Philly Cheesesteak

Photo: Randy Mayor; Styling: Leigh Ann Ross 

Last night, I made the Philly Cheesesteak recipe from the March edition of Cooking Light magazine. I don't really like flank steak. Mostly, because it always comes out tough. But when I followed the directions, sliced it thin, and seasoned it generously, it came out tender and delicious. Don't skip the 1/2 teaspoon Worcestershire and 1/2 teaspoon soy sauce. Even those small amounts made a big, flavorful difference.

I did skip step three altogether, however. Instead of melting provolone and Parmigiano-Regianno cheeses with additional ingredients (milk, flour, mustard), I just used one slice of provolone and one slice of Swiss per sandwich.

I won't hollow out the rolls tonight (for the leftovers). For four sandwiches, I thought the recipe was just a little short. (Maybe, add another mushroom or use 16 ounces steak next time.)

It would be almost elegant with a salad or sliced apples on the side. I served it with potato chips and was pretty happy about it.

It's In My Genes

One of the advantages of driving a convertible over driving a motorcycle is you don't have to wear a helmet. And, when you sing along with the radio, you're less likely to get something in your mouth.

When I was thirty (which was a long, long time ago) my goal was to own a Harley at age forty. When I turned forty (almost a decade ago), the idea of falling off a Harley overtook my earlier obsession. Four wheels are better than two, I reasoned.

I've had the convertible ten years now. Amazing how time flies when there's no roof.

My grandmother had a convertible. If I remember correctly, it was a green Karmann Ghia that looked like this:

I thought that was pretty cool. So, can somebody tell me the story of how it is my grandmother ended up driving this?

It sucks when you get to work only to find the coffee you got on the way as a reward for working seven days a week is the wrong friggin' drink!

Last One, Then I've Got to Get To Work

(Unless, of course, we should all stay home because it's snowing.)

I decided I need tinted windows on my car. That way, no one can see me singing along with the radio. As it is, I sing while I'm between cars and then when I am about to pass, I try to sing without moving my lips much. Very casual, like. I keep hoping that one day, the lyrics will be something the stations will provide on my navigational display installed in my dashboard. Better yet, in a heads up holographic display right in my windshield. 

They can regulate texting but they can't regulate singing (unless you're in Kirkland where they are trying to regulate hooting in addition to singing).

But until then, tinted windows are the answer I think. (Unless the top is down. Then all bets are off.)

It's Not Green Now

It's snowing, as I mentioned. Big, white fluffy flakes that won't hang around long. (Actually, I just decided to peek at a weather forecast - for whatever that's worth - and it looks like we could get snow through the weekend. Jeez.)

Which brings me to my point. The Washington State license plate features a blue rendition of a snow covered Mount Rainier on a white background. All the lettering is in red. The caption reads,

The Evergreen State

So, I checked out the history of our state's license. At no time did the license plate feature evergreens, although the plate was often green itself. You can see all the passenger-car license plates from 1916 to 2008 here. The first green plate was in 1921 but green wasn't used predominantly until 1929. Green was dropped altogether when the Mt. Rainier plate came out in 1987. "Evergreen State" was added in 1997. 

No wonder Mother Nature is confused.

The End Is Near

I've decided that Mother Nature is on crack. We've had snow, sideways rain, hail, and sunshine - all in the same day!

It's snowing right now, this St. Patrick's Day. I'd really be freaked out if it was green, though.

Cool Exhibit

Who gets wetter, someone walking in the rain or running? Is it really possible to hang from a cliff by your fingers until help arrives like they do in the movies? And is Superman the only one who is faster than a speeding bullet? Those are questions the Discovery Channel's "MythBusters" has asked for years, and starting Thursday, anybody who's wondered how long it takes to put on a superhero outfit in a phone booth — don't forget the cape — can answer them for themselves at Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry. 

 Read more here.

Glad We Got That Straightened Out

In a March 14 story about a billionaire family giving away a school campus in Northfield, Mass., The Associated Press incorrectly reported that the town has no traffic lights. The town has blinking traffic lights.

Correction: Free Campus story (Photos, too.)

Lynn D. "Buck" Compton died today

http://seattletimes.nwsource.com/html/localnews/2017616564_apusobitbandofbrothers3rdldwritethru.html

Speaking of Sock Escapes

Now that you mention it, there's something going on in my laundry room. My socks are no longer trying to escape. Odd, no?

Instead, foreign socks are using my laundry basket as a cloaking device, if you will, in order to get smuggled out of the laundry room and into my apartment. Isn't someone supposed to be defending my borders? Isn't there some sort of fence to keep these foreign socks out?

The first one almost got away with it, too. It was a solo but I figured its mate was about somewhere and put it in the drawer. Just like that, it was there - with all my other socks! It was a full week later - probably the next laundry day - before I noticed there was something different about this sock. It wasn't mine!

I returned it to the laundry room and it wasn't long before it disappeared again. I don't know where it ultimately went and I don't want to know. In fact, I'll deny that I ever saw it in the first place.

But, before I knew it, it happened again! This time, it was a pair and I noticed them right away. Well, not before they made it back to my apartment but at least they didn't make it as far as my drawer. Close call!

I deported them straight back to the laundry room and unceremoniously dumped them on top of the dryer. I'll never know what became of them but sometimes I wonder if they're okay, if I did the right thing. On the other hand, they didn't belong here and it's better that I don't get involved.

So, next time, I'm calling the authorities. Or maybe the Computer Science Division at UC Berkeley.

Oh, Really

“Imprisonment alone is not enough to create a custodial situation...,” Justice Samuel Alito wrote in the court’s majority opinion.

Washington Post: Supreme Court says prison inmates don’t have to be read rights in different investigations

AC/DC - Coming To A Living Room Near Me

Shall we talk speaker? Subwoofers? Amplifiers? Oh, please, do we have to?

We just bought a new stereo. Correction: Pioneer Elite amplifier and Martin Logan 12 tower speakers. You would think that in our 500 sq.ft. apartment we could hear the TV just fine. Well, I could. But now the neighbors will hear it pretty well too.

The setup looks nice but I'm afraid that when we turn it on we'll blow a fuse and the plaster right off the walls. And by looking at the collection of remote controls, I suspect a conspiracy (of one). The TV is now sufficiently complicated enough that I can't run it by myself thereby ensuring a lifelong reliance on my husband. Talk about relationship security.

Naturally, setup is a process so I've been charged with procuring beer because beer is a prerequisite for all home improvement projects.

That, and a first aid kit.

Speaking of Taxes

It's not all about the Feds. Tax Foundation Fiscal Fact No. 291:

The five highest combined rates are Tennessee (9.45 percent), Arizona (9.12 percent), Louisiana (8.85 percent), Washington (8.80 percent), and Oklahoma (8.66 percent).

 More information at the Tax Foundation.

I need a latte lollipop. It's too late in the day for coffee although I really, really want one. A coffee in the afternoon doesn't work for me. But a latte, that's different. And, decaf doesn't really count so what's a person to do?

Chocolate.

A Bug Story

Cicadas are disgusting. That's why I left Chicago.

In 1973, my hometown was swarmed with locusts. If you didn't live there, you don't have any idea of what I'm talking about. I was a little girl so I admit my memory has acquired patina over the years but try to think in Biblical terms: Swarms. Of. Locusts. (Flee now!)

I don't know how to give you a sense of my my meaning. Try:

be alive with, be all over the place, be knee deep in, be no end to, be plentiful, be thick with, be up to one's ears in, crawl with, crowd, flourish, flow, have a full plate, infest, overflow, proliferate, swarm, swell, teem, thrive
(Thesaurus.com)

That'll give you an idea. They were everywhere. EVERYWHERE. They were loud and they could FLY! They shed their skins leaving locust-shaped shells behind them. Their eyes were freaking RED! I was traumatized! Thank goodness they only come around once every 17 years!

I knew in 1973 that I would not be living there in 1990. And I wasn't. I left in 1981 and, for the most part, have never been back. Good thing, because

In 1990, there were reports from people in Chicago having to use snow shovels to clear their sidewalks of the dead cicadas.
(Cicadas in Illinois, University of Illinois Extension )

Ew.

I'd be careful about visiting anytime during the Summer of 2024.

An Aunt Story

This is a story about an Aunt and her sweatshirt. Really, it's a story about the Christmas of 1981 in Ohio. My parents and I cooked up a scheme to give everyone red sweatshirts with a word on it - ironed on in green letters. Only when everyone was wearing their sweatshirts and assembled in the proper order would the words make some sort of sense. Only we didn't give them any clues. The idea was to see how long it would take for everyone to figure it out.

There were twelve sweatshirts. I remember my grandmother was "A Mare," Grandpa was "Moose," and Aunt Lea was "Men." My youngest cousin was "Wee Fish" and the newest member of the family was an aunt who had recently married into the C Dot clan. She was the first to unwrap a sweatshirt and hers read "Ant." Cute, she must have thought, like getting a garish Christmas sweater in a roomful of newly acquired in-laws. She smiled, and thanked us anyway and probably thought we were all a little off our rockers.

The gift exchange continued and then someone else opened another sweatshirt. And then another. Finally, someone (and I suspect this is another aunt) guessed that we were up to something, that this was some sort of riddle. Oh, we thought we were so clever to devise such a game. Everyone put on their sweatshirts and went into a huddle and, sure enough, they figured it out. Clever people, these C Dots.

There's a picture of everyone wearing their sweatshirts. Assembled in order, they read:

Wee Fish - Ewe - A Mare - Egrets - Moose - Panda - Hippo - Gnu - Deer (to which we added, since we need three more sweatshirts) Ant - Men - Emu

I'll have to find that picture. I owe someone for posting a picture about Floss Dancing but that's a different story entirely.

I'm Driving In My Car / I Turn On The Radio*

I don't drink and drive because coffee deserves to be in ceramic. Not paper. Not plastic. Not stainless steel. Ceramic. Red, if I have anything to say about it.

And if you really want to curb erratic driving behavior, what you should outlaw is Rock n Roll, not cell phones. Specifically, signing along. That's my problem. That's why I listen to NPR most of the time. I can't sing along and I tend to drive more conservatively. When I sing along to Rock n Roll, I tend to exceed the speed limit. Just a little.

My driving becomes more erratic when I start dancing. Hard to do in a stick shift, really, but I suppose I shouldn't do it all. Not while driving anyway, and definitely not with the top down.

*"Fire" lyrics by Bruce Springsteen
Fire lyrics © Sony/ATV Music Publishing LLC, Warner/Chappell Music, Inc., Kobalt Music Publishing Ltd., EMI Music Publishing

An Ant Story

The ants moved in while we were away. Isn't that how these things always start? We had just come back from a vacation on a late flight in a total downpour. We were tired and glad to be home until the cab driver dropped us off and we opened the front door to find all our smoke and fire detectors blaring.

We are not strangers to disaster striking while we're on vacation. In a previous house, our hot water heater burst while we were away and flooded the daylight basement. Of course, this was just after we had remodeled said basement so the good news was I knew what to do. I called all the contractors who had just been there and told them to come back and do it all over again.

We were nervous about what we would find but we didn't smell smoke so we went inside and looked for signs of fire. There were none so we went about turning off the alarms. We have six detectors in the house and only one can be reached with a six-foot ladder so we started there. The other five are mounted to vaulted ceilings.

We pushed the little button. Nothing. We pulled out the battery. Nothing. I went to the garage to turn off the power. Still nothing. The alarms are hard-wired. When one goes off, they all do. And, they all have battery backup power.

We didn't know what to do. We couldn't just go to sleep and worry about fixing it in the morning and we didn't have a tall enough ladder. So, we called the fire department.

They came in the middle of the night, in the heavy rain, hauled their ladder inside and one by one turned off all the alarms by unmounting each one and pulling out their batteries. When they got to our den, they found the problem. A colony of ants had moved into our attic and were trying to get into the house through one of the smoke detectors. They had clogged it up completely - it was full of giant black ants - and they had severed some connection that triggered the alarms.

It was a vast colony and once the smoke detector had been removed from its mount they poured in, literally dripping from the ceiling. Now, it's the middle of the night, it's raining, our ears were ringing, the fire department just left, and we had ants raining from above. Hundreds of them, it seemed. There was no way I was going to sleep now!

I got out the shop vac and starting sucking up ants. Hubby got out our six-foot ladder and an extender pole we use for changing light bulbs that are too high for us to reach and fashioned a cover for the hole in the ceiling out of a Ziploc bag and masking tape. But I still wasn't going to bed just across the hall.

So Hubby filled a five gallon bucket with water and positioned it under the hole for any ants that made it past his barrier. Into the water they would fall, and they would drown, he told me.

Still, I stuffed a towel under my door.

It was a disgusting mess to clean up the next day. Ants had filled the plastic bag. Some were in the bucket. But we managed, as people do when they find ants in unexpected places.

Now, we own a very long ladder and we are loyal customers of Orkin. (But we still go on vacations.)

Dirty Rats

I'm out of coffee. Not just in my cup. In the house.

Remember the six pounds of coffee I got for Christmas (instead of the trip to Belize)? That's all in the freezer at the other house. Where I am now - no coffee!

I'm forced to go to work for my next fix.

Tricky.

Employee Benefits

My employer has installed a latte filled gerbil feeder just above my monitors. It's brilliant, really. I mean, I am really, really focused here. I can't wait to do tax returns - literally. I don't know how they can keep it warm for so long but it takes all day to drink it, one drop at a time. Oh man, is it good! I used to suck my coffee down in about 15 minutes and then spend the rest of the day moping around because it was all gone. No more! Now, I get coffee all day and I don't ever have to leave my desk.

Hey, wait a minute. What's this exercise wheel for?

I don't care what the groundhog said. I put away all my flannel pajamas. Winter is over.

I Agree

I'm writing to you a someone who will be late for something. Because, really, I'm supposed to be getting ready for something instead of sitting here. And yet....

Yesterday, I tried to think of something that my hubby and I agree on and I couldn't think of anything. So, I gave a pop quiz. "Name something we agree on," I asked of him.

There was a long silence and I watched his face change to a look of amused bewilderment as he admitted he couldn't think of anything either. We don't like the same sports, the same pastimes, the same food. We don't agree in politics, the ramifications of news items, or how to spend our money.

We agreed that we compromise in our choices because how could we not? We live and work most days within an arm length of each other. We are extremely close physically as well as emotionally. Is it true that opposites attract? Who knows? But after 22 years we're still together and having a pretty good time.

It took us several minutes and some conversation to come up with some things we agree on and by the end of the day, we had three:

1. We love each other.
2. We have the best grandson in the world.
3. I am always right.

And, now, we can agree I'm late.

Creepy

The brochure at a Starbucks read, "We'd Love To Hear Your Thoughts." I'll bet they would. That would make ordering coffee easier.

Don't be fooled. It will happen.

Movers and Shakers

Seismologists who have a weekend gig moving furniture.

Seeing Stars

I stepped on the scale in the bathroom of my West Hollywood hotel room and it lied to me. "I love L.A.," I was thinking as it told me I weighed at least five pounds less than I know I do.

And then it gave me a recommendation for a plastic surgeon....

Figures.

Danger Lurks

I just poured black coffee into a black cup in the dark. It takes skill so I encourage you to not try this at home.

Yesterday, I finally got around to cleaning the apartment and I might consider recommending that you also do not try this without aid of a trained professional. Especially, if it's been a while since you've done this.

It was dangerous and I'm quite grateful to have survived it. There were legions of highly trained and sophisticated dust bunnies lurking everywhere and they were formidable. Now, "bunnies" conjures up soft fluffy images which is inaccurate. These were fluffy, all right, but not white. They were a purplish red (or reddish purple - it's hard to tell, they were so elusive) and they were more hairy than fluffy. Hairy, like the monsters you always believed lived under your bed. Turns out it was true.

The battle was prolonged because of their sophistication. Before I started cleaning, they were completely invisible but as soon as I began they were everywhere and I wondered why I hadn't seen them earlier, hiding in plain view. And, they were organized. As I fought the ones before me, others followed behind to surround me.

I may have prevailed but I know it's only temporary. Even as I made progress, I could see some of their smallest soldiers staking out claims on the furniture and preparing to rebuild their armies.

Even as I left, locking the door behind me, I knew that we'd both be back.

I wonder what "customer service" is doing while I'm on hold. Is my file literally in the basement for which "Lauren" must file a requisition for a runner to fetch? Maybe I can help; I can look up the information online in a fraction of the time.

All this for a yes/no question. Turns out the answer was no. And, call again next week.

Is there anything else we can do for you Mrs. S?

Can I put you on hold while I look up that answer, Lauren?
Thanks for holding, Lauren. What was the question again?

Is there anything else we can do for you today, Mrs. S?

No, Lauren, there isn't. In fact, you haven't really done anything for me yet, come to think of it. And, you charged me a fee for the privilege.

I understand, Mrs. S. Can I place you on hold to look that up for you?

No, thank you, Lauren.

Thank you, Mrs. S. Have a beautiful day.

Beautiful, indeed.

On The Left

The Oatmeal, the L.A. Times on The Left Coast, and others on The Right can go right ahead and think we're wimps. But the states of Washington and Oregon have both declared States of Emergency, albeit for different reasons. Oregon, because of flooding. In Seattle, because we need milk:

The governor's proclamation included a waiver of a federal 12-hour shift rule for truck drivers, to help the state's milk industry, which risked losing $1 million a day if it couldn't move its product. The state of emergency also allows Gregoire to activate the National Guard, in case it's needed.

Read more: http://www.seattlepi.com/local/article/Deep-freeze-to-follow-snow-2614216.php#ixzz1k29uy8Nr

So, there you go.

In case you're wondering, I understand it's still pretty messy in Seattle and many are without power. We managed to get out of town before all that slush froze over and we're in the rainy state instead.

The Typescreen

From Spinning Hat.

Tax Season

On the first day of Tax Season, my true love gave to me:

SNOW!

Well, it wasn't like I had a stack of tax returns today to do anyway. In fact, none. So, if you're stuck at home today, you might as well start pulling your tax documents together. Most of the internet is still working today so get online and download your interest and dividend statements. Get your gain/loss reports downloaded from your broker. Visit your mortgage company's website and get your 1098. Put it all in a folder and have it on my desk by Monday!

Woo hoo! Only 13 weeks to go!

(Really, it would be nice to get going so get going, people.)

What's For Dinner?

Pork Scaloppine:

Grant Cornett

The recipe can be found here. It was easy to make, super delicious, and very economical. I added button mushrooms to the sauce, and raw red bell pepper as a side for color and crunch. I also used a good deal of parsley. It turned out great and I ended up with a lot of leftover pork tenderloin. I didn't cook the whole thing for the two of us - just a few medallions. So I have maybe a pound and a half leftover in the freezer to either make more or something else.

Looks great on a plate (like you worked all day) and is really tasty. I highly recommend this recipe.

Brain Dead

I'm feeling a little devoid of feeling. Math will do that to you. So will work. (Both are four letter words, btw.) So, here's a tip: if you need to banish all thought from your head - mental chatter, if you will - play sudoku or KenKen. Both are excellent puzzle exercises to keep you sharp but there are consequences.

Crosswords are also good for mental exercise. I wonder if one must use a different part of the brain for word puzzles because math exercises definitely shut down the other side - that which deals with language, creativity, or one's very soul. Maybe I should try crosswords to relax (while exercising). It might be like the difference between a pat down at the airport or nuclear radiation. One is invasive and is minimally damaging (mentally haunting, at worst). The other could permanently wipe out brain cells - and other vital organs - you meant to leave unaltered.

I don't mean for you to get the idea I don't like math or work. I happen to love both and, as it happens, my work depends on math, as well as analytical and research skills. I love all those things. So, don't get me wrong - but I feel a definite shift when the work (and math puzzle) skills kick in. The other muscles atrophy. Worse, they are paralyzed and cannot be accessed. I wish I could do both at the same time but I haven't figured it out yet.

So that's where I've been. Working. I have a major project, tragically pushing the deadline while facing down Winter Storm Watch 2012 - the first of the year. (We could get a half an inch so I stocked up at the grocery store.) The pressure is on but it's just a bump. A big bump, but just a bump. Next week I should be back to normal which, last I checked, is comfortably abnormal.

That will be short-lived as well. But getting this project done will buy me a few more weeks before that which is known as Tax Season.

Domestic Tip Of The Day

Cook all your bacon. I don't buy it very often because it makes a mess to cook it but I love the stuff. If I buy a package, I cook the whole thing and then wrap any not immediately consumed into serving sized packages and freeze. Then, I have it available to chop into eggs, salads, soups, or sandwiches.

I made use of that nifty trick when I made this:

Bacon and Butternut PastaPhoto: Johnny Autry; Styling: Mary Clayton CarlRecipe can be found at Cooking Light.
I also had the kale and butternut squash on hand because a few nights earlier, I made this:

Tuscan Kale, White Bean, and Ciabatta SoupPhoto: Yunhee Kim; Styling: Robyn ValarikRecipe from Sunset Magazine.
The butternut squash wasn't called for in the recipe but I thought it sounded good. Plus, I added some Italian sausage. I omitted the anchovy and served bread on the side rather than in the soup. It turned out pretty well and I'm happy to have leftovers from both meals.
Eat well!

Staying Put

For a week, anyway. I go home on Wednesday but it's been nice to be in one place for an entire week. For perspective, this was my schedule the last week of the year:

Thurs - Vancouver to Seattle via private auto. Travel time 2.5 hours.

Fri - Seattle to Palm Springs via taxi, airplane and rented car through Ontario, CA. Total travel time, door to door, 6 hours.

Sat - Palm Springs to La Quinta, CA, via rented car. Travel time 30 minutes

Mon - La Quinta to Seattle via rented car, airplane, and personal auto through Sacrament, CA. Total travel time 10.5 hours, door to door.

Wed - Seattle to Vancouver via taxi, Amtrak, and taxi. Total travel time 4.5 hours.

Total stats in seven days:

Travel by train = 1
Travel by private auto = 2

Travel by personal auto = 3
Travel by airplane = 3
Travel by rental car = 3
Number of beds slept in = 4
Total travel days = 5

Total travel time = 24 hours

Thanks to Holidailies for providing the incentive to write as often as possible. It was nice to meet you all.

Exchange Rates

The exchange rate for a trip to Belize using coffee as the denomination is six pounds and $15. Santa asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I thought I was very clear: I wanted a trip to Belize or coffee. As you might guess, I got coffee. Approximately six pounds of it, plus a gift card worth $15. Now, if I could only find someone who was willing to trade a trip to Belize for six pounds of coffee, I'd be all set.

For some reason, this reminds me of when, as children, my brother and I were allowed to have whatever we wanted for dinner on our birthdays. My birthday dinner was hamburger patty (no bun) with (jarred) brown gravy and Stouffer's Spinach Souffle. I still have that on my birthday.

What did my brother ask for? Lobster. He was always better at aiming high and getting what he wanted.

Speaking of my brother, that reminds me of red and green cookies - a tradition during the Holidays. Mom always makes these round cookies made mostly of butter, half were dipped in red sugar crystals and the other half were dipped in green. I understand these are traditional Christmas colors but you have to understand that she color coded everything. All my presents were wrapped in red tissue paper, and all of my brother's were green. On the family calendar, all my scheduled events were red, all my brother's were green. (Mom was blue and Dad was black.)

This year, we were all together and Mom brought the red and green cookies. The funny thing is that even though we are well into our forties and, other than the color, all the cookies are exactly the same my brother would only eat the green ones, and I would only eat the red!

I just finished burning up my $15 gift card for coffee so only six more pounds to go. Next year, I'm just going to ask for a trip to Belize and see what happens. (Or, maybe lobster.)

It's All About The Ratings

I have an idea that will help you loose weight, save money, and help you to be more efficient. First, cancel your bikram yoga membership. Then, turn up the thermostat whenever you use your blow dryer. Lose weight and get ready for work - all at the same time! You are guaranteed to be sweating in no time - and be on time for work!

I understand you might not want to heat your whole house when you're styling your hair unless you have a very small living space. Not a problem. Take the savings from canceling your yoga membership, buy a space heater, and lock yourself in the bathroom. This has the additional benefit of saving you money in winter, however you may need to spend a good deal of time in the bathroom.

No hair? No problem! Take your space heater to the bathroom and wear a stocking cap while you shave.

Send me a dollar and I'll tell you how to have more sex!

(Look at my hit count now!! Woo hoo!)

Purse Update

In case you were wondering, I'm keeping it - the big black, expensive, and totally unnecessary, purse. And guess how much it weighs? Just guess.

Big black purses are like black holes. Don't ask me how I went from a wallet on a string (my old purse) to luggage on my shoulder. It's ridiculous. I used to carry: one wallet (which was a rubber band),  keys, and my phone.  That's it. Now, I have a real wallet (that will double as a clutch), my sunglasses in their own case, a checkbook, my iPod, my Kindle, business cards (in their own case), two pens - and that's before I go anywhere. What if I need a hat? Or a place to stash my spiral bound journal?

How did this happen? If it weren't for these spandex jeans (which keep sliding off my hips anyway), I would put my ID and a $20 in my pocket and be done with it. Which is where I'll end up, I know. From one end of the spectrum to the other. It was my husband, in fact, who reminded me this is exactly how I came to give up carrying a purse in the first place (twenty years ago).

But then slowly, ever so slowly, I need a place to put things. First it was my pocket PC, then it was a cell phone, then a smart phone. Then, freaking lip gloss - oh yeah, I gave up makeup about the same time I gave up purses but now ... now, I need lip gloss, maybe two, in my purse. What's more, I need to carry a vast collection of odds and ends to cover any contingency. Kleenex? Got it. Quarter? Yep. Bobby pin? Safety pin? Nail files? Black balloons? Piñata? Sure.

You're going to want me on your scavenger hunt team, that's for sure.

Philosophy 101

What does it mean, philosophically, to begin each year with a hangover and to finish it drunk? Think of a graph where the x axis represents the days of the year (1-365) and the y axis is some sort of "good" factor - say, from one to ten. It would look something like this:

There's really no place to go but up from here, is what I'm thinking.

The World's Funniest Joke

A couple of New Jersey hunters are out in the woods when one of them falls to the ground. He doesn't seem to be breathing, his eyes are rolled back in his head. The other guy whips out his cell phone and calls the emergency services. He gasps to the operator: "My friend is dead! What can I do?" The operator, in a calm soothing voice says: "Just take it easy. I can help. First, let's make sure he's dead." There is a silence, then a shot is heard. The guy's voice comes back on the line. He says: "OK, now what?"

More at Discovery News : Knock, Knock, Who's There? (Good for a laugh or two.)

Good Morning, 2012

I'm in a hotel - a residence type with a full kitchen - where the coffee cups are so small I pour two at a time so I only have to get up half as often for a refill. Which is to say, among other things, we found accommodations  over the last weekend of the year after spontaneously, and without any thought for planning or consequences, flew to Palm Springs just because we could.

We also found flights home which is good, I keep reminding myself. We flew down here using frequent flier miles and it cost fewer said mile to book two one-way tickets rather than round trip. With that logic, we purchased one-way tickets to Ontario, California, rented a car, and drove to Palm Springs and figured we could work out the rest of the details after we got here.

The details were this: all hotels were fully booked for New Years Eve and there were no available seats on any return flights.

Both aforementioned details have been resolved although it will take us three separate flights to get all four of us home. Our pilot friend goes home Monday on a commercial flight arranged by his employer. (He comes back on the 9th to retrieve the jet he flew down here and for a short while we considered just staying here.) He leaves last and flies direct so he'll be our ground transportation on this end. His wife flies out first with a layover in Portland. We fly out about an hour later but have a two-hour layover in Sacramento. We land in Seattle about the same time as the pilot. His wife will get home first so she'll take care of ground transportation on that end.

So far, the trip has been free. Other than food, that is. We used frequent flier miles to fly, and the pilot had points with a hotel chain reimbursable for the rooms. It's an interesting combination of austere extravagance.

So here we are, on the first day of 2012, drinking coffee from tiny cups and, now, watching football. I think there will be a nap by the pool in my very near future. Forecast is sunny and 77 degrees. I hope it remains that way for the rest of the year,

Where The Hell Am I?

Got drunk on Thursday. Woke up in Palm Springs on Friday. That's not exactly how it went down but that pretty much sums things up.

We got Home from our Second Home on Thursday and invited some friends over for dinner. We had a couple of cocktails and ordered in dinner. Opened a bottle of wine and listened to Mr. Friend tell us he had a flight the next day to Palm Springs. (Mr. Friend is pilot.)

We all looked at Mrs. Friend and said, "You should go too. For New Years." That was quickly amended to, "We should all go to Palm Springs."

By midnight, we had tickets to Palm Springs.

The task for today is to figure out how to get back home.

Less Is Not More

My ass is getting bigger, not smaller. So why do jeans, nowadays, cover less of it? I suppose the answer is self-evident. Larger butt = less coverage, given the jeans themselves are a constant.

I contend that jeans are not constant. As evidence, I give you this from 1983:

These jeans actually cover this woman's posterior. My jeans would not. Not, especially, if she were to sit down. And, I paid MORE for LESS (which follows the bathing suit rule of fashion, when I come to think about it).

But who really wants to see my rear end? Okay, let me rephrase because I can already hear you yahoos making noise. Is it really necessary that I should look like a plumber every time I bend over? Keep in mind the middle of a middle-aged woman is intended to be hidden from view. What are love handles to one are muffin tops to someone else. What's cute on a young woman is, frankly, not as interesting when skin has lost its elasticity. Need I say more? No, I thought not.

I love my jeans. Don't get me wrong. They look great with a crisp white shirt and a pair of stilettos. As long as I don't move. As long as my white shirt is long enough to reach or even - is it too much to hope? - fall below the waist band. (Oh, but that is a different diatribe.)

What is a woman to do these days? Suffer through it, as far as I can tell. Suffer as women always have with fashion. And so you will find me endlessly hiking up my pants to try to maintain a sense of decorum because actual dignity is out of the question.

Maybe I should buy a skirt.

New Years Resolutions

My baking soda box reads, "Change every 30 days," to which I say, "Once a year is the most you'll get from me."

Justification

I'm eating pie for breakfast. Ginger pumpkin pie. However, there's a very good reason for that: It's a travel day. Which means, housecleaning. Which means, cleaning out the fridge. Which means, eating leftovers. Ergo, pie. I'm just doing my job.

And speaking of which, I bought a second black purse yesterday. Exactly like the one I bought two days ago. So now I have two friggin' black purses that I don't need and I haven't even decided that I want. (What's wrong with me?) BUT, there's a very good reason for that: I saved a whopping $14 on the second unnecessary black purse, so there. It means I have to return the first unnecessary black purse but that was worth $14, right? Just doing my job. (And, yes, the Kindle fits in there, no problem.)

Of course, I found a nice black coat (that goes nicely with my black purses, btw) at the second store. So I got that, too. Needed it, yep. So, there's that. But, I've got to hurry up and get out of this town before I buy anything else.

Better finish up this pie and get a move on. Wait, there's pizza in the fridge too....

Seattle's In For A Baby Boom

Eighty-three percent of Americans rate rainy days and nights as the best time to have sex.

Well, yeah—because what else is there to do when you can’t play golf or drive with the top down?

It's High Time for Conception: Studies Show Peak Times, Weather for Sex

Purse Therapy

I don't even like purses. At the same time, I am oddly attracted to them. It used to be I didn't carry one because I got tired of hauling everyone else's crap around. Diapers, kid toys, husband's wallet - forget that nonsense! Carry your own stuff! I got very efficient after that. I only took what would fit in my pockets.

Is it me or have jeans gotten tighter since then? Plus, the stuff required to get through the day has expanded. For example, when I wasn't carrying a purse, cell phones hadn't even been invented and now I can't live without one. Car keys looked like keys back then. Now, they look like Oreo cookies or something. Larger, needless to say. I have two house keys, two car keys, keys for the office, keys to my mom's place (3), a bicycle lock key, and two storage locker keys. Those won't all fit in my pocket. I have prescription sunglasses. I suppose I could wear them on a chain around my neck in case the sun comes out but ...

Oh, what the heck. I need a purse. But how many purses does one need? Further, how many black purses does one need? Specifically, do I really need the black purse that I bought today? One that is more expensive than any other purse I've ever purchased? Do I really need that?

I was going to take pictures of all my black purses so you could vote or give me counsel. I have three with me right now and at least two more at my other house. However, I realized rather quickly that the arguments for and against would fall along gender lines with the women saying, "You can always use another black purse" and the men asking, "What's the difference between one black purse and another?" I fully understand what the men are asking. It is, in fact, my quandary. At the same time, this gender will also ask, "How many black shoes does a woman really need?" which, in mind, disqualifies the entire gender from entering into the conversation on black purses.

I also bought a wallet. I can't remember the last time I carried a wallet. (What's gotten into me?) It's black, if you must know, and could double as a clutch so technically, that's another black purse. My current wallet is a rubber band. A real wallet just adds needless weight to an already heavier than necessary satchel. But I bought it anyway.

I'll go ahead and put my money in my wallet and then put the wallet in my purse and then go to the store. Try it all on for size, as it were. And see if there's anything else I really need.

Don't Let Them See You Sweat

In not sweating the small stuff, it helps to know what the small stuff is. In the thick of it, none of it seems small and it's easy to feel victimized by circumstances. Time constraints, chore lists, and expectations (real or false) conspire to pressurize to combustion.

What if fill-in-the-blank doesn't get done? Are there any real consequences? Another question to ask is, could s/he have said it differently? As in, what was the proper thing to say/ask? If there is no real answer to that question, the problem lies with with the offended party and the matter qualifies as "small."

What happens when something really BIG comes along? That's a different story. It should be dealt with appropriately, whatever that is. But if one has practiced letting the little stuff go, the bigger stuff filters down to take its place on the priority list, effectively becoming smaller.

The REALLY BIG stuff sucks. There's no way around it. But what if we think of the REALLY BIG stuff as equally good, as bad? Then  REALLY (bad) BIG stuff deserves no more attention than REALLY (good) BIG stuff like family, health, love and kindness, and all that.

Okay, I realize that may have come off as cynical, that last sentence. But that's small stuff. Let it go.

Life is good and I realize that's not always easy to hear. And, I realize that's not True for a lot of people. For a lot of people, life is packed with REALLY (bad) BIG stuff and I have nothing to say that will placate those people. In fact, whatever makes me feel better about my life, day, obligations - whatever - won't mean spit to someone who's REALLY down and out. When I think about it, it makes all that I've just written seem pretty trite.

Which makes all of my/your garbage really, really small stuff.

I hope you didn't sweat the small stuff this Holiday Season. I hope it was really good big stuff.

Mrs. S.

I wonder what Mrs. S. is doing right now. I know that in my house, Mr. S. spent a lot of time watching football and when that was over, he watched golf. How desperate do you have to be to watch golf? But, I digress.

I think Mr. S. gets far too much credit. What does he do, exactly? In my house a giraffe makes the toys and it's the elves that make the mess. A mess of paper and ribbons that streams from room to room. Every room, in case I didn't make my point.

And then, Mr. S. has the gall to wonder why Mrs. S's hair is white and steam is coming out of her ears with the sound of train whistles. And, by the way, when's dinner? And, did you make my favorite pie? And, I'm hungry.

And, OMG.

He thinks he's a hero if he put his finger on the knot while Mrs. S. ties the bows on the packages and carved the Roast Beast. He even ... and, what's this? For me? Why, it's exactly what I wanted.

I don't have any idea what Mr. and Mrs. S. are doing but this I know. He needs the longest night of the year to get done what he needs to get done, and it'll be dark at the North Pole until April so they can sleep it off.

Grandma's House

The term is more convoluted since I became one. We are celebrating Christmas Eve at my sister-in-law's house and she's a grandma, too. And our two mothers are great grandmas. And I have another sister-in-law that will be a grandma in about six months, although she doesn't know it yet. (This year's family drama which will become unavoidable very soon.)

If you include all the grandparents (who know they're grandparents) there will be seven of us at tonight's gathering which amounts to approximately 33% of the total revelers.

Next year, there will be (at least) eight of us. A perfect example of the aging population.

I'm just taking a short break between baking and dish washing before taking off to Grandma's House. Safe travels to all who are venturing out today. And, keep an eye out for the Fat Guy.

Charlie

For me, Christmas begins when I get a card from Charlie. Without fail, I get one and it's almost always before I've gotten around to sending one to him. I just got his card the other day. It's the twenty-seventh card I've received in as many years. And we've never met. Still, it's something I look forward to every year.

I was married (the first time) in 1984 and Charlie, a college classmates of my parents, was invited. He didn't come but I made up an index card with his name and address on it anyway. Everyone who was invited got a card whether they came or not. The cards also tracked what people gave for a wedding present so I could appropriately thank them. And then, the card file became my first Christmas Card List as a married woman. I had been instructed to send each one a card my first Christmas as Mrs. So-And-So. And, so, I did.

I heard back from several to whom I sent cards. But Charlie's was my favorite. He thanked me for the card and then asked who the hell I was. Not in so many words but since I had signed the card with my new married name, he couldn't make the connection to his former college classmates.

So I wrote back, "I am the daughter of ..." and explained the situation of having been instructed to mail greetings to everyone on the original guest list.

The  following year, I received a card from Charlie. And, the next year. And the next. For 27 years.

Now, he uses a computer so sometimes I hear from him at other times of the year. But I still get a Christmas card. Every year.

Which is awesome.

Merry Christmas, Charlie.

No Post Today

The post today is there is no post today. Today, I took a day off to play Santa's elf, running from here to there to finish all that's on my list and I nearly did so. Finish, that is. Now, I've got dinner simmering on the stove - which needs stirring - so, really. I just don't have time to post. Not to mention every day - who has time for that? Really?

So no posting. Can't be done. I'm just too busy.

I have to check the list. Twice. And compare it to everything that's laid out on the dining room table in little piles, organized by intended recipient. I have to stir. Again. And check for doneness. So, I'm sorry, dear readers. No post today.

All that's left is the menu. I have the general idea. The roast is already ordered and I figure there will be some vegetables and potatoes. Oh, and don't forget pie. And wine. So, there's at least one more run to the grocery store. On the busiest day of the year. No sweat.

And I should probably do a little housekeeping. You know, just straighten up a little. I usually like to hide things in the oven or the dishwasher but they'll be in use. Maybe the washer? Or dryer? Which reminds me, time to advance the laundry.

Dinner's about ready and it's time to get it on the table. Oh, wait. The table is covered with all the presents. I suppose we could eat under the tree to make things even.

Oh, well. Just so you know. There will be no post today.

Awry In A Manger

We let Carter set up the manger this year. He's never seen these figures, much less been able to touch them before. We didn't decorate for the Holidays at all last year and the year before that - well, he was much too young. These figures were hand painted by his Great Great Grandmother and a couple of them are too fragile for him to handle, even this year.

I set him on a stool and let him arrange the figures however he saw fit. Pop quiz: Where's baby Jesus?

I don't think he's familiar with the story of the manger. But he understands the concept of a barn and he knows animals go in there so that's the first thing he set about doing. Getting the animals in the barn. There just wasn't enough room in there for all the people. He got a shepherd in there, and the Three Wise Men, but Mary and Joseph didn't make the cut.

Baby Jesus is there but he's hard to spot because it got a little crowded in there. He's under the camel. The one that's front and center. Actually, back and center is more accurate.

Who knows? Maybe that's the way it really was. Maybe all that the visitors who traveled afar could see after their arduous trek with their gifts of adoration was a camel's ass and a filthy barn.

Sex In The City

We went to Bank of America in Portland today and had to snake our way around the parking garage looking for a large enough parking spot for the Escalade. (How un-Portlandia is that? We should have biked or walked - sporting Birkenstocks in either case - if we really wanted to fit in. Anyway, the car was borrowed.)

We found a big open spot on the second level and as Hubby tried to negotiate the behemoth of a gas guzzler between two white lines, I noticed there was a man in the back seat of a car a couple spaces away. It was odd because he seemed to be the only one in there so I looked to try to figure out what he was doing. At first I thought he might be trying to wrestle a small child into or out of a car seat. He wasn't seated in the back seat but appeared to be kneeling. 

He seemed to notice our arrival but turned his back to us. He was wearing a crisp, white shirt. The kind someone at the Bank of America might wear, for example. Then I wondered if maybe he was changing his pants. Maybe he had just finished working out and thought it better to change in the garage rather than the gym. And, then, I thought differently. 

Because, I saw flesh. 

It looked like an elbow but it was naked. No white sleeve. Mr. White Shirt was suddenly laying down as if hiding from view. Or, perhaps, hiding someone else from view.

I wanted to look. I really did. Not to see who was in the car or what they were doing. Not for any need for voyeurism. 

I wanted to see if they were laughing. Laughing at having been caught. I wanted to hang around in the elevator lobby while Hubby went upstairs for a business meeting. Whoever was in the back seat of that car had to get out sometime, didn't they? I wanted to see their faces. Don't ask me why. Maybe because it was a hilarious.

It was ten in the morning! Who was was so anxious to have sex, they conspired to take their coffee breaks at the same time to meet for a quickie in the parking garage? An office romance? An  affair? Married people? Ha! 

I never saw who owned the elbow but I image whoever it was said, "What was that?" when she heard us drive up. And I imagine he said, "Don't worry. They didn't see us," whether he believed that to be the case or not.

Or, maybe that's Customer Service at B of A. I might have to think about opening an account.

Insert Panic Here

Don't get me started on what's left to do. I was feeling pretty good about it all until I turned around and realized I hadn't really done anything today. Oh, maybe I did a little but if I could get half as much done as I avoid, I'd be - well, I'd be Wonder Woman is what I'd be. As in, I Wonder How That Woman Gets All That Done.

Cleaned the apartment, so that's good. Went for a walk and got caught up on my reading, so that's good. Prepared a report and ordered inventory, so that's good. But only spent about two hours at my PAYING JOB which is not so good.

Good thing my boss isn't reading this or she'd be PISSED. The trick, so far, has been to produce something that looks really great around 4:30 in the afternoon, something that took me 10 minutes to put together and is completely unsubstantial but looks impressive. That'll work until either 1) someone catches on, or 2) I really need to GET SOMETHING DONE.

I see a panicked, mad dash to Target in my immediate future.

Peeps

I'm going to move my Twitter account from lynnlynny to Lynn_C_Dot.

Follow @Lynn_C_Dot

Please make a note of it.

I Give Up

I can't figure out how to provide an ePub of Now & Then without actually publishing. What I want to do is provide a link to a copy of Now & Then (in it's current first draft form) that you can download and read on a portable eReader. I found various sites that will make the conversion but then how do I make it available to you? I can upload the ePub to Google Docs but when I try to download it to my Android phone, I get a message that says I don't have the software to open the file.

I can convert to PDF and provide a link to download that direct to your portable device. I tested it and it worked fine. It just doesn't provide a very readable copy. So unless you can help me out (or you convert yourself from HTML to ePub and then sync to your device, which is all I can think of), you'll just have to read it here.

The HTML version will convert nicely to a portable reader having access to the internet but you won't have the ability to bookmark. So, I'm stuck.

That being said, I'll get to work on a final version which will be published, and therefore available for download to a portable reader near you.

Which, my secret agent man thinks is a better idea, anyway, than giving away free books.

Breakfast

Had breakfast with Ron Howard today at Mother's Bistro this morning. Well, not exactly with, more like at the same time and in the same place.

Too bad he didn't get a chance to meet me before he left.

I'm Exhausted

Went shopping today. What was I thinking? On the last weekend before Christmas? It's far in advance of the Day Before Christmas, as was our habit.

I remember, long, long ago, shopping at Toys R Us while Hubby's Ex had the kids. We'd buy all the things a Divorced Dad would buy. Things That Required Assembly.

We'd go home, pour drinks, and assemble. I would read the directions and Hubby would ignore them, thinking them more advisory than absolutely necessary. There were usually parts leftover but by the time we were done, we didn't care anymore. We'd be bleary-eyed, exhausted, and a little drunk.

We'd hide the debris and go to bed, delirious that we were about to deliver the most memorable Christmas ever. The next day, the silly grins on our faces were as much from our sleep-deprived fog of Christmas Hangover as from our silly delusions of providing love through giant presents.

We're older and wiser now. Much older, mildly wiser. We have a grandson and we leave all Items Requiring Assembly to his parents. Now, we just give love. Oh, there's other stuff under the tree but not a lot. It doesn't take that much to make a three-year-old happy.

Which makes us happy. The silly grins are reserved for our delight in him. And his wants are pretty simple. He wants a pair of scissors he can use himself. And some paper he can cut. And our time and attention, which we gladly give him.

Now, we get to shop for ourselves. And guess what? We got just what we wanted.

Green

It looks white, I know, but it's really green. I was worried about my over reliance on paper towels in the kitchen so I bought a package of washcloths at Costco and put dozen in the kitchen right next to the paper towel roll.

It worked. I use far fewer paper towels than I used to. By having several on the counter top within reach, I want to feel like I can use as many as I need although, as it turns out, I rarely go through more than one per day. But it's also nice to know I can have a fresh one whenever I want and it will never turn into something moldy and stinky like the dreaded kitchen sponge.

Anyway, for about $12, I can help save the planet, one paper towel at a time.

Serendippity

Philip hadn't wanted to come but his wife insisted. She said it would be good for him, not to mention their marriage. He was too stressed out and going to this retreat would help him "find his center," whatever that meant. Tranquility, perhaps.

Sherry stayed home with the kids while he was away. She could have gone, if proper arrangements had been made but she was very nearly centered herself, she said. She didn't need to go to a retreat. He did.

And so he went to appease her.

It was a bizarre place with unusual guests. When Philip found out his roommate was a kidnapper, he was glad the whole family hadn't come. A hippy, in sloppy apparel and wearing copper rings in his dreadlocks, resided in the hut next door. Philip wasn't sure if the hippy was also seeking his "center" or if he had already found it and, in fact, worked there.

A grasshopper - the retreat's guru or swami or whatever he was - lived in a separate hut and kept to himself as Philip schlepped his bag to his quarters and plopped it on his straw sleeping mat. The tremor began approximately at that moment as if dropping the bag itself had been the cause. He looked at his roommate in alarm and said, "Did you feel that?"

His roommate went about his business which consisted of unwrapping his stash, sapphires, which no doubt were acquired illegally. The kidnapper suppressed a laugh as he tipped his hand, the stones dripping into a zipped pocket. His happy roommate backslapped Philip who was beginning to think he had imagined the shaking.

But then things got worse and the entire hut began to shake. A cappuccino machine, the only appliance in the room, and its chipped cups threatened to topple. Philip skipped from the room and found the hippy next door utterly unflappable.

"What's happening?" he asked, apparently unaware of the commotion.

"Can you not feel that?" Philip shouted.

"Have an apple," the hippy offered, seeemingly apropos of nothing.

"How can you have an appetite at a time like this?

"I can appreciate an opportunity for the soul to be appeased." The hippy propped up his feet before him.

The shaking became worse and it seemed the earth would swallow them all. Philip stepped around the hippy's appendages and ran to the grasshopper's hut. "Earthquake!" Philip was shouting.

The grasshopper was apparently meditating, balancing on an unknown apparatus.

Philip tried to appeal to him again, "Master! Mr. Grasshopper! Earthquake!" He didn't know what else to say to express his urgency.

"My student," the grasshopper began. "I applaud you for coming so far but you can certainly appreciate how far you must yet travel. It is an opportune moment for your comeuppance."

"I don't understand, grasshopper. How can you be so calm? You, the kidnapper, and the hippy. What do that have that I lack, grasshopper?"

"You lack," the grasshopper said looking at Philip, "inner p's."

Sneaky

It seems that no matter where I put the laundry basket there is always at least one sock that leaps to the floor, in a desperate and futile attempt at escaping. What does one do with a sock that so desperately seeks independence? One considers rewashing it, doesn't one, when the floor upon which the sock has landed is that of a community laundry room. Who knows what was there before? Someone's undies? Dust bunnies, without a doubt, lurk there and who needs that? But dust bunnies are harmless enough so one readily shakes the sock into submission, simultaneously relieving it of any unseen coodies.

Does the remedy change when what has fallen to the floor happen to be one's own undies? Certainly, if anyone is watching.

Today, not one but two socks, matching, no less, sought to deceive me by hiding in the rear of the dryer as I emptied it of its dark relatives. But, no, I spied them huddled together in conspiracy - or was it fear? - shriveled in the corner, if dryers can be said to have corners. It almost worked, their plan, being dark in a dark vacuum, but it was their stripes that gave them away.

To the sock drawer with them! And let them tell their tale to the others and let the others heed their warnings.

Socks, be darned! My toes shall not go cold!

The Ex Mrs. Rogers

"Did the eggs hatch, then?" Ginger asked her sister.

"Yes," Gloria replied. "We are very grateful to have them to start over with." They were in the kitchen preparing the Christmas meal: standing rib roast, of course, roasted rosemary potatoes, cheddar and chive biscuits, sauteed spinach with garlic and toasted almond slivers, cranberry and hazelnuts on a salad of baby greens with honey Dijon dressing, and dark chocolate pots de creme for dessert.

They chopped, sliced, minced, and diced as they caught up with each other's lives. "I'm sorry to hear about Fred," Gloria offered.

"Don't be. He was an ass."

"But you were together for - what? - twenty years?"

"Twenty-two. And you would think I could learn to love him for who he is in that time, wouldn't you?" Ginger laughed.

Ginger was a professional dancer when she and Fred met but she gave up her career to be with him. Fred was what they called a Player. Most likely, he still was but Ginger managed to overlook the signs. Fred was overly friendly with neighbors of the female persuasion, which Ginger, in her denial, consigned to thinking of as merely neighborly.

"Fred had his faults..." Ginger said.

"Who doesn't?"

"...but he was a slave to his phone. He would text while I was talking to him. Drove me mad. Phone calls, e-mail, text - if it came over on his goddamn phone, that took priority. Over everything. Over me. Didn't matter if we were out to dinner, or in bed."

"Even in bed?"

"Well, no. He was attentive in bed. But that's not my point."

"So what happened?"

"I told him I wanted to go to Belize for Christmas." Ginger was seasoning the beef.

"And?"

"It was Sunday, and I was making stew. Fred was watching football and fiddling with his phone. He asked me what I wanted for Christmas and I said 'Belize.' And then, later, I told him I needed him to run to the store for a couple things and his filter kicked in."

"My husband has that filter, too." Gloria laughed. "Somehow, no matter what I say, all my husband hears is, 'Blah blah blah sex blah blah.'"

The roast was in the oven and they were melting the chocolate in the double boiler.

Ginger let out a sigh. "Apparently, 'Belize' sounds like 'bay leafs'."

Gloria asked, "And that's it?"

"Yes, that's it."

Genes

I think I'm genetically predisposed to not getting anything done.

Joe

Favorite food? Does coffee count? Coffee, in a red cup. Preferably, a dark roast brewed as espresso and served as an Americano. Yep, that's it for me. If you exclude liquids, then really the experience of eating is what I like best about food. I don't have a favorite food unless you call creative combinations of ridiculously expensive local organic ingredients presented beautifully on stark white dishes food.

I can't tell you where I got my love for food. There's not a gourmand at all in my ancestry. I can, however, that I come from a long line of coffee drinkers. In fact, I'm sure that my grandmother invented espresso, or something like it. She didn't invent it in the sense that it's been around for over a hundred years in Europe. She invented more in the sense of what Americans came to know as overcooked office Bunn-o-Matic sludge. God love her, we drank it anyway. Usually, with a knife and fork.

We drank it until it became the stuff that ran through our veins. Until we didn't really mind the taste anymore. Until it was routine to add a little water and cook it some more in the microwave if it had gone cold. Or, what the heck, just drink it cold.

But one develops taste along the way, doesn't one? And one begins to discern between burnt coffee and aggressively strong coffee. One also learns you can't drink the stuff all day and keep your teeth. (Right?) So you figure out how to pack in the most coffee into a single punch and, voilà, espresso.

And so I drink it because it's in my blood. And I love it because it's an homage to my grandmother.

Anyway, that's the way I remember it. Truth be told, and I'm off topic here, my grandmother was something of a legend. For much, much more than her coffee. But that's a topic for another day and better told by a much better storyteller.

Egg Squeeze Me?

"Gloria!" The farmer yelled to his wife who had run back into the house to get a light bulb.

Dayo, the farmer's son, asked him what the matter was.

"The light's burned out in the incubator and the eggs won't be warm enough without it."

The poultry farm had suffered in recent years. In fact, the six geese were the last to go. He missed the hens and Gloria liked the doves but the swans were mean and the partridge was sickly anyway. They'd built an incubator to keep the goose eggs in hopes they would hatch and they could rebuild their business. Holidays Are For The Birds.

"Gloria!" he shouted louder, elongating the first syllable.

He had been teaching his son how to take care of the eggs. Every day for the last month, they went to the barn to take temperature readings and to turn the eggs. The incubator was simple and did not have a fan so it wasn't enough to take the internal temperature of the incubator. They had to measure the temperature at the top of each egg.

Dayo would hold the thermometer above each egg and report the reading to his father. "One oh one point five," he'd say, to which his father would reply sternly, "Celsius, Dayo. Celsius." His father, a Canadian, felt it was important for his son to be acquainted with the metric system and insisted the measurements be in Centigrade.

"And, in-egg?" his father would prompt. The temperature inside the egg had to remain below 40.5 C. Again, he would have to remind his son, "Celsius, Dayo. Celsius."

Twenty-seven days had passed and it was nearly time for them to hatch. They had increased the humidity in the incubator from 55 to 75 percent in anticipation of the goslings' arrival and they no longer rotated the eggs. The goslings were positioning themselves for hatching and rotating them would confuse them.

But today, when they went to check the eggs, they found the bulb had burned out. Everything could be lost.

"Hurry, Dayo! Give me a reading!"

"One hundred, Father!" Dayo shouted.

He did not reprimand his son because there was no time. They would lose everything if they couldn't save the eggs.

He barked, "In-egg. Celsius, Dayo!"

And then it started. The eggs began to hatch. They needed that light bulb now. Both of them began to shout, "GLOOOOOORIA."

Now & Then

It's done. Finally. The first draft anyway. The last chapter has been posted. Check it out. (Click on the Now & Then tab at the top of the page if you haven't done so already.)

I'll work on getting a link to a downloadable ePub and will let you know when that's done.

And then, I'll work on the second draft.

Whew!

And, thanks for reading.

I believe!

My favorite holiday stories are the ones we write ourselves. The ones that begin with, "Do you remember the year when...?"

One such story takes place when our youngest son still believed in Santa. His older brother had figured things out but was content to let his little brother continue in his belief. That, in itself, was a Christmas Miracle. Big Brother loved to torture the living daylights out of his little brother to no end. Maybe he still believed, a little. Enough to let Little Brother have something of his own, something shiny and good. Maybe someone really was watching, this time of year above all others.

We were coming home from Grandma and Grandpa's house on Christmas Eve, and we were telling the kids that maybe - just maybe - Santa had come while we were gone. We bought them bicycles that year. A green one for Big Brother. A blue one for Little Brother. We figured we wouldn't be able to wrap them so we put them in their bedrooms for them to find when we got home. So we were trying to encourage the idea that it would have been a perfect time for Santa to come. While we were gone.

Oh, no, Little Brother explained, Thanta can't come until it noeth. (He had trouble with the letter s but for some reason, snow became no rather than thnoe.) Well, this was a predicament. There wasn't a cloud in the sky.

Are you sure he can't come?

No. It'th not noing.

A fairly serious discussion ensued on the topic but we could not convince him. We searched the sky for snow, hoping for even a snowflake so the magic could happen. We pulled into our garage and went into the house. Put away your coats, boys, I said. They ran into their rooms and tossed their coats on their beds. One saw a bike. One was still concerned about the no.

Still, Big Brother didn't break the spell. Little Brother ran to the big picture window in the living room to resume his search for no. It hath to no, or Thanta won't come!

And just at that moment there was a light in the sky. It was an airplane or a satellite but that didn't matter. To Little Brother, it was Santa. He pointed. He shouted. He was sure. It was him! I can thee him!

Let's go outside and get a better look, I said. He ran into his room, past his blue bike with a red bow, grabbed his jacket, and out the front door we went.

Do you think it's really him?

Oh, yeth, it'th him.

We watched the light until we couldn't see it anymore. It's was a magical moment to actually see - or make believe you see - Santa in action. Not just the man but the entire entourage. An amazing, imaginary sight.

Little Brother was elated. Santa was probably the biggest concept he could get his head around. An epic moment for a six-year old.

We came back into the house, silent in our reverence and joy. Put your coats away, boys, I said for the second time that night. To their bedrooms they went.

And then it happened. Little Brother came running out of his bedroom. He wath here! He came! He had finally seen his bike.

He ran back to the picture window and searched the sky for another glimpse at the Fat Man. I believe! he cried. I believe!

And ever since that night, I do too.

Red And Green

Balls. My favorite holiday tradition. In fact, we've had red and green balls since as long as I can remember. It was family time together, rolling the balls between our hands, dusting them in sugar. Waiting in anticipation for the balls to cool so we could pop them into our watering mouths.

When I had kids, I taught them to make red and green balls. I made chef hats out of paper towels and tape, tied on aprons and stood the boys on stools so they could manufacture their own balls.

Now, I have a grandson and it's time to pass on the balls. And fish. Herring, pickled and creamed. Another tradition which sounds disgusting even to me - and I like it. Not together, of course. Herring with balls. Can you imagine? Just the thought is a trifle sickening. No, best to keep the balls and herring separate. Safer that way.

I lost the recipe for the balls last year. Turned the house upside down for it. Got an e-mailed copy that was lost in translation either by the sender or the recipient but they weren't the same. Had to throw them all away. Such a sad, sad waste.

I'll turn the house upside down again this year because it's time to make the balls again and maybe I missed it in last year's search. The kids are already asking for them and the grandson is too, although he's not old enough to really know what they are yet. But they're delicious, the balls are. That much I can say.

I already have the sugar, red and green, to roll the balls in. All I need now is a truckload of butter. And a recipe. I need that recipe or all is lost.

It's just not the same without the balls.

And red and green fish is gross.

Somewhere Between Naughty And Nice

Maybe you're like me and don't get - presents, shall we say? - like we used to. And yet, I find myself preparing myself just in case I do. Got to be prepared, just in case. Such as in the case of an accident, you might say, good to have your nice drawers on and such.

I know some of you are still getting presents pretty regular. Being young, and all, it's to be expected. I'm sure you're ready. Permanently on the nice list, as it were. Then, there are others that have no expectation of being so lucky as to get presented with - ahem - a present. Does that make you naughty? No doubt, unprepared.

But, there's always hope, isn't there? No matter who you are. How old or how young. How naughty or nice. It's a bit like Cindy Lou Hoo, that belief, although maybe not so innocent or naive. But that's what this time of year is for, isn't it? A little hope?

Ah, yes. A little hope. For a present. Somewhere between naughty and nice.

Party Pleaser

Cook a Hormel peppercorn pork tenderloin according to directions. While the roast rests, prepare buttered rosemary rolls. For the rolls, I substituted Pillsbury biscuits for the frozen dinner rolls called for in this recipe. Make 20 biscuits according to package directions, adding butter and rosemary and salt according to the recipe for buttered rosemary rolls.

Make a honey dijon spread. I used coarse ground dijon mustard - about a quarter cup - to 1-1.5 tablespoon honey according to taste.

Slice the pork tenderloin into very thin slices.

Assemble sliders: rosemary biscuit, pork, a little honey mustard (doesn't take much), add a little baby lettuce greens = twenty pork sliders that I guarantee will be eaten up at your next gathering.

They're great reheated too. Take off the lettuce, wrap in foil, reheat about 10 minutes in 375 oven. Yum.

From NPR

Library Phantom Returns

Ten gifts. All accounted for. And that, it seems, is the end of our story. Somebody who chose and whose neighbors chose to never identify spent the spring, summer and fall expressing her thanks for the continuing existence of libraries, museums and books in Scotland, "a tiny gesture," she called it.

Tiny, yes, but also, in its way, very grand.

Occupy

There is a protest movement occurring right now. On. My. Face. Three protesters (which might be better than calling them blemishes but I don't know) are now occupying the right side of my face. I've asked them nicely to leave but they have declined. I've tried blasting them with Clean & Clear but they only grow stronger. They are beginning to form their own government. I don't know what they want. I have yet to hear their demands. (More potato chips maybe?)

They know I can't touch them, as much as I would love to. I have to face the public and what would they think if they saw what I had done? I would rather stay inside and hide from any face-to-face encounters until these interlopers pick up and leave. Forever.

I could pierce the top of my right ear and the right corner of my mouth and dangle a chain between the two. That might disguise them or possibly draw attention away from them. I could wear a Phantom Of The Opera mask that would allow only one side of my face - the left side - to be exposed. Maybe a wild hairdo or dramatic eye makeup as distraction.

That is why, (boss / chairman / president ), I couldn't (come into work / attend the board meeting / present my report). I'm being occupied and the disruption to my normal (workflow / attendance / stellar reporting) is unavoidable. As much as I would like to change this situation, I know the damage they can do and I must wait it out.

Until then,
I sit on my hands.

Still Standing

From Drop Box

Empty Again

I know I've said it before, the second cup of coffee isn't as good as the first. I don't know why this should be when I brew each cup individually. I use the same beans, the same grinder, the same water and espresso machine. Is it because my mouth is coated with the bittersweet delicious memory of the cup before that taints the taste of the cup to come? Is it because I've brushed my teeth in between? Tell me your secret, oh red coffee cup. I will obey in order to sip again another first cup of coffee.

Thank goodness, there's always the first latte of the day....

Mt. Rainier

From Mt. Rainier

Mt. Rainier

From Mt. Rainier

Accidental Prose

Never fear, I am here, to cheer or jeer as you cry in your beer. Leer, my dear, at treasures near. Hear the deer? Afraid before the spear as last year when you shed your tears for in arrears were your peers. Have you not ears? Queer. On your rear, you shift gears with mere amperes to appear shear. Steer clear of your soul’s auctioneer. Seek instead a mountaineer, and veer towards the atmosphere. Shed your inner puppeteer, drop your bandoleer. Be freer, dear, be freer.

Alas

I came to the office thinking it might inspire me to get some work done. Sadly, it's not working.

Happy Halloween

(Ceiling fan)

Fallen

Speaking Of Old

I saw my brother. We met at an Oregon hotel and upon check-in I was asked if I had an AARP card. I was asked again the next day at breakfast. I was able to produce said card, qualifying me for discounts my little brother isn't old enough to get, but I liked it better when I was asked to prove if I was old enough to drink.

Reunion

I didn't go to my high school reunion. I graduated 30 years ago and for some reason, I never went back and stayed in touch with no one. It wasn't until very recently, through Facebook, that I only started to reconnect. Still, it wasn't enough for me to endure the awkwardness of a reunion with people I hardly knew. Old people, if the pictures are to be believed.

But the reunion found me. One did, anyway. I happened to be on Facebook lamenting the discomforts of our small apartment when I noticed a post from a high school classmate who was excited about promoting her novel on her first book tour, her current stop being Portland, just across the river from my tiny apartment.

A flurry of text messages produced phone numbers and before I knew it, we were planning time to get together. Right now she's giving an interview to the local newspaper at the Wordstock Festival at the Portland Convention Center and then we're off to lunch and 30 years of catching up.