. He's now trying his hand at craft beers, with thoughts of eventually starting a microbrewery. (Butternut squash ale, anyone?) I wish he also kept up with the painting, too. He also wrote a lot; I keep running across old notebooks of his with stories and drawings in them.
My younger two, who still live at home, also write. A lot.
Getting back to M.H...When she discovered that some of my old acrylic paints were no longer usable, she decided it was time for us to get some more. Ditto on stuff to make Sculpey creations.
Note: For anyone who is unfamiliar with Sculpey, it's a type of polymer clay that is hardened in a regular oven. I first heard of it from my ex-, who used to make beads with it, then hand out bracelets to various people. I've also used it to make all sorts of creations. (Here is one of the sites for Sculpey.)
The next thing that M.H. and I have to pick up is a bucket of sand; since M.H. lives near the beach (remember the Tampa Bay (Car) Triangle fiasco?), that shouldn't be a problem. Between that and a bunch of shells (both whole and in pieces), we'll be making a bunch of sand candles. We won't get into my photography and videos (you could check out http://robinshwedoproductions.weebly.com).
Sand candles, Sculpey creations, paintings, writing, ale, time piecs, photography, videos...we're just a crafty bunch of artists.
Monday, March 11, 2013
The Tampa Bay (Car) Triangle, or How I Jinxed a Car
I hate to admit it, but I may have jinxed my daughter's car.
There, I said it, but it needed to be said. Better you hear it here first, than from my daughter, though she might have a word or two to say about it.
Okay, a little back story here. My daughter, M.H., her husband B., and daughter, G., moved back to the area from Rhode Island last summer. If one is going to be technical about it, M.H. and B. moved back here; G. is moving here for the first time. No matter, they're here.
They'd been here for not quite two months when their old car died completely. Nothing like the smell of burning rubber, followed by a loud boom, a large poof of smoke, and a blown engine in the middle of a major intersection to announce its demise. This was followed by the purchase of a scooter so that M.H. could at least get back and forth to work.
Cute as the scooter is, as well as good on gas, it is not exactly designed for hauling around a family of three. At least, not all at the same time. When B. ended up in the hospital (see February 14's post: What a week, or Is everyone in the hospital?"), it was obvious that buying a car was in their immediate future.
M.H. mentioned she'd been looking at cars. Then, a couple of days later, I called and got B. on the phone.
"M.H. is on her way to your place," he told me. "At least, I think she is."
A few minutes later, a car horn sounded out front. It was M.H. in her new white Toyota. Well, not new new, but new to her. It ran well, it didn't have a blown engine, it had room for four people, comfortably; in other words, it's wonderful. She was able to take B. and G. places, able to pick me up for errands, able to get to and from work comfortably when it rained.
A week or two later, M.H. stopped by. "Come on, we're going to the beach!" There was no one else there.
"We, who?" I asked. When she gave me that look that said, "A little slow today, are we?", I hurried on, "Are we picking B. up on the way?" We had to pass right by their place on the way to the beach.
"Sure, we'll swing by our place and see if he wants to come along," she said. "He'll probably want to come."
But no, B. was comfortable where he was. After hanging out for a few minutes, M.H. and I headed back to the car.
"Enjoy yourselves," B. said as we left.
Once in the car, though, we realized the beach was not an option. Remember the question about how to make God laugh? (Answer: Tell Him your plans.) This was one of those times. The car would not start. Wouldn't even make a noise like it wanted to turn over, no click, click when she turned the key, nothing.
"Oh, great, now what?" she asked.
"Pop the hood," I told her. The rule is that if your car won't start, even if you have no idea what's wrong, even if you can't tell an alternator from an alternate universe, you pop the hood, right?
I tried moving the battery cables. If the car isn't getting any juice from the battery, it's obvious the car won't start. But the cables seemed tight. M.H. tried turning the key again. Nothing. She called B. on her cellphone. (Yes, I know: we were still parked in front of their place; at this point, that's beside the point.)
"The car won't start," she told him.
I didn't hear the rest of the conversation, as I'd grabbed my cellphone to call my friend Kevin. He's regaled me with enough stories of growing up and putting together car after car after beater car with friends that I figured he'd be able to give us a pointer or two. I was already leaning towards either a new battery or an alternator, but I figured he could offer some advice.
After listening to the symptoms ("ran great coming here, now it won't even try to turn over"), he concurred that it was probably either the batter or alternator. "If she still has the scooter, she can try jumping the car off that. I'm guessing the scooter's got a 12 volt battery, so it should be able to handle that."
I thanked him and passed along the news. We went inside, got the jumper cables, along with a battery charger B.'s mom had given them several years ago. Unfortunately, the charger needed to be charged for hours before its first use. The scooter was equally helpful for jumping off the car.
Finally, M.H. asked a neighbor for help. Mr. Neighbor pulled Mrs. Neighbor's pickup truck around, we hooked up cables, and sure enough, the car started. Sounded beautiful. We thanked Mr. Neighbor, put the cables away, then headed back to my place. We both figured the beach was not an option that evening.
There were a few more quirky happenings with the car that evening, part of which involved Kevin bringing his cab to my place to jump-start M.H.'s car again. It died a third time as she pulled up in front of her place.
A few days later, with a friend's help, she got the car to where she'd bought it; it turned out to be the alternator. It was changed, and off she went.
Then, this morning, M.H. called and offered to help me run errands. We got a few things done and came back home.
"Hey, want to try going to the beach again?"
"Sure, why not?" It would be a pleasant diversion.
We got back into the car and first headed to her place. She had groceries, so we'd put them inside and see if B. wanted to come along. M.H.'s neighbors were sitting out front. I hoped that this wasn't going to be a pattern: we decide to go to the beach, we stop at her place, we see the neighbors out front, the car dies.
B. said he wouldn't come along, he was happy to stay home. Again, he told us to enjoy ourselves at the beach.
So, we get into the car. M.H. puts the key into the ignition...and it starts! We both smiled.
"Good!" we breathed.
We were almost to the beach when M.H. decided she needed to gas up the car, so we pulled into the next station. After putting in a few gallons, she climbed back in, put the key into the ignition, and...nothing. She tried it again. Nothing.
"Really?" she said. "I pick you up to go to the beach, we stop by my place, and the car dies again?"
We pushed the car away from the pump (no minor thing with this particular car) and into a parking space. M.H. called someone from work who promised to stop by after work. Then she called B.
"The car won't start." I got out of the car to give her some privacy.
The coworker arrived a little while later, but while the car sounded like it wanted to start, it wouldn't. So M.H. called the place she'd bought it from. The mechanic who'd changed the alternator told her to have me try moving the positive battery cable. Didn't help. He'd send someone.
After the coworker left, but before the mechanic arrived, we both decided that I'd jinxed the car. "You, the beach, the car: It's the Tampa Bay Car Triangle!"
This time, however, it was a simple fix: the clamps on the battery cables were loose; they were fixed and we were good to go.
"No, don't worry about it!" the mechanic told us when we tried to slip him some cash.
"Okay, it's a tip!"
But no, he wouldn't take the money. We thanked him, he left, and we headed for the beach.
It was almost deserted, wonderfully cool, nice waves...definitely relaxing.
On the way home, as we waited at a light, M.H. glanced over. "I've got an idea. Once a week, I'll come over, tell you we're going to the beach, we'll stop by my place, the car'll die, we'll have a hissy fit, then I'll take you home."
I guess this means that if that's our plan, God'll let us go to the beach...
There, I said it, but it needed to be said. Better you hear it here first, than from my daughter, though she might have a word or two to say about it.
Okay, a little back story here. My daughter, M.H., her husband B., and daughter, G., moved back to the area from Rhode Island last summer. If one is going to be technical about it, M.H. and B. moved back here; G. is moving here for the first time. No matter, they're here.
They'd been here for not quite two months when their old car died completely. Nothing like the smell of burning rubber, followed by a loud boom, a large poof of smoke, and a blown engine in the middle of a major intersection to announce its demise. This was followed by the purchase of a scooter so that M.H. could at least get back and forth to work.
Cute as the scooter is, as well as good on gas, it is not exactly designed for hauling around a family of three. At least, not all at the same time. When B. ended up in the hospital (see February 14's post: What a week, or Is everyone in the hospital?"), it was obvious that buying a car was in their immediate future.
M.H. mentioned she'd been looking at cars. Then, a couple of days later, I called and got B. on the phone.
"M.H. is on her way to your place," he told me. "At least, I think she is."
A few minutes later, a car horn sounded out front. It was M.H. in her new white Toyota. Well, not new new, but new to her. It ran well, it didn't have a blown engine, it had room for four people, comfortably; in other words, it's wonderful. She was able to take B. and G. places, able to pick me up for errands, able to get to and from work comfortably when it rained.
A week or two later, M.H. stopped by. "Come on, we're going to the beach!" There was no one else there.
"We, who?" I asked. When she gave me that look that said, "A little slow today, are we?", I hurried on, "Are we picking B. up on the way?" We had to pass right by their place on the way to the beach.
"Sure, we'll swing by our place and see if he wants to come along," she said. "He'll probably want to come."
But no, B. was comfortable where he was. After hanging out for a few minutes, M.H. and I headed back to the car.
"Enjoy yourselves," B. said as we left.
Once in the car, though, we realized the beach was not an option. Remember the question about how to make God laugh? (Answer: Tell Him your plans.) This was one of those times. The car would not start. Wouldn't even make a noise like it wanted to turn over, no click, click when she turned the key, nothing.
"Oh, great, now what?" she asked.
"Pop the hood," I told her. The rule is that if your car won't start, even if you have no idea what's wrong, even if you can't tell an alternator from an alternate universe, you pop the hood, right?
I tried moving the battery cables. If the car isn't getting any juice from the battery, it's obvious the car won't start. But the cables seemed tight. M.H. tried turning the key again. Nothing. She called B. on her cellphone. (Yes, I know: we were still parked in front of their place; at this point, that's beside the point.)
"The car won't start," she told him.
I didn't hear the rest of the conversation, as I'd grabbed my cellphone to call my friend Kevin. He's regaled me with enough stories of growing up and putting together car after car after beater car with friends that I figured he'd be able to give us a pointer or two. I was already leaning towards either a new battery or an alternator, but I figured he could offer some advice.
After listening to the symptoms ("ran great coming here, now it won't even try to turn over"), he concurred that it was probably either the batter or alternator. "If she still has the scooter, she can try jumping the car off that. I'm guessing the scooter's got a 12 volt battery, so it should be able to handle that."
I thanked him and passed along the news. We went inside, got the jumper cables, along with a battery charger B.'s mom had given them several years ago. Unfortunately, the charger needed to be charged for hours before its first use. The scooter was equally helpful for jumping off the car.
Finally, M.H. asked a neighbor for help. Mr. Neighbor pulled Mrs. Neighbor's pickup truck around, we hooked up cables, and sure enough, the car started. Sounded beautiful. We thanked Mr. Neighbor, put the cables away, then headed back to my place. We both figured the beach was not an option that evening.
There were a few more quirky happenings with the car that evening, part of which involved Kevin bringing his cab to my place to jump-start M.H.'s car again. It died a third time as she pulled up in front of her place.
A few days later, with a friend's help, she got the car to where she'd bought it; it turned out to be the alternator. It was changed, and off she went.
Then, this morning, M.H. called and offered to help me run errands. We got a few things done and came back home.
"Hey, want to try going to the beach again?"
"Sure, why not?" It would be a pleasant diversion.
We got back into the car and first headed to her place. She had groceries, so we'd put them inside and see if B. wanted to come along. M.H.'s neighbors were sitting out front. I hoped that this wasn't going to be a pattern: we decide to go to the beach, we stop at her place, we see the neighbors out front, the car dies.
B. said he wouldn't come along, he was happy to stay home. Again, he told us to enjoy ourselves at the beach.
So, we get into the car. M.H. puts the key into the ignition...and it starts! We both smiled.
"Good!" we breathed.
We were almost to the beach when M.H. decided she needed to gas up the car, so we pulled into the next station. After putting in a few gallons, she climbed back in, put the key into the ignition, and...nothing. She tried it again. Nothing.
"Really?" she said. "I pick you up to go to the beach, we stop by my place, and the car dies again?"
We pushed the car away from the pump (no minor thing with this particular car) and into a parking space. M.H. called someone from work who promised to stop by after work. Then she called B.
"The car won't start." I got out of the car to give her some privacy.
The coworker arrived a little while later, but while the car sounded like it wanted to start, it wouldn't. So M.H. called the place she'd bought it from. The mechanic who'd changed the alternator told her to have me try moving the positive battery cable. Didn't help. He'd send someone.
After the coworker left, but before the mechanic arrived, we both decided that I'd jinxed the car. "You, the beach, the car: It's the Tampa Bay Car Triangle!"
This time, however, it was a simple fix: the clamps on the battery cables were loose; they were fixed and we were good to go.
"No, don't worry about it!" the mechanic told us when we tried to slip him some cash.
"Okay, it's a tip!"
But no, he wouldn't take the money. We thanked him, he left, and we headed for the beach.
It was almost deserted, wonderfully cool, nice waves...definitely relaxing.
On the way home, as we waited at a light, M.H. glanced over. "I've got an idea. Once a week, I'll come over, tell you we're going to the beach, we'll stop by my place, the car'll die, we'll have a hissy fit, then I'll take you home."
I guess this means that if that's our plan, God'll let us go to the beach...
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