tentative kansan

And back to Denver

2010-08-09T13:25:00.000-07:00

As many of you know, we moved back to Denver in mid-July. Our rental house boasts none of the squeaky wooden floorboards or unopenable ancient windows of the old. Of course that's only because nobody rents a house that needs fixin'. This one is completely move-in ready, painted, recarpeted and the works. Smaller with a tiny fenced yard, no garden, no basement storage. It's all very dull but with a view of the city from high on Green Mountain.

I got lost a bunch of times trying to find a shortcut out of our neighborhood. This was before looking at a map and realizing there were no shortcuts. I was trying to avoid the winding road with speedbumps that takes us up the hill, but there is simply no skipping it. The farmers market here is thick with stalls of nonfood items (public back massage, anyone?), adoptable pets wearing orange vests, and expensive, organic fruit. I can't help comparing prices with dismay to my much-missed midwestern vendors. Oy. Also, no one sells pie. I'd open a booth if I could possibly manage the work involved in setting up around my watermelon belly. Plus I'm really not missing the swollen feet of my last few weeks baking in Kansas.

I am sad to see this blog go. It's been a lovely outlet for my reluctant adventures in rural living, some of which I am surprised to miss.

Yesterday I saw a man riding his bike while smoking a cigarette and wondered for a moment where I was. It seems so very Kansas and yet, nope, I was walking toward the open space of William Hayden Park, where deer graze on the hillside. I finally waved at him. It's what we small town folk do.

Moving in July

2010-06-27T16:49:00.000-07:00

Testing the new camera's autofocus. Need longer arms.

It's been two years almost exactly since we packed up our two cars-worth of junk, stuffed the furniture in P.O.D. storage, and moved to the humid depths of Kansas. And now it feels like hitting reverse. Yes, we'll be using a moving van this time, armed with actual movers who do the heavy lifting, and re-routing our daily lives to a mountain rental in Evergreen, Colorado, but the general location is the same. It feels good, but strange.

Our open house this weekend brought some real prospects alongside the nosy neighbors. Not that I was waiting around to be annoyed by either — I shot out of here like the house was on fire. But after three months on the market, I'm ready for some interest to come out of all this housecleaning. It's difficult to live when I can't be as messy as I am. I haven't made my bed voluntarily for months, just to compensate for keeping the rest of the house shipshape. It's an easy fix if someone calls for a viewing and it makes me feel more empowered.

The screamer

Also, I'm nearly seven months pregnant and dying to get out of the Kansas heat. Literally dying, like melting away. Janelle and I went to the dog park at Shawnee Mission, and Poppy got such severe leg cramps from the heat that she screamed like a pig, something I've never heard any dog do, much less this particular dog who makes zero noise at all even when hurt. We turned to look for the noise and found her flat on her back in the grass, legs pointed up to the sky. When Janelle wasn't looking, I cried a little. I never knew dogs could get leg cramps, much less from my absolute neglect to shield her from the formidable heat of racing through the dog park in 87º weather. The vet visit was more of a verbal spanking, though I was so relieved she wasn't dying that I didn't mind. He said that dogs can't cool themselves by panting when it's this humid out — like no lower than 85% for weeks — then he prescribed that Poppy can't walk, climb stairs or play for a week. She's driving me crazy, and I'm sure I've explained it to her a dozen times.

Don't worry, folks. I'm fine.

Every morning when I leave work at the bakery, I load the dogs into the car and drive out to the south trailhead, hoping to beat the sunshine at the most shaded part of the trail. But nowdays it's at least 85º, even at 7 am, and so miserably humid that it's hazy. So, yeah, I can't wait to get back to the dry Denver heat, especially with the views of my Evergreen rental tantalizing me from its website (George saw it in person, not me). Even the black raspberry bushes I discovered trailside last week don't tempt me to stay longer, and if you knew of my raspberry obsession you would know just how bad that is.

Ziti: Do I look like a biter?

How about now? You're gonna miss me, Kansas.

We're counting down the days until the movers can come — haven't actually scheduled a date yet, pending our assessment this week. Much as I've loved this sweet little house and the bountiful farmers market produce, I'll be glad to skip part of a Kansas summer.

Worrisome Weather

2010-06-23T14:02:00.001-07:00

If you've been reading here in the past two years, you'll know I'm afraid of tornadoes. In particular, Kansas tornadoes. When storms get awful in the country, my cell service dumps me immediately, then the cable goes, and finally the power shuts down entirely. This leaves me to rely upon whoever's job it is to turn on the tornado siren. I worry that he's not even come in to work that day, much less that he can see the twister undulating in the pitch blackness of the storm. I do not want to meet this person because then I will never trust that he can do the job of switching the siren on in time to warn me.

When we had storms in Minnesota, I remember the neighbors coming outside and assessing the cloud cover. Parents discussed whatever they talk about before storms strike while the kids tried to muck in the ditch water as deep as possible before the parents noticed (and yelled). Often we'd head over to one neighbor's house and have a basement picnic while the storm battered away outside. It seemed more friendly than the Kansas storms do now. Here I do not see anyone so much as poke a head through the doorway as I stand on the porch and do my 360º assessment of the sky. Do I know what I'm looking for? Not really. Clouds that look mean.

So, to prevent the disaster catching me unawares, I retreat to the basement early. "Prematurely," some might say. Siren or no. I light my candles and bring a snack and get comfy on the futon with a book to read. I even bring my phone, since I might get service back eventually. My position helps me to ensure that the sump pump is working, despite spotty power. When the wind takes a breather, I'll poke my head upstairs and see how dark it is. If I can see the flower baskets on the porch swinging, it's probably okay to venture upstairs. If not, back into the hole.

This year I've been fortunate and have only visited my concrete kingdom twice. Once I barely got the first candle lit before the power died. (Incidentally this occurred during the season finale of Glee, which I still need to watch online.) The second time I went downstairs a good half hour before I heard the tornado siren's distinctive wail.

As I write this, I've been listening to the grumble of approaching thunder, awaiting yet another severe thunderstorm. But I am ready, if need be, to race for the basement. Wish we had a bathroom down there.

Naptime?

2010-02-25T08:43:00.001-08:00

I'm back. Sort of. The bakery opening has smashed my usual schedule. Between trying to find cooking implements in an unsettled, working kitchen, getting the actual baking completed and then summoning the energy to attack my design jobs waiting at home, I'm drained by 4 p.m. Thank goodness for free cappuccinos or my office calendar might look like the rest of the house (pretty tousled).

I shared in my last post that the bakery was scheduled to open two weeks ago. But instead of opening on Monday, they opened Friday. So Sunday morning when I came in to get a head start on the bread, a thick layer of dust covered the furniture we'd so carefully unveiled and organized two nights earlier. Luckily, one of the owners was there and told me our opening had been delayed before I got started. Of course, I went home and back to bed. Happily.

The building inspection was last Thursday afternoon, and we passed. So last Friday was my first 3 a.m. wakeup, and the kitchen was in chaos. Aside from the mess and garbage bags covering utensils, our ovens run 100º hotter than set, and the temps continue to rise the longer they're on. I'm used to keeping an eye on things, but it gets ridiculous. And you can imagine how hot the kitchen was before we got the vent running this week. Every morning when I get in, things have been rearranged, shelves added, different ingredients put in generic and opaque food-safe containers, sinkfuls of dishes await, and, often, ladders and hand tools block counterspace.

This morning I spent half an hour searching for the measuring spoons. I knew exactly where they were the rest of the week. I almost drove home and fetched one teaspoon — all I really needed. It would have been faster. Then the pilot lights in the oven were out because they were fixing it yesterday. I am afraid of lighting those. Not only afraid, I couldn't find matches or even where the light lived. I had to wait until a cook came in to show me. (It was embarrassingly simple, once you know where to look. Pushing buttons, no matches.) But after sitting half an hour, my muffins refused to rise in the oven and had to be tossed. The first of many flops, I'm sure, but it couldn't have happened on a worse day. I blew a fuse using the mixer to make foccacia bread, of course after all the ingredients were inside of it. Then I saw the mouse.

Longest story short, I've made it through four of the jobs on my design queue today. But it's 11 a.m., my caffeine buzz has evaporated, and it's time for a nap.

Busy, busy baker to be

2010-02-11T09:25:00.000-08:00

Oh yeah, the bakery is slated to open on February 15, and I have a key!

Yesterday, I made my last go-round of the kitchen area, pleased with the large pantry stocked with flours and sugars and cleaned baking equipment, things that make a baker's heart go pitter-pat. I am missing a mixer (alarm bells ringing in my head) and a pastry cutter (there's no food processor), so for now I'll sacrifice my $3.99 Target model to the cause of scones. The idea of whipping cream by hand isn't pleasing, however. This will need to be remedied.

There were a dozen people sweeping the floor and assembling tables and stools in the great room, plus more working on the bathroom plumbing, a few more adding lights to the main dining area, and the cooks in the kitchen making soup for their first catered event. Frayed nerves were visible. Luckily, I had no part in them. I merely wandered to check off my ingredients and hope that the refrigerator and pantry items were out of those nondescript boxes before I needed to hunt for things, and found myself imagining what it will be like to wake up at 3:30 a.m. again. Honestly, it's been a long, long time since I got up that early. After all, I am not yet 85.

So next Sunday, I'll happily walk three blocks to a beautifully refinished building as the night grows gentle and try to remember where to find the lights at 4 a.m. Then I'll bake several pans of focaccia for sandwiches, and start croissants and danish dough, and test out the espresso machine, and probably take some pictures of the place all quiet and organized (just because I'm a dork like that, and also because you far-aways are curious). And then, like I used to do, I plan to enjoy the peace of moving around in familiar, friendly ingredients, the heat of the oven at my back, as I get to bake loads of pretty, yummy things before heading home to say goodbye to George and read through breakfast.

30 Days of . . . Yoga

2010-01-29T10:19:00.000-08:00

With the parentals arriving amid this afternoon's winter storm watch, I've got maybe twenty spare minutes between preparations and stocking up in case of snow-in. I should be working. I'd rather be reading. Scratch that, lunch sounds the best.

I've been reviewing several yoga books lately and stumbled onto a genius book of routines with times attached and real people showing off the poses. Yay. Much easier to check posture than on my previous favorite book's stick figure guide. I've tried to incorporate yoga into my everyday life, people, really I have. It's hard. Five minutes of quick stretching is the easiest thing ever to scratch off the to-do list. And who cares? Well, my toes for one. See, I haven't touched them in, mmmm, maybe ever. I remember being a nine-year-old gymnastic attendee who could do straddle splits no problem but not touch her toes without bending the knees. It got worse from there, especially after breaking my femur in the ninth grade and hobbling on crutches for months. Not like I was really making an effort at that point. Once a year at the presidential fitness test in gym class, I'd whip out a painful toe touch under duress. And now, even post run when I'm all warmed up, my hands are about 6" from my toes after serious effort.

But I've decided that this is the year for me and my toes to patch up our differences. Starting on Monday, I'm going to complete 20 minutes of yoga every day for 30 days. My hope is that it will limber me up, maybe narrow my hand-to-toe margins by an inch or two. I've read that practicing a few minutes every day is more effective than doing a 90-minute class once or twice/week. I'm out to test that theory. Stay posted.

Short break; long blog

2010-01-24T18:22:00.000-08:00

Last week, I drove up to Minnesota on a whirlwind visit to see my sister and the viscous fog that hangs over Iowa. I was away from home for 49 hours, including 15.5 hours of driving time. My companion, the spotted Poppy of poop-foot fame, wondered why we were trading the wet grass of home for the wet and icy pavement of downtown Minneapolis. But I wanted a break.

As soon as I put it on the calendar, freelance work began to pour in. Like I can say no. Ha. Instead, I tried to reorganize the schedules, leaving myself a narrow window of free time for a quick drive, then a full Sunday of work to follow. I didn't care. I need the money.

Still, I did go over to help at the food bank last week. After a weird, whispered conversation with the organizer, who wanted to know if I needed community service hours to fulfill parole obligations. She was being politely vague, using her hands to point over at the courthouse, but I didn't understand what she was insinuating until she said it point blank. Finally, we were able to communicate freely, and she told me when to show up the next day. I spent three hours on Tuesday filling commodities bags for the county residents who were scheduled to pick them up the following morning. These are bags for people who pick up the basics every month: cereal, grains, dairy, dried fruit, canned goods, beans, sometimes more. The quantities depressed me and don't account for the emergency food bank needs, the walk-ins. Thirty bags of groceries for singles, twenty for doubles, thirty for threes, twenty-plus boxes of fours, fives and sixes, then skip the sevens, and add a dozen eights. That's about one-sixth of our town population. We ran out of room to fill the boxes and bags at tables, lining the hallways of a small building with boxes of food. They'll need help every month with this, as the parolees come and go. I don't know if I'll see the three I worked with again, except that they also pick up monthly boxes themselves. So probably, I guess.

Tuesdays I've begun attending a creative writing workshop in Lawrence. It's nice, despite the fact that everyone else in the class has been taking it together for at least a year and knows each other intimidatingly well. It forces me to write, and also to read other people's work aloud in class (scary!) and to make my brain work in a highly competitive, vocabulary-rich environment. Last week, I brought the first 19 pages of my novel for these people to read over the next week. I find out on Tuesday what they think and will receive seven marked up copies back. If they're mean, I know I'll never go back, even if they're right. To prepare myself for the worst, I googled several of my classmates' names, copying them furtively in my notebook when their poems were passed out in class for immediate reading and review. No one's been published. Is it wrong to be relieved? Petty, yes. But I'm worried about what these strangers will say about me and the words I've struggled over for the last year. If you think of it on Tuesday, wish for me a gentle response.

One of my high school besties, Dawn Mitchell, met me for lunch. Yay!

My sister made me attend her hot yoga class, which was actually lovely after sitting in the car for eight hours of foggy driving and a sleet-storm in Iowa. (Dear Iowa, I hate your weather. Sorry, Myntha.) And then we bummed around her hip neighborhood, where one of my high school friends has an amazing Italian restaurant, and found a vintage store I'd kill to have nearby. She introduced me to Yum! bakery, and I'm in love with their chocolate cupcakes and delectable chai tea. We sat in tall chairs at the window of a coffee shop and watched people walking briskly to who knows where and felt good to be alive and warm, picking at poppyseed muffins. It's funny how a well-timed car ride can actually be relaxing. Here's to short breaks every now and then.

Burgeoning followership

2010-01-14T21:47:00.000-08:00

I've been reading Follow Me to Freedom by Shane Claiborne and John M. Perkins, wrestling with my own callings and hangups. In the book, Perkins quotes Harold W. Reed's book, Dynamics of Leadership, "All great leaders have the willingness to confront unequivocally the major anxiety of the people in their time." This got me thinking about my motivations, the issues I try to resolve. I am always out to create community, or worried about my lack of it, and I've done a poor job. I think I've always felt lonely and can sense it in others, knowing we're all on the outside. It makes me put forth the extra effort, even when it isn't returned equally. Maybe that makes me pitiable, I don't know.

My second motivation has always been hunger. I'm the first to admit I've never been hungry. Probably closer to it than my parents will admit during the early years of my dad's career in ministry. Beyond that, never. Not once have I skipped a meal involuntarily, and I'm more guilty of overeating than I care to say. It's the guilt of the overfed goading me to feed others.

George and I restructured our budget last year to implement in January. Since moving here, our donations are zilch, our savings zero. Yet we have more income here and one key thing is cheaper: the house payment. Where are we spending the extra? Frivolous shopping and gas. I'll admit I buy more clothing than I need, considering I'm homebound and rarely out of sweats. I've curbed my spending by a monthly allotment of $50 in cash. Cash is key, I hope. Also in the budget is $150 for donations. Hold on, I'll explain.

Growing up, my family always tithed. Ten percent of our income went to the church, and because my dad was a minister, he gave even more. So I have tithed since babysitting money started rolling in. A few years ago, I read another book and realized I was giving money to a church to fund who knows what when I could be giving it directly to the people who need it to live. I rerouted half of my tithe to hunger relief, mostly using it to fund meals I cooked myself at a homeless teen shelter. When we moved to Kansas, for the first time I didn't have much of an income source. George and I pooled money, blending our accounts for the first time. It's been relatively painless, apart from my pride. So, yes, it's taken me more than a year to suggest that we make sizeable donations out of an account I rarely contribute to.

This month, the money is going to Kiva, but later I'm hoping to direct it toward hunger issues closer to home. If only I could find out what they are. By phone, no one is being very helpful. Quite possibly I am not asking the right questions. My leadership abilities have whittled away. I barely know what I want, outside of community, and the rest of my follow-through must have succumbed to the weather. At Christmastime, our food bank changed hands from oversight by the Methodist Church to the county-run organization, and it's been difficult to track down who exactly is now in charge.

Lately I've not been very honest about my goals to people who can hold me accountable. I plan to visit the new food bank on Monday and see whether they need help or money or both. I'd like to be a follower for a while. Historically, I'm a terrible follower. I lack the patience. But I'm telling George my intentions out loud today, so he will ask me what happened next Monday. You can ask me too.

Appreciating interruptions

2010-01-10T21:44:00.000-08:00

I want to be helpful, but I'm not. I'm horrible. Moody in the worst way if you stumble in to ask for help when I'm not expecting it. You'll receive such a glare that you'll consider crawling beneath a rock. Clearly, that is where I wish you were already. It's awful. Embarrassing as well is the fact that I am by nature quite disruptive. I don't mean to be. It's just that my time is simply more valuable than yours. I obviously shouldn't be kept waiting. You, on the other hand... yeah.

Come to think of it, this began in the fifth grade when I discovered the Sweet Valley High books and had to hide my reading material of choice from my mother. She thought we were still on the Nancy Drew kick, but those were my cover. I stayed up late, muffling Allison's complaints from the bottom bunk as I read by the light of my green alarm clock. Crabby with bloodshot eyes, I awoke each morning with a foul attitude and realized one day that I could glower my eyes in such a way as to frighten off my siblings. What a cruel and proud moment. And I only grew from there. Now, twenty odd years later (I won't scare you with my math), I've seen George hesitate outside my door. I have to be honest, that doesn't always fill me with guilt. It's not like he's jumping up to help with the dishes. (Had to get one dig in there for equality purposes.)

Nonetheless, I've been trying to work on my terrible attitude for George, who has the patience of a saint when it comes to my special projects. The tasks I surprise him with while he watches TV on the weekend. More than I imagined, it's difficult to wrangle my withering glare when I hear his footsteps approach my reading sanctuary. It's become a self-defense mechanism I'm not proud of. But I keep trying. I want to help him the way he helps me. Reluctantly, sometimes, yes. That's okay. He shows me he loves me by plodding along, occasionally issuing a sigh, but smiling before long.

Dracula, and the eggless

2010-01-06T07:27:00.000-08:00

Only Wednesday and it's already been a weird week. For starters, the single digit temperatures forced me to layer and hibernate, a pale, furless mammal in a nest of space heaters behind closed office doors. I've sprouted a serious hoodie habit. Happily, they go beautifully with sweatpants.

Sunday night, I climbed out of my burrow to feed the dogs, fumbling into the kitchen with the house lights off and scooping food by the porch light's glow. What do I see? The shadow of a bird, midflight, in our living room. Wait, no, scratch that. It's a bat, circling the living room, kitchen and dining room. I flip on a light to make sure I'm not crazy and the flight pattern quickens. Being a Buffy fan, I gently woo little Dracula safely toward the freezing back door, which he doesn't like. No go. I enlist George's aid. Dracula moves upstairs, gently soaring through the hallway and then stopping to clutch the bedroom curtain between rounds. George blocks the exit with a blanket and we turn on all the lights. Poor bum can't see and flutters to the ground, where I wrap him in a blanket despite his screeching. He is delivered outside posthaste and flies off without a proper thank-you. Twenty minutes of vampire hunting end successfully. George remains uneasy about how he got inside, as if we run Fort Knox and aren't standing with the doors held wide forty times a day waiting for the effing dogs to hurry inside or out.

Then yesterday, Tuesday, I venture into the cold once more to buy eggs at the Sale Barn, which is apparently what we call the auction house and only took me 16 months to figure out. I heard you could get free range eggs for $2/dozen, which is worth a look, plus I've never had a reason to go. I'm curious. Turns out I have to wait two hours to bid on the eggs, and today I'm too late. I'm told they went for $1.97 this week. I'm not sure how I feel about coming back. On one hand, it's just eggs, but on the other, I've always wanted to use one of those numbered paddles.

Maybe next week. Maybe once the weather warms and things go back to boring normal.

Goalful and charged

2010-01-01T00:00:00.000-08:00

Last year is sooo behind me right now. All those outdated, unreached 2009 goals hovering in the air. I've forged ahead. I'm a new me. Yes, already. What are you, a skeptic? I know, already, that 2010 will be the year of painless toe touching and moving to somewhere that's else and more writing and running further and staying on budget for once. I just know. The feeling starts the minute I unwrap the plastic from a new calendar and continues until February 10. So you have to make the most of it, really, like that friend you only see once a year at someone else's wedding.

This year, my goals and me are reacquainting ourselves, thick and smile-filled and puffy with hope. We've established some airy, weightless idears that'll no doubt be painful come the push of fall. But, pay that no mind. Keep your hope handy and fuel it with cookies and those hugs your mom gave out when you saw her last, things like that are what new years and holidays are truly about. And shut up with the I thought you were going to do that last year kind of auntly commentary, even if we both are thinking it. Remember how you felt when that kid in second grade told you the truth about Santa Claus? Yeah, don't be that kid. But don't be the kid who believed until tenth grade either.

Goals for 2010

Move away from Garnett to . . . almost anywhere will do.
Find a second writing assignment
Run 425 miles
Take sewing lessons (it's not improving on its own...)
Volunteer at the food bank
Touch my toes
Visit New England, Canada or Alaska
Write a(nother) novel, only better this time

And as you're once again sleeping through the ball dropping excitement of the countdown, I will make a wish for you. Let's see, for you. . . . For you, I wish for a long year of hopeful days unfurling, graceful and slow, curled at the edges like happiness.

Showdowns and snowdowns.

2009-12-27T17:26:00.000-08:00

Loading ammo amicably before turning on each other.

If you are at all acquainted with my family, you'll not be overly surprised that our holidays usually include some sort of gunfight. This year's unexpected twist was the potato gun, which left disgusting brown segments of potato all over the house. Although the dogs made good time with cleanup, there's never a winner in the family showdown (except for George beating nearly everyone at Wii games — I am the archery champion). I'm proud to say that this year, no one got hurt, there was very little cursing and no blood oaths were declared. All in all, progress.

As follows most holiday whirlwinds, our house is a disaster. I like it. Instead of its usual empty feel, there's junk lying around, stuff I didn't put there myself. Mostly it's empty boxes and scraps of wrapping paper. Yes, I'll be forced to tidy it eventually, but right now I'm stuffing the guilt aside with a handful of single-bite Twix that George forced into my stocking. Mmm. Holidays good. Putting off the cleaning feels even better.

Mom's oh-my-little-babies face that she makes when we leave her.

We spent yesterday shovelling our front sidewalk, never more aware of how long it stretches across our half-acre yard. Yikes. More than a foot of wet, heavy snow between us and our neighbors, then between our back door and the garage lay a whole new area of snow coverage. I love to shovel, actually. Bundling up in clothing I rarely wear here, including heavy-duty new gloves, fills me with an ache for my snow-racked Minnesota childhood. We do not have piles of clean, white snow in which to dig tunnels and forts here. So by the time George came outside fully bundled up, I had eagerly cleared off the back porch and shoveled a path to the garage. I am grinning and cherubic with cold (I prefer 'cherubic' to 'frost-bitten'). We shuffled through the snow to the front, where we cleared a fat swath of walkway for the mailman. By tomorrow, no doubt, our snow will be graying and coarse, the texture of unbleached sea salt. Depressing. But for now my back sports a delightful burning that means I shoveled.

Of course, I forgot the camera for part B of our holiday celebration, mostly comprised of nephew Patrick running over everyone's feet with his new 'motorcycle,' complete with a recorded voice of a Cars character yelling "Get out of my way!" Hilarious. The next day we were temporarily snowed in, which led to a leisurely breakfast of leftovers and muffins and Harry & David pears (yum!). And then, in typical post-holiday fashion, I felt absolutely ill. Too much of too much. Time to go home.

Morning Toby

Ready for dinner.

Sitting around, waiting for pie.

Present opening begins

George unwraps the fateful potato gun — that thing hurts, let me tell you.

Hank(erings)

2009-12-10T17:57:00.000-08:00

I'm not talking about you here. Just me.

Winter approaches and inevitably leaves me wondering what happened to my waistline. While this has always been an issue, the somewhat remote existence I've set up in Garnett whiffs of something worse than usual: indifference.

(After all, no one really sees me. Not with their eyes. That much.)

The onset of holiday season looses my inner cookie monster, who i manage to trap the rest of the year with little resistance. Oh how Hank wants out. He is grumbly mad for sugar. To appease him, I've made a longish list of recipes to bake. Luckily, I have two celebrations again this year. Double the cookie madness. Hank happy.

Happy Weekend

2009-12-07T13:39:00.000-08:00

To any of the rest of you who raked a giant yard in below-freezing weather, burned a year's worth of tree clippings and fallen branches along with your leaves in a happy gas fire that took two days to quit smoking, and then painted the basement with waterproofing cement, enjoy the last few hours of a Sunday afternoon curled on the couch with warm dogs and the scent of smoke in your hair. No, don't shower. Rest. You've done enough.

Rearrangements

2009-12-05T08:19:00.000-08:00

Wish I could remember where I found this website.
It made a colorful word jumble by picking words out of my TK posts.

Christmas is creeping right up. My family holiday celebration starts at my house, 10 days from now. So yesterday I suffered through a pre-clean to make the actual clean easier. And while I should have begun gift shopping, instead I took the opportunity to rearrange my household furniture.

I've often thought, while typing away in my upstairs office cattycorner from the darkened bedroom where George is fitfully sleeping, that I should move my computer downstairs. Especially during last month's NaNoWriMo onslaught of nightly typing. The guilt always plagued me: why leave this sunny, unconventionally shaped bedroom empty, bereft? It's so pretty, how could I let it go to waste? Oh who knows. The truth is, we never use the formal living room either. So if we have an unfrequented room, what does it matter which one? After working this out in my peabrain over the course of the past two months, I decided I might as well try moving the office. It's my house, and I can move it back upstairs later if I hate it. What else do I have to do?

Here's the initial move-in photo, at night, of my chandelier-lit office space.

Now we have three couches in the living room, just for the holiday, making enough seats for the rush of extra bums. When it's all over, we'll move couch #3 upstairs to the now-empty bedroom where it will hopefully befriend the red couch already up there alone.

This week's to-do list:

Put up holiday decor (indoors)
Burn the leaves we raked and tossed in the garden
Trip to the mall
Finish old xmas card garland for tree
Edit first draft of NaNoWriMo novel
Make 2010 goals list
Pray for Autumn (Paulseth) Foerderer and her tumor surgery

For today, however, I have a pleasant stack of reading, warm blankets, loads of tea, and three living room couches to choose between.

Local events boost holiday spirit

2009-11-29T23:19:00.001-08:00

Jerry thinks sweatpants are genius. Especially today.

Carole makes the table beautiful as we start to load it with foodstuffs.

Last week, I took two days off from my flurry of typing (that novel does not write itself!) in favor of Thanksgiving with George's parents in Liberty. His sister, Jennifer, was away at her husband's family reunion, which left just the four of us at the table. We didn't much mind. After all, there was still turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, rolls, gravy, cranberries and pie. Plus some other stuff, mostly vegetables, you get the idea. Jerry even wore his sweatpants all day, that's how relaxed we were. Kept the game on (muted) through dinner.

Not so happy in his big boy pants, or maybe it was just the crowd.

Oh yeah, you can see the stage, right?
What's with the red-white-and-blue fireworks?

After the usual post-dinner yawn-a-thon, I retired for my annual nap, hoping to gain strength before the Plaza Lighting. This yearly event, now in its 80th year, had somehow been missed by both Carole and Jerry, despite their living here in KC since George was a toddler. Most likely because they were befuddled by turkey hormones, we were able to confuse them into the car, where we proceeded to park a fortnight away from the area and then herd them along dark, cold streets with hundreds of strangers. They did not follow along promptly with my speed walking. It never works for me anymore.

The gratuitous arms-length photo of us. You're welcome.

Anyway, this year's lighting was done by Jason Sudeikis of SNL fame, a Kansas City native. Thanks to the million tall people who turned out, I couldn't see him. I held the camera up really, really high in order to take pictures. George noted that only 1% of the world's population is over 6 feet tall, making his "people" a true minority. It is his new favorite saying. Do not pity them. Tall people, at least for shorties like me, are everywhere and continually ruining the view.

Some of the plaza and my hundreds of best friends

Anyway, the lights flickered on with holiday music blaring over the speakers and a weirdly patriotic fireworks display fired us all up for America instead of Christmas but whatever.

Lights make me feel like the plaza is friendly. Pretty lights.

Yowza those Garnett streetlamps are bright

In contrast, the Garnett Holiday Parade, this year's was entitled 'A Christmas to Remember' by a local sixth grader, was mostly lit by streetlamp. George and I wandered down to the square yesterday evening to see it. It's always after Thanksgiving, so we haven't been down before. The square was crowded. I've truly never seen so many people lining the streets in Garnett. We joked that if we had driven down, we'd still have to park our car at home, about two blocks away.

One of the best and brightest floats from the public library

Other than our city and state officials riding around on golf carts, the rest of the parade was a testament to small town adorableness. In the complete dark, we could barely see the kids on ponies or the high school marching band. Three of the floats were brightly lit and festive. Church-made floats could be a surprise. My least favorite had a couple of angels with mean-looking swords standing beside a pole while the nativity scene was enacted at the end of the float. The angels looked menacing, which made me fear for the baby Jesus. My favorite thing was this old guy riding a scooter who looked pissed off at being there. I think he was a Lions club member. He threw candy at the kids backhandedly, really hard. Like he was trying to brain them. I am obviously childless because I thought it was funny.

The horse-riding group. I forgot what their sign said.

Between the two events, George and I should be fully embracing the holiday spirit. Instead, we squandered the rest of our weekend raking leaves in the yard and watching television. We're exhausted already and it hasn't even snowed.

The procession of golf carts carrying distinguished officials.

Las Vegas: The World's Shortest Scrapbook

2009-11-20T09:27:00.001-08:00

George's $55 steak made him this happy.

I'll be the first to admit an error was made. Pictorial note-taking fell to an all-time low during this year's Vegas trip (for which I am only halfway responsible, George), making this particular venture seem extremely dull. It wasn't. Perhaps a bit slower paced than other years, due to the fact that we're all aging and becoming tedious, rickety, old people. Kidding.

Part of the problem here is that I faced the dilemma of a penthouse suite this year, something I find almost as frightening as plane rides, and most of the dramatic photos taken by others were snapped from the 35th floor balcony (yes, a balcony. I hope you are appropriately horrified.). Some with Toby dangling himself over the rail. Meanwhile, I was trembling on the couch, staring dead ahead until everyone came safely into the room and shut the door, but the blinds, if not the entire window, remained open most of the trip and led to my nausea most of the time we were in the room. I made sure it wasn't much.

We had an incredible gym at the MGM Suites in Tower 1, which I had all to myself on Saturday night at 1:30 a.m. Go figure. And after that visit, I indulged in the first of many (3, total) salted pretzels from the stand in New York, New York casino, a mere half mile walk away. Wynell, Gwen and I were lucky enough to stop in at the Vosges chocolate store, an addition to Caesar's shopping center that I'm quite pleased about. The cappuccino I had there rivaled my memory of an Italian cup, and Wynell's mocha almost turned me into a mocha drinker — vanilla-scented Vosges chocolate! We watched the Cirque du Soleil production of Love (amazing!) where photography isn't allowed, ate the most delicious collection of vegetarian sides I've ever tasted at Nine steakhouse (wild mushroom saute! truffled gnocchi!), and raced to watch the fountains at the Bellagio only to catch the last few seconds of the final show from the car window. Sunday morning, most people wandered off to watch a stupid Chiefs game, but Cinnamon, Karen and I ate a memorable breakfast of heavenly grits and egg-cheese-tortilla and multiple sauce concoctions that would take a lifetime to replicate. Cooked for us by Bobby Flay himself at Mesa. Or so we are determined to believe. After wallowing in the pool and hot tub all afternoon, everyone fell asleep on comfy deck chairs. The rest of the trip included much, much more walking, as usual, and more eating, a little gambling on the horses, dancing, and minor star spotting (Frankie Munez, Steve Hytner, a.k.a Kenny Bania of Seinfeld).

When we returned home, I realized I had only 11 photos on my camera, half of them doubletakes of pictures where one person's eye fluttered closed (usually mine) to show for myself. Huh.

Karen will not be photographed, even after
Bobby Flay cooks something special for her.

He was dead asleep until I took this picture. Creepy.

To PJ

We also toasted the free Caesar salads the chef sent over. Mmm.

The finger of Tobe shows you where to look.

Me and Cinn in a happy post-breakfast embrace. Dammit Peter.

Community building for idiots

2009-11-17T09:53:00.001-08:00

Lately I've been reading a book I never thought I would like. Sometimes it's part of the job. I have a review copy of Simple Compassion by Keri Wyatt Kent, a weekly devotional by Christian publisher Zondervan. A book that first shows women that God loves them specially — despite the patriarchal tone typical of church upbringings — and second how to reflect that love to family, neighborhood, and further outward. Essentially, how to build your own community. Now, devotionals aren't my thing, generally speaking, but 'community' has been one of my buzzwords for a few years (right, Jeff?). Welcoming, that sense of community, is one of the foundation garments a church should always be wearing yet consistently goes without. How progressive. Maybe we burned them. Who knows? Whatever the reason, the lack of community has been my chief complaint about churchgoing for more than a decade.

I'll spare you a review of the book itself and simply say that several points snagged on bitter strings in my head, working them free and loose despite my original apathy. They're old, marbled complaints, some of them, and blurring my vision when it comes to organized religion. I'm always telling myself that the church is made up of fragile, messy individuals and couldn't ever be a perfect place. A coverall for the behaviors I've witnessed as a minister's daughter. The truth is that I've not found a church rich in love, since leaving the church of my childhood. Did I receive special treatment there as a pastor's daughter? Tell me that's not all it was. I've too many friends in similar circumstance, waiting outside the church's established circle for an invitation of friendship. Where is the genuine, welcoming spirit? Beyond the handshake. Where is the compassion that powered Jesus? Perhaps beneath your polished outfit, or a few dog-eared pages back in that Bible you're carrying. Perhaps there's not enough love to cover my jeans.

Welcome, with love as its core, seems to be the one thing nobody is toting to church these days, like it singularly belongs to the holiday spirit special sessions or back at the soup kitchen. The thing is, nobody sees how lonely we all are. How separate and sad.

I've spent too much time wishing someone would reach out to me. See me. Too much time dressing and doing my hair so anyone might notice. I've been going for the wrong things. You see, I notice. I see you. And it's time I do something about it.

Not sure how to forgive churches of people or if they will ever know, but I do. I forgive those who were unwelcoming, who didn't remember me from week to week though we talked in the hallway, who in passing only looked at my dress. While I'm at it, I forgive you, Mrs. Williams, for your terrible Christian example to a teenager that looks, in hindsight, a lot like regular human frailty. I'm tired of carrying this bitterness around, parlaying it into excuses.

I don't need a church to teach me about love. My parents did that, my siblings, now my husband and his family, my friends. I have love. But mine is also mostly inside, where I wish it would start to radiate. I need to stop judging everyone else by standards I can't live up to myself. I forgive me. Yes, me. Now maybe I am free to get started building another community, full of freaks and weirdos like me who know how important it is to belong.

Barnes & Noble's Bitch

2009-11-13T12:14:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, swamped in a tide of unnecessary spending, I stacked books on the counter of Barnes & Noble. I've had weeks, months, actually, of free books arriving by mail. Some I've requested and some otherwise, flitting over unannounced, a few of them looking quite alien on my countertops. There are still scads of books I'd like to read, books I'm unable to request with my tenuous freelance relationships. And so the bitterness of my earnest-yet-fruitless library searches slapped me full force yesterday, when I unfortunately had upon my person both my membership discount card and my business credit cards. Egad.

Normally I wait until December 31, review my business spending, and make a large web purchase to bulk up my tax deductions. Not this time.

What have I carted home? Oh a few new friends, definitely. I shall spend this weekend reading. Possibly nonstop. Behold the shelf-expanding titles:

Olive Kitteridge, Elizabeth Strout
The Lace Reader, Brunonia Barry
Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, Austen and Grahame-Smith
Best Food Writing 2009, Holly Hughes
Shark's Fin and Sichuan Pepper, Fuchsia Dunlop
Confections of a Closet Master Baker, Bullock-Prado
Alone in the Kitchen with an Eggplant, Jenni Ferrari-Adler
Under the Table, Katherine Darling
The Pioneer Woman Cooks, Ree Drummond

Lashings of conscience

2009-11-02T14:02:00.000-08:00

One of those funny-slash-ironic life lessons has occurred. The single item I've ever (in our eight years together!) convinced George to borrow from the library has gone missing. Oh it's been returned, and for weeks, but has slipped from the library's return bin without being logged and is now being fretfully searched for in fifteen libraries across Kansas City. I will not tell him. Even if they never find Ultimate Wiring. This is the opposite result of the behaviors I was trying to foster by encouraging his lone book interest. And, yes, I will stop trying to change behaviors other than my own. I should know it's not possible to wield transformative powers over others when my self-control has proven spotty at best.

Last week's change list has inspired several new behaviors, including more bendy yoga practice. A positive. Also, I've been carrying around this small notebook and doodling notes inside all week, keeping track of interesting bits for future columns, author excerpts, schedules. For this week, some follow-up or short steps on the ladder of change:

Write a sample book review for professional website, in the style of Bookreporter.com, to be considered as a featured fiction reviewer
Continue work on freelance site overhaul
Develop a reading list for a prospective local book club

To be honest, I've practiced zero Spanish since writing the word in last week's goals. It's scandalous. My last contact with the language was buying the dictionary and promptly losing it on my desk under the novels I'd rather be reading. Now that I've cleared the desktop, it may still take a week or two before the guilt sets in. I set out my flash cards and dictionary, so there'll be a direct line of vision when the lashings of conscience erupt.

Poppy was sick today. Maybe she even has the bird flu. Who knows? It's an excuse to postpone not only my trip to Walmart, but most of my to-do list items for today. Hopefully tomorrow I won't be so lucky.

The List of Impossible Tasks, Part 3

2009-11-01T07:52:00.000-08:00

Aside from the day I brought the refrigerator home sparkling and new, I have never seen my cheese drawer empty. It would be too sad for words. There's always a nub of something interesting in there, something I can melt into bread or crumble in my salad, something snappy to eat with apple slices or spreadable for the crackers. I'm happiest when there are choices and there always seem to be. You see, I don't really shop for cheese. Other than the cheddar I always have on hand for emergency nachos — they are a thing, trust me —, I'm not sure where it comes from. Occasionally I'm certain it leapfrogs into the cart while I am searching for healthful things like green beans and whole grain rice. My point is, there are things I never worry about, like the dependable tide of cheese, that make the things I do worry about seem more manageable.

Remembering the names of things
Truly a disorder (lethologica), I am constantly turning my head to the side, eyes rolling up toward the edge of my brain like I left the answer hanging off my forehead, trying to recall an author or a movie or something with a stupid proper name.

Maintaining a tenuous balance between good hydration and an overful tank
See, as a regular urinary tract infection sufferer, I tend to panic when the bathroom breaks grow into 15-minute intervals. It's mostly my own fault, however, because I continue to hydrate in order to keep from snacking on those cookies. I also drink liquids to control my body temperature. Cold in here? I'm having tea. Hot? Iced coffee. And this is aside from my usual 3 liters of water/day. Image how it feels when I go on vacation. My skin dries out immediately and I become a camel. I keep thinking how this will only get worse as I age, and I'm mostly referring to my paranoia about the entire ordeal.

Affording the running gear that keeps things from falling apart fast enough to let it continue helping
Oh was that confusing? I see. If you run, let's say 3 times/week, you'll need shoes ($100), a sports bra ($35) and some clothes you can move in ($40 at Walmart). When you move this sucker indoors with your new treadmill ($875) and increase to daily runs, you'll need a second pair of shoes ($100) to rotate in so you don't have blisters. You might want a set of underwear that doesn't ride up ($20), trust me, and a second sports bra too ($35). Eventually, you'll understand the need for those expensive wicking socks and break open a pack of those ($10 each). By now either your ankles or your knees are hurting, so you'll want a yoga mat ($40) for stretching those out, possibly a book ($20) to follow along if you're not taking a class ($15/class). Now you're probably up to the part where you need to replace the original pair of running shoes ($100) and, possibly, your sports bra ($35). Are your clothes still decent? Probably not. When summer rolls back around, you might pick up one of those fancy distance calculating watches ($100) or a small iPod ($80). And when you start running trails, you'll need shoes with traction ($100). Get it? Running is easy, not cheap.

The perfect homemade bagel
I've tried three recipes, all decent, and found the resulting bagels too chewy. If you know anything about the tedium involved in making bagels by hand, you'll know that even 'decent' is incredibly disappointing after six hours of work.

{End part three of a long, working list. Nope, it's not over yet.}

Tea, tea and pumpkinry

2009-10-29T21:24:00.001-07:00

Guess how much I paid for these seven pumpkins?

Tea is expensive. And, let's just say that the freelancing career of late hasn't been most lucrative. So, though I'm certain nobody wants to waste money on bad tea, I've been extra cautious about trying new ones. I've gone cheap, something I typically reserve for base layers of clothing (Old Navy, old pal). See, my body decidedly manages its temperature with whatever I'm drinking. As fall arrives, I must be careful to stock up on un-caffeinated beverages, all the better to avoid mid-day heart palpitations.

My last trip to Whole Foods was expressly made to buy this Stomach Ease tea from Yogi, which is so full-flavored I've been drinking it nonstop. Pretty sure I shouldn't. (It's for mild constipation and I'll leave it at that. Funny, short story about the time I thought they'd renamed this tea 'Get Regular,' you know marketers. In reality 'Get Regular' is a laxative. I drank it once, haven't confused the two since. The end.) The point is that I needed a flavorful decaf with which to warm myself as the weather goes to crap.

The whole cabinet of Yogi teas was on sale — jackpot! I loaded up on Stomach Ease as my fallback and was then completely torn between five other types: Calm, Kava Stress Relief, Bedtime, Cold Season, Echinacea (how DO you spell that?). My deliberations were so painstaking that even I was annoyed. Tea's still $3.50 per box, and I didn't want more than five boxes. Enter the Yogi genius, inventer of the sampler pack. Love it. Four varieties per pack, and I got all five of my choices in two boxes. So far, Bedtime is my favorite, Breathe Easy is a perfect minty cup for afternoons, and Kava Stress Relief smells like a mud puddle but actually tastes okay. Which leads me to pumpkins.

I was sipping a cup of Cold Season (decent, tastes a little like medicine) at the farmers market today, trolling for pumpkins. I purposely waited for the cheap, half-price fare, a prize for purposeful holiday latecomers. I even wore a pumpkin-colored sweater by absolute accident that I think charmed my visit. You will be jealous of the seven pumpkin varieties I bought today for $10.50. Five are edible, though who knows how far we'll get with that. I do think post-carving pumpkin seeds are in order.

And thank goodness for change

2009-10-26T08:46:00.000-07:00

I've been doing some reading. I've been staying up late thinking about who I am and what I want to be. And, the truth is, it bothers me that at 32 years old I still don't have any answers. It's disheartening that I'm still asking the same questions I was at 17, 20, 24, last year.

One of the tasks on my list for this week was to clean my office. Haven't sorted through the scraps in ages, and they were getting hard to see around. In my three hour organization spree, I found an old notebook. It wasn't something I was looking for, nothing I'd missed. It was a journal of thoughts from my last personal crisis circa 2006. A list of things I'd wanted to change about my life and the journal as a means of working through them. There were five list items and, ultimately, I seriously improved three. No worries, I'm not going to rechronicle that here. But I stumbled over this in my reading this week, and it came at the perfect time.

It's true that we are what we think, but the caveat is that what we think changes, and thank goodness. If we weren't gradually disabused of limited ideas about the world and ourselves, who would we be? — Rebecca Walker

One of the items on my 2006 list now seems utterly ridiculous to me, something I care nothing about and wouldn't miss if it fell from the planet. So I am obviously not the same person who wrote the list so longingly. Maybe I'm supposed to keep asking these questions about who I am, who I should be. Maybe it's a sign of growth.

I continue trying to improve, a strength of our species. Living day to day has become more important to me than making the sweeping, lifelong changes I've often attempted. Streamline my focus to what I want right now, plan for as far ahead as I can see. This week, I will:

Practice yoga every day for at least 10 minutes
Re-commit to my Spanish program (3 sessions)
Submit a column query to the local paper
Start professional website overhaul to include a blog link

However long this channeled, enlightened energy lasts, I'm going to take advantage. Watch out.

The List of Impossible Tasks, Part 2

2009-10-24T07:04:00.000-07:00

Just a few years ago, it was fine, absolutely practical even, to rush over to the grocery store for a single item. It took about 20 minutes to walk the mile there and return home, or about ten minutes by biking in the bicycle lane along the wide road. Now my shopping trips have a different tone: desperation. Too often I have hurried myself home without one precious item that brings the meal together, or if I'm incredibly unlucky, several meals. Yesterday I found myself hovering near the checkout line, list in hand, intensely reviewing the document as if it were the final draft of an article for print. Somewhat assured, I paid for my groceries and headed home. Sixty miles later I unpacked gingerly, hoping to find everything tucked inside. I am getting better about list making. This is important and not impossible. Whew. One down.

Letting go of the fact that my sisters liked my ex better
Or at least they did. Mostly just his energy, because they were too young to understand relationship dynamics. Still, it's difficult to ignore, that prickle of defensiveness that comes whenever I sense criticism. I feel I have to say, as often as I can work it in, how much happier I am now.

Finishing this book
Which has spiralled into three segments and keeps reaching out for more.

Not printing recipes
Do you have a website with gorgeous food photography on it? I've probably printed something from there. Chances are good that even if it was rife with beef or made of half a chicken (I'm veg), I printed it on out anyway. You'd think I didn't have enough recipes ripped from the pages of my five subscription food magazines, plus more flags in my full-color cookbooks than I'll ever review again. What's for dinner? Who the hell knows. Mostly I don't reference any of it, just open the refrigerator and see what falls out. Sometimes literally. I think I'd rather just crumple the printed pages and eat pictures. Which leads me to. . .

Learning to operate my point-and-shoot patiently enough to take my own gorgeous pictures
I've heard it's pretty easy, but when there's food involved my patience evaporates. I'd much rather be eating, and it shows in my underlit, yellowed food pictures. You'll just have to trust me that it tastes great because we all know it looks like cafeteria food.

Buying shoes that are practical for my level of homebody-ness (98%)
Flipflops aside, I am enamored of shoes with a heel. My prior office life was well equipped with the 4" variety in every style and color. I've since retired a few of these to Goodwill, but I can't bear to part with the others. Not only that, I wish to replenish their former pack with more members. Why? If I leave the house properly clothed at my twice per week regularity, it is for one of two reasons. First, to shop, thereby requiring comfortable walking shoes for at least two hours of perusing aisles at grocery and subsequent specialty stores. Second, to mail a letter or cash a check, requiring only shoes that allow me to operate bike pedals. (I do leave the house for exercise, but I'm terribly attired with matching tennis.) So why is it that I send away for these suede boots with the 3" heel? I am an atrocious money waster.

Letting a stack of cookies go stale
It's completely stupid, but I'd rather run an extra mile.

{End part two of a long, working list. More to come.}

The List of Impossible Tasks, Part 1

2009-10-21T10:33:00.000-07:00

Lately I’ve been thinking about impossible tasks. Many moons ago when I was shorter, seeing over the countertop was impossible without the aid of Sheila, my cranberry red stepstool. She never seemed to be where I left her, wandering off to stupid places like the bathroom when I needed her at breakfast to stir the oatmeal, bowing dangerously low over the burner in concentration. While she angered me immensely with her importune hideaways, I knew Sheila would help me accomplish my task. If I could find her. I wonder if I already have the tools I need to achieve my current list of impossible tasks, which I began to write down yesterday. Maybe? The list grew long-ish, then longer. A few? If you knew more, perhaps you could offer a solid opinion. Okay, then, I’ll share.

Touching my toes
Under extreme duress, I can absolutely pass the presidential fitness test with minimal cheating. The last successful test was completed in 1998. No applause, please. However, these hamstrings were not made for stretching, and, despite years of faithful yoga, will not budge floorward. Daily stretching now yields a firm handhold of toe, provided they are touched separately, singly, and only following a show of athleticism.

Keeping the entry table clear of crap
This one isn’t entirely my fault, which is about 75% of the reason it proves impossible. No matter where I live, it seems that whatever holding area is directly within view of the door will always look slovenly. Maybe the trick is to only invite people who can see past the mess — the t-shirt holding chair, piles of mail and torn notes, snarled computer cords, recipe cards, renegade tools — and into the semi-clean living room.

Shaving my legs in winter
Yep, it’s downright hippie, which I’m not, but I keep ‘em covered in winter from both ends. No need for people to think I'm making a statement. Tights or knee-highs going up, pants coming down. I'm not proud or ashamed of this; it is what it is.

Maintaining a library outtake level that I can carry in a single trip
Sadly, I am far too greedy. I blame the boondocks, but truthfully this has always been a problem. I used to bike to the library to keep the load low. (This was before I had a bike basket.) And then I’d get there and think “Oh it’s not far, I can make it” and stack up, balancing precariously on the hills of my winding, sidewalkless neighborhood for the three miles home.

Pullups
Damn upper body strength. I’m not sure I can hang on the bar for 20 seconds anymore either.

Sitting still during uncomfortable silences
I’ll tell you anything if you’re eerily quiet.

{End part one of a long, working list. Stay tuned for more. Unfortunately.}

What I'll be wearing

2009-10-19T07:59:00.000-07:00

My writing binge is over. Long over, actually. Those fairies flit off without warning and left me staring blankly at a screen, completely uninspired. It's unnerving.

I've had to focus on other things to keep from mourning. Like my running schedule. I've created a new one to go with my newly-minted motivation. One week's worth of runs already checked off. Still, I won't be able to make up the 14 miles/week I need to make my goal for the year. Not without killing my shins and knees, which doesn't appeal to me overly much. It appears I'll fall short by 24 miles. While I enjoyed a two-month running hiatus, George has framed most of the basement walls, meaning I'm now running toward a television bisected by a wooden beam. There are times I run from side to side while attempting to see what's going on around it, but I find if I watch cartoons or the Food Network the frame moves for me.

If you see me this winter, I'll probably be wearing this.

Last week I binged on internet shopping. The trick is not to buy anything, and I failed there. Normally I visit sites and load my cart with everything from shoes to bags to underwear. After I see my grand total (ack!) and pare down my purchases, I go to lunch. When I return from lunch, I take a picture of my cart (open apple, shift + 3) and then exit the web browser. It makes me feel better, like I've got a new wardrobe coming, and then sort-of gloaty because I didn't actually spend that $800. Anyway, last week I ended up buying a peacoat from JCrew, partly on accident. I do actually need a peacoat. Not need in the truest sense, because I have a ratty, TJMax off-brand from seven years ago. I tried to update it this year by searching for new buttons. The problem was, when I found some buttons I liked and held them up to the coat, the coat looked terrible next to my 87-cent pack o' buttons. Yeah, it's that scruffy. But then I've been wearing it nonstop for eleventy-nine years. So, anyway, when I got around to e-shopping at JCrew, I emptied my cart down to the black peacoat replacement and actually purchased it. I'm quite excited for Wednesday's delivery, which I've been tracking with a motherly, near-hormonal obsession. I'm hoping the new coat makes my buttons look downright shoddy.

Death of my magazines

2009-10-16T09:33:00.000-07:00

By now, if you're a subscriber, you've probably received your final, Thanksgiving, issue of my favorite foodie mag, Gourmet. Who else offers entire vegetarian turkey-day fare that doesn't look lumpen and pale? I don't know about you, but I am horrified that I won't have their fabulous December cookie lineup. I'd already seen the cover and been drooling over the potential, plus last year's triple jam thumbprints were George's new favorite.

Reading every single one of Reichl's editorials (the only ones I ever peruse), her books and published stories together have made me feel that we're friends, or would be if she knew how awesome I am, or lived within driving range, or whatever. The point is that I would invite her to dinner without hesitation, and there aren't many people I know on paper that I'd be comfortable asking. I'm sad to disconnect our subscriber friendship. I am slowly, painstakingly, savoring my last Thanksgiving issue, wishing they'd at least finished out the effing year, and trying to find Ruth Reichl's upcoming TV show on my DVR listings. Even though I'll still be able to read Molly Wizenberg in Bon Appetit, I liked the overall writing of Gourmet better, even when I couldn't afford their fare. (And, seriously, last issue staff members spent a phantom $1000 on food in a different city. Some of them only hit up three restaurants! I can't envision a world where it's okay for me to spend $300 on dinner out, much less the $700 afforded one diner.)

The fold still puts me in a bit of a funk, especially considering the amount of magazines gone belly up lately and how many of them I subscribed to.

Domino
I realize I do not have the requisite amount of time or money required to decorate my house properly, but I liked having ideas at my fingertips. What's wrong with daydreaming about custom wallpaper?

Blueprint
This Martha Stewart concoction avoided the pitfall of old people crafts like monogramming picture frames, etching your freaking window glass (really?), and nonsense housekeeping recommendations like ironing bedsheets, focusing instead on the younger set. Truly Martha Stewart for twentysomethings, the pitfall of this mag was that they only advertised it in Martha Stewart publications. It was so good, I still have the two issues I received intact.

Nest
I'd actually wanted to start a magazine for couples a half decade back. All my ideas are written here in a notebook, if you want to check. Imagine how angry I was to find this magazine targeting that exact market more precisely than my precious doodlings. I did what I had to do: subscribed.

What monthlies can I scrounge up some excitement for these days? My HOW magazine is still a design highlight, though I don't really consider it a non-work read, and there's always a recipe flagged in Bon Appetit that elicits minor drooling. I like poring through Lucky, though I wouldn't wear half of that stuff much less pay that for it. But what else is there to do when half of my mail delivery excitement was always magazine related. I loved having that stack to thumb through over Sunday coffee. Replacement suggestions? Pen pal requests? At this point, I'll consider anything.

Cinnamon fairies should be a thing

2009-10-06T15:19:00.000-07:00

Sisters like to look crazy together. Good thing. Who wants to be insane alone?

I'm feeling a bit braggy, slightly bratty about my midnight successes of late. You see, I've been in the writing mood. This glorious but tentative state is brought by magic fairies, a paper pulled squirming onto my head and held flimsily in place by lack of wind. One ever-so-slight change in breath and it's gone. I'm afraid to post this puff of braggery for obvious reasons. But I've been ignoring you; everyone, in fact, falls into a lower plane when the fairies strike. I owed you a minor nod now, at mid-day, as I pre-caffeinate for another bout of late-night typing. At this rate I might surprise myself one day and actually finish something.

Without further ado, the vacation photos and more.

Dear Winona, If you actually exist, I love you for this recipe.
I come back year after year and make a huge dent in your pastry case.
This year I even called in an order. So thanks for making my whole vacation.
Still licking my fingers, Christine

As you can see, the trees were almost as pretty as my cinnamon roll,
which, incidentally, is not pictured on a tiny plate.

The drama didn't start until day 2. Guess what it was.

My little skunk hunter and her invisible trophy. Oh so proud.

7 a.m. hike along the Yampa River

Hello Beau Jo's, old friend. Your Lil Roma does remind me of Italy.

That spot where we take a photo every time.

Wynell will always be the pretty one. (Sorry, Peter)

Part of the Woody's crowd, always watching some kind of sports.

Amy and Evie, who tried not to smile all night.
She's going to kill at that game where you keep a straight face the longest.

In the mean time, between my last post and my next, I'll think of you occasionally. I'll wonder. . . What you're reading instead. Why nobody else's dog gets sprayed by a skunk during their mountain vacation. Whether I should have already started knitting a baby hat for this weekend's shower. If I can possibly run 14 miles per week in order to make my 350 mile goal this year, considering I'd forgotten about it and started biking instead. Why I hadn't heard of "Monsters of Templeton" until after I read "Delicate, Edible Birds" and fell in love with Lauren Groff's quirky prose. When my library books might be due. Who keeps stealing one of my flip flops. How I can order new glasses without going to the eye doctor. Why people are paying $160 for the Joe's Jeans version of black tights with pockets when my Walmart pair cost $20 (and those tiny Malaysian kids did a great job).

I know you're busy wondering your own things. If you think of it this week, especially after 10 p.m., wish me luck with the fairies.

Canning, and other old-fashioned ideas

2009-09-15T08:10:00.000-07:00

Product of two days' harvest, minus cherries and heirlooms. Yikes.

Yesterday I canned tomato soup. I was nearly strong-armed into it by the volumes of produce hanging from my, yes, 24 tomato plants. Hindsight and all that. Anyway, 20 pounds of tomatoes later, I had to do something. Soup sounded good for dinner, so I started peeling tomatoes and filling this lovely Martha Stewart stew pot I purchased with a gift card this spring. To be honest, I've rarely used it, though I did buy it during springtime in Kansas when the weather bottoms out at 50º — hardly soup weather, in my opinion. I was a bit surprised when the pot completely filled with tomatoes. Sigh. I'd have to can this stuff or we'd be eating it three meals a day.

I bought my canning supplies in Colorado. After a particularly lush fall, my then-neighbor, Floyd, filled 30-gallon buckets with apples from his tree and hoisted two over the fence into our yard. One bucket o' romas and one of grannies. I felt so lucky. Two long days of hand-peeling later, I shared jellies, apple butter and apple sauce around the office like a mini Martha, beaming with pride. This autumnal apple spree became a tradition until the year we moved away, also the year Floyd chopped down his apple trees because they were too much work. Luckily, we moved in July so I wasn't around to mourn their absence come fall.

My final, canned product. It'll probably taste even better this winter.

Well, tomato soup didn't take as long. Peeling aside, things mostly sputtered alone on the stove with an occasional stirring. And the canning wasn't a horrible pain, even though I lost the pot's insert (what the cans sit on inside their water bath) during our move. Still, I couldn't help feeling a bit of old-fashioned pride to see the cans on the countertop this morning. I've planned a bit of onion-tomato jam for Thursday's project, once the lawn mowing is done.

Between my knitting and gardening and biking with a basket and sewing and trail walking and my newly-polished canning skills, I feel like the average 72-year-old would love to be my friend. Now if I could just find more free 30-gallon buckets of apples.

Roadside Pet Rescue

2009-09-04T10:11:00.000-07:00

New business name? Nope. Rather, it's what I now do. Yesterday I was scurrying along highway 169 towards Kansas City, about 5 miles outside of town, when I saw this dog repeatedly cross the road. It seemed unable to make a decision about which way to go and chose horrible times to cross, racing in front of semi trucks. Clearly it wasn't a country dog. They know traffic, pick a side, run for it and keep on running through fields of corn, forest, standing water, whatever. This dog was too little and dumb to make it.

I stopped my car, using my flashers like a grown-up, and the stupid dog raced across to my side in front of yet another semi and trotted over to me, tail wagging ridiculously. When it got close enough to see me, it slowed down. I crouched down and called to it, and luckily it kept running along the shoulder of the road. It reached me, sniffed me for a second, then crawled up into my lap. Poor thing was crawling with fleas and had this bump on its noggin.

Of course I drive it over to the closest house, about two miles back, and knock on the door. No one's home, or no one wants to answer the door anyway. I set the dog down in the yard to see if it runs off or something looks familiar. No such luck. It sits down and howls at me, then climbs back into my lap when I crouch down in horror to shush it.

We don't have an animal shelter in the country. The nearest one is 30 miles north and I'm headed to meet Rachel for lunch in KC. I call her. She's sympathic, being a beagle owner already. I decide to take this pup to the vet, hoping they'll recognize it. The dog refuses to have a seat on the passenger side. It's scared. It climbs into my lap instead, head out the window at first, then curls up and falls asleep for the three mile drive.

At the vet, they don't recognize it. It's a purebred beagle adult, unspayed, 15-20 lbs in good health. She's a little skinny, but her nails are clipped and she's clean, if now flea infested. I lie about where I found her, since they don't have to keep dogs outside of city limits and then it just goes back along the road. They'll keep her three business days and then put her down. During the interview, she keeps tucking her head into my armpit to sleep. So now I feel horrible on top of everything. George and I are trying to find someone to take her by Wednesday. Else we might be getting another dog. I can't handle that kind of guilt.

Here we are at the farmhouse where I tried to leave her and she climbed onto me.
You can see the little bump on her head in this photo.

Weird Day

2009-08-20T14:44:00.000-07:00

It's been a weird day. The weirdness is even manifesting itself in my dog. If you can drag your eyes away from my disaster of receipts and unpaid bills in the above photo, you might notice the funny thing asleep on the couch with its legs in the air. I kinda wish I could do that, but it doesn't really seem comfortable.

Today I finally uprooted my 8-foot tall and fruitless eggplant tree. It's supposed to be 18" tall and growing 3" finger eggplants and is instead hogging a portion of the garden for no reason. With the 16 storms that left rain puddling throughout the yard the past three days, all of the tomatoes that were thinking about ripening instead split their skins, engorged with water. Most curious of all are the three purple, heirloom tomatillo plants I've grown since spring that are giving me red, cherry tomatoes. I seriously went back and checked the package. Is this even possible?

It's been a freakish week. You know the one, where your timing is just slightly off about everything. You put a letter out to mail, but you see the mailman's already come. You try to start the dishwasher and notice you're out of those stupid detergent paks. You forget to pull your laundry from the dryer until it's so distorted you practically have to wash it again to get the wrinkles out. You drop everything at least once. And then again for fun. You feel like you need a second nap to recover from your first nap. There's just no exercising to save your life. This has been my week. I'm hoping an early bike ride tomorrow will help clear the fog from my head, but I'll probably just get a pant leg caught in the chain again.

Dear Kansas

2009-08-18T07:27:00.001-07:00

Thank you so much for generously returning our tax dollars for the year of 2008. Today. I really appreciate it, though I have to wonder why you tried to send this particular check to my husband's childhood home. He has not even stopped by that house for a look-see, much less to check the mail, since 1996. Even his parents have moved three times since living there. We are wondering how you even got that address, considering we sent you a tax return with our mailing address typed in. There haven't been address problems when you ask us for property taxes. No, those letters come direct, no forwarding required.

If you didn't want us to cash your check until August, why not just wait until now to send it to us? We would have understood. We've been a bit short ourselves from time to time.

Really, we appreciate the money. We had given it up for dead, so we're delighted to send it directly back to you for our property tax payment. Though we also have to wonder if that's the main reason for your timing.

Lots of love,
Christine

P.S. If the highway department could just hurry up on that road to Lawrence that will shear 20 minutes off my commute, that would be great. Since all the "help" began, construction has added 15 minutes. . .

Counting Pennies

2009-08-16T19:21:00.000-07:00

Maybe you remember this stuff from when you were little and maybe you don't. Maybe you never lived in a small enough town that didn't have even one automated change counter. Maybe your parents never kept change in a large mason jar near the doorway and told you they'd give you 5 cents for every dollar (cheap!) if you could wrap all of their collected coins. Or maybe your parents never tried to teach you math lessons like that.

Regardless, when I went into the bank with my mason jar full of coins, I was given a handful of paper change sleeves. Time peeled back, and I spent part of the afternoon hunched over piles of pennies. I had to force myself away. Then George came home from work, saw the mess and felt inspired to press nickels into the paper. We huddled over the counter, happy to be doing this stupid task, guessing how many dollars we'd have when we were done (we both overshot our estimates). Why? Who knows. It seemed fun. Could be a harbinger of simplemindedness waving from the corner. But until we know for sure, if anyone needs some change counted, you can mail it to us.

House Anniversary

2009-08-13T18:36:00.000-07:00

It's almost our one-year house anniversary, a very sentimental moment. Not really. But it's made me take stock of what I've grown to love (and still detest) about our tiny country town.

I'm not only going to share those lists, I'm also sharing a few pictures of other houses and cute/cool things we have in Garnett, Kansas. Because ours may be my favorite, but that doesn't mean it's the only fabulous one. While there aren't very many things I'd call 'cool' about our town, I'm breaking this into at least two posts anyway. Doesn't that make it seem more exciting? "Oh yes" I'm pretending to hear you say. Excellent.

Things I Adore

My house. Forever and always, this creaky old thing will probably be the coolest house I'll live in. I may still want to move away from Garnett, but I will miss this house.
Our antique store is fabulous: cheap and plush with treasure. I always find something there, but can occasionally persuade myself to walk away. I can (and have, twice) buy four vintage cloth napkins for 50 cents.
I can ride my bike to everywhere. Or I could walk, though groceries are heavier carried. It's really a toss-up, considering that watermelon didn't fit in my bike basket either.
Some of my sweetest new friends are Amish or German Baptist. Before living here, I didn't know German Baptist was a thing. The people here may all be white (yeah, like 95%), but at least they're religiously diverse.
I am comfortably far away from shopping. Close enough to get there, if I'm desperate; yet far away to make it a thoughtful excursion. Surely my credit card companies are upset.

Things I Detest

Bugs.
George cannot get the yard work done. The neighbor across the way, yeah, that guy, the unemployed one, wanders over to chitchat every time he spies the lawnmower. This means that I normally mow the lawn, since all he does when I'm out there is wave.
Farmers market aside, there's nowhere to get good produce.
People want to know where you live exactly. So they can stop by. I work from home and am uncomfortable giving that out to literal strangers as we discuss varieties of sweet corn. I'm politely vague, then I fear I seem stupid when they insist and I sidestep, which is still better than that oh-s0-hurt look they give me when they realize I do not want them to stop by. I'd rather not be that asshole anymore.
Not living near the mountains, even though the summer-long greenery is pretty great.
How Dairy Queen reminds me of biking with my family and 25 cent kids' cones which is so bittersweet that I can't hate the franchise even though I'd rather have ice cream that's not made entirely of chemicals but now I make George walk there with the dogs every time he has a craving (I am a monster) and lately he's really into the girl scouts' thin mint blizzard which is horrible for you (disastrous, really) and so I've made him share the small one (I savor, he gulps) and now he wants to go every night but I veto and am afraid he'll go on the sly without me on his way home from work (just sounds like something he'd do).
We have army-style yoga. Seriously.
Crackling heat.
The way my garden explodes with plant life yet it's a fruitless growth. My eggplant is 7 feet tall with only tiny yellow flowers to show for itself. I have 18 tomato plants and have eaten, so far, a single homegrown tomato before that plant passed away (gasp). I am waiting for the first day of frost when I'll no doubt be packing still-green tomatoes into cardboard to let their mushy insides ripen indoors.

Okay, I could actually go on and on a bit on the 'detest' list, but I don't feel like looking at it anymore. How sad is that? I remember when I moved here, how I thought that rural folk would be so different (they're not, just behind the times a bit), how I thought I'd adjust easily (I did), how I thought we probably wouldn't have many friends (oh we don't). The good news is that George and I get along quite well, even stranded alone together for a year. We have planned trips to KC when we need to socialize, to pull ourselves from the web of quiet. Yesterday George announced that he likes being a hermit, and I laughed. Aside from all my walking, that's really all there is around here to do.

Kansas Storm (Weenie) Alert

2009-08-10T13:20:00.000-07:00

I know I grew up in Minnesota, which is fully a tornado state, complete with monthly siren tests that sound like air raids. The childhood religious camp meetings that I remember always involved a race down to the dormitory basement, mothers herding and carrying their brood, all of us fleeing to safety in the cramped quarters of the now-blanketed underground hallway. For me, this was great fun. All your friends squished together in a hallway under blankets with snacks — best night ever. Most notable was the year that our family van was smashed by a tree limb, struck off the tree by the very tornado that shot up our adrenaline in the first place. Luckily we could still drive the old girl home since we didn't have enough shekkels to fix it for a while. This was our battle scar, the ornament of our survival, and we drove her to death, noting the story with a shrug as people commented on the dented side, scraped paint job.

Fast forward to now, and you'll find me hiding out in the basement long before the tornado siren goes off. I get a breeze in my hair from the 90 MPH Kansas winds flowing through questionable seals in my antique windows, and that's all it takes. Well, first there's quivering. Then I typically check three different websites to work myself into a good panic. I especially like the live radar updates for this, all that color floating around so dangerously, eek. Next I light a few candles, unplug the laptop and sit in the living room. It's important to walk downstairs for this, because the top floor is naturally the first to go and you'd like to have a fair shot at reaching the basement. Then I turn off the air conditioning because the sound of the air intake may mask the train-like thundering of impending doom. Or so I've read, and I'd like to have every minute possible to herd my dogs, who apparently have no innate sense of danger, to the tunnel of safety.

I am writing this right now to distract myself from the lurking possibility of death. Trees are practically breaking in half right in the front yard, and the branches dig into the screens at the side windows. Could this house creak any louder? It also serves to distract me from the fact that I'm supposed to be driving to Lawrence right now to get my weekly produce box. What was in it? I wonder, just to keep myself mentally busy. Probably more of that hole-filled arugula. Sometimes organic produce isn't all it's cracked up to be. Fewer hidden bugs and more leaf to my lettuce would be appreciated. Yes, the sidetracking move is working! Don't think about it, I think about it. Maybe it'll be just like last time. Reading by flashlight in the basement, I wasn't around to watch the sky clear, but I heard the wind stop screaming and it made me brave enough to raise my head.

Do any real Kansans feel this way? I keep hoping one of these days, I'll stop panting at radar maps and keep breathing like real people do. It feels impossible.

It's just a bag. I'm not judging you.

2009-07-24T20:08:00.000-07:00

People ask me where I bought my reusable bags. They really do, all of the time. That is, those who are not annoyed and/or threatened by them. I’m not sure where I originally found Envirosax, but at the time they were a tiny Australian company exporting handfuls of bags to the US at very dear shipping prices. I bought myself a bag o’ sacks — it’s a real thing — and then dozens more for everyone on my shopping list that year. The thing is, they were adorable! Sweet, printed florals or bold, sweeping graphics gave each bag purse potential. While the company has bloomed, I, along with the original recipients of my holiday 2005 buying spree, still carry the bags from my first Envirosax order. (That's my first lil' peanut in the picture.) That’s how durable they are, and mine have been sorely tested with everything from heavy canned goods to weekly farmers market runs. One bag has holes poked through the center after a loose artichoke prickled through two years ago and he’s still going strong, though I’m careful about the artichokes these days.

This year I supplemented my fraying, tired collection with two newbies from Envirosax. (Now that I live in the country, I need a few extra bags for stocking up.) Yes, there are plenty of other reusable bag manufacturers. But I like to adopt the second and maybe even fourteenth cousins of my current bags and think of them all giddily catching up on family business when I’m asleep.

If I think about how many plastic bags I’ve avoided by using these five bags on nearly every outing for the past four years, I’m proud of the tiny dent I’ve made. I’m down at least 1,040 bags, at five bags per week. Scoff if you must, but it’s more than a few.

When I moved to rural Kansas, I noted the eye rolling and heaving sighs as I unveiled the bags at the local grocery, at the farmers market, the antique store. It was downright embarrassing sometimes, actually, and often frustrating. But rather than think of myself as an emissary for world peace (which I am) and repeat a mantra about patience, I carried my bags because I believe in them. They make a difference. I do love my bags — let’s be honest, we have a relationship at this point —, and they make a statement about me: I care.

The Legend of Poopfoot

2009-07-12T15:44:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, a poor dear walked the dog with the crocodile teeth to the veterinarian for eyes drops. The dog spent afternoons in the shade of an elm with a hunter's wary stance, eyes shaded and teeth glinting. Bounding to sharply renounce any who dared to venture past its domain, especially those riding two-wheeled contraptions. Asleep in a swath of sunshine, its counterpart, snub-nosed and gassy, held court with bugs and could lose an afternoon following a leggy spider on its way between fences. The girl, worried about the dog with the crocodile teeth, outfitted it with a gentle leader, as it was prone to yank her arms out with glee on walks, and shut the snub-nosed dog inside the house to wait.

Gentle light sunned the sidewalks as the poor dear and the dog with the crocodile teeth mazed their way across streets, through alleys and a gravel footpath, turning finally into the veterinary office's smoothly paved drive. The dog with the crocodile teeth was ashamed to find it had gained four pounds since February, and even more ashamed about the ugly pink eye infection festering. The girl and doctor discussed the dog with the crocodile teeth in depth, specifically about its diarrhea problem for the past two days. She was tired of scrubbing soil off the carpet, tired of lighting candles to clear the foul air. But there was no temperature or change in behavior to suggest a medical intervention was necessary. Patting it reassuringly, the girl purchased eye drops and an itch-stopping shampoo for the bug-infested grass that flanked the sidewalks here. The dog with the crocodile teeth felt excited about the shampoo and wagged its tail to signal the girl. She patted it again, slipped the lead over its pointed nose, and the pair walked briskly home.

Snub-nose awaited their return with lips squished unflatteringly against its teeth, its whole face pressed into the glass. Its eyes bulged with happiness when the door opened and a stub of tail waggled in welcome. The girl bent to let the snub-nose dog sniff and lick her cheek before running triumphantly around her legs. It left the dog with the crocodile teeth alone, sensing an air of defeat in the way the sharp incisors were entirely covered, nose down, eyes shining with medicine-scented tears.

The house smelled irritably like poop. Both dogs watched the girl sniff the air, scowl, and sniff again. It was a game to follow her as she walked room to room, stopping and sniffing, sometimes peering behind furniture. The poor dear sighed. The day had been difficult, tiring and long, and now, too, stinky. It was unappetizing, but her stomach was begging loudly. So the poor dear made a sandwich, relit the berry-scented candle, and snuggled into the couch with a library book. She read two pages before realizing she needed some water. Getting up to find a glass, her foot slipped, skidded up on something squishable with texture unseen in the brown swatch of carpet. The poor dear grabbed the coffee table for balance, righted herself, looked at the offending foot. Squeezed between her toes and stuck to her sole was poop. "Ew!" she squealed and began to hop, one-footed, to the door.

Outside the dogs could hear water running from the hose. Ten minutes later the girl returned with clouded eyes, cleaned the smeary poo lumps with wet paper towels and masked the scent with lavender spray. They were saddened when she threw away her sandwich, and then they were asked in a polite but strained voice to go outdoors. Agreeably they went out and did not see the girl again for several hours.

Snub-nose hoped that Poopfoot had learned her lesson.

First Meeting of the Fist Shakers' Club

2009-07-08T19:57:00.000-07:00

What's on my desk right now. Looks like litter.

This week, I was offered a part-time job at our local newspaper. I'd interviewed, — more like an informal chat, really — a few weeks ago and the paper's owner barely glanced at my portfolio, saying, "I'm confident you can do the work. I've seen your website." He went on to note that their computers and software systems were about the same vintage as my college degree, no mean feat in the constantly-updating design world. "We take good care of our equipment," he says, "and we'll use it until it dies on us." Sounds like a solid, environmentally-friendly, the-way-our-grandparents-rolled way of life. Right? Sure, in any other field. My job options: Use a decade-old computer running on an antique operating system, merged in this case with an obsolete design program, topped off with dial-up web service and a $9/hr* pay rate. A frustrating combination at best. So why am I still entertaining the idea?

I'm not sure why, but this job offer led me to reevaluate my goals. Once again. I am often bored, easily distracted by weird things (say, web search tangents that keep fragmenting) and sidelined by promised projects that fail to arrive. I don't profit from the lapses between jobs by using extra time to write a few extra pages or draft a query or dream up an estimate for a new marketing scheme. Instead I putter.

Last weekend, George and I had a budget meeting. Ha. More of a review of our accounts. We updated our line items and realized that we have enough money for me to continue this lifestyle, this staying home to work thing. My bakery ventures are close to paying for themselves, which is nice, and my work life covers all of that cost, enabling us to keep business entirely separate. It's good news. I don't need the extra $100/week a frustrating side job would add, especially not if I lose 3 days of regular work to stuff it in. But I am missing the challenge of interaction, of action, of deadlines and a place to go. I need some accountability. Apparently, I am not as grown up as I look.

If you're reading this and you think of it, email me. Ask me what I've written that day. If you want, I'll hold you accountable for something, too. We can email reminders to each other and set up a little community of tyrannous fist-shakers. What a lovely offer I am making. Who wants to join my club?

*To be fair, that pay is really good for this area. Not for freelance, but as a part-time rate.

Ruby's Ice Cream

2009-07-02T21:33:00.000-07:00

If you wonder what there is to do in the armpit of Missouri, there's nothing more or less than in any web of small towns. But on a hot summer day, there is Ruby's. No one else has that. Driving along Highway 44 through St James, Missouri? Stop at Ruby's. Do it right now. Just be careful of Ruby, who runs the place herself. She is a crabby old broad, and I think she bites. George is afraid of her, but we forgive her on account of the creamy deliciousness she so generously scoops out at $1.50 a scoop.

Ruby's homemade ice cream like Coconut Almond or Fudgy Caramel Pecan or Chocolate-Raspberry Torte tastes even better scooped into fresh waffle cones. Ruby scoops it BIG and cheap — though I'd pay a great deal more for ice cream like this. It's no Cold Stone. It's solid cold and creamy and hand-churned as your grandma made for you that one time. I don't have a picture of it, because I was busy eating that lump of Coconut Almond on top of pink Cherry Jubilee in a waffle cone for my dinner. And anyway, who needs to be reminded I'll have to drive four hours the next time I want a taste. In fact, if you're stopping by, I want one now.

"Be Careful!"

2009-06-30T11:38:00.000-07:00

Hot and sweaty in the car, but still dry!

Our canoe trip started out innocently enough. Mom, Dad, George and I deposited our borrowed canoes at the starting point on the Current River near Salem, Missouri. We had a picnic snack with loads of frozen water and tea, towels, plenty of sunscreen and a camera. All set.

Fun with M and D

We arranged everything in the canoes, loading in front of the dam, and pushed off for a *fingers crossed* two-hour trip. As we passed the last band of swimmers in the cove, a 6-year-old boy waved and said to each of us in turn, "Be careful!" Four times. He was very serious. We laughed, waving, and settled into towel-padded seats, getting used to the oars and the water lapping. There was a good current that day, the water being unseasonably high, and we headed toward the first little section of rapids.

Dad, looking all German Baptist, ruined any remaining cool factor we had.

You should know that our family has this history of minor accidents, bruising accounts of weird and/or stupid incidents that could easily have been avoided, usually with simple communication. See, my parents do this thing. If things go wrong while my dad is driving, my mom just repeats "Dale," her voice amplifying in equal proportion to the looming proximity of whatever bad thing. (Substitute a different name and you know what it sounded like when we girls were student drivers.) My dad's response to this heightening panic is stoic: silence. Ahhh, family vacation flashbacks! But back to our canoe trip. . . .

George, right before we pushed off, with his now-drowned hat.

Just before the bend, a rock loomed closer, closer, closer, and my mom kept saying "Dale" until they hit it and she went under the water. I should say I assume she stopped saying it then, but for all I know she was still drown-yelling down there. Once they tipped, their canoe filled with water and billowed sideways across the elbow of riverbend, and George and I broadsided them. With that current and no room to turn, here was no stopping it. We fell into the water as gracefully as we could, being annoyed about it and scrabbling for the towels, sunglasses, and picnic basket. The current made it difficult to drag the canoes to shore, but we fought through it. We still had our clothes on over our swimsuits. Not for long. Bruised from scraping across two rocks in the rapids, we ditched the clothes and swam back several times for items that floated. George's hat never resurfaced, sadly, but I caught Dad's chapstick downstream. We spent ten minutes fighting the whorled water in search of the digital camera when George spotted it upstream, nowhere near our tipping point, and Mom beamed, saying she'd just prayed about it.

Isn't it beautiful? Post-traumatic camera water log is fab.

As we dragged sodden things back into our canoes, we could still see the little boy who cursed us with his "carefuls." The next twenty minutes of canoeing was tense, marred with anxiety and lots of screeching Dales, though we weathered far worse patches. Four hours later, including panic time, we arrived at Akers Ferry without further incident. It would be three more days before the begrudging digital camera decided to set these pictures free. The scrapes, cuts and deep-tissue bruises on our legs, however, will last for another few weeks. I took a picture of them, but it just looks like we're underwater.

Pending heatstroke

2009-06-18T18:25:00.000-07:00

Were it possible to simply melt away and die of heat, I'm certain I would have already. My hair has launched its own rebellion, an attempt at ethereal that's more like pre-fatal arm flailing. (Super fun example at right.)

In Wednesday's 96º heat, I mowed the yard, battling the 80% humidity with my negligence. Humidity always wins. I have never been so sweaty. I had to lay out all of my clothing to air dry. The day wasn't over yet; I still had a farmers market booth.

After carefully loading the Pathfinder with bakery goods, which takes approximately seven trips, I settled in for the drive. Blasting the AC and a CD (ha!), I'm good to go. The AC had another plan: breaking. Ten minutes into the trip I was still blasted by hot air. Sweat trickled down my back and face. I couldn't open the windows because that air would sweat the baked goods and blow away my bread labels. But I was dedicated to a solution. A combination of window-cracking and a more moderate hot air blast felt a teensy bit better. Then I rolled my shirt up like a lady and hunched over the steering wheel for the rest of the ride, farm 'hood style.

Have you ever seen a cat pant? It's hilarious — like a mild form of hyperventilating only cats don't open their mouths far, so no visible tongue. Very dramatic. And that's what I felt like doing as I exited the car. Compared to my furnace of a ride, the stale air outside felt divine. I grabbed a napkin to soak the mist from my back and neck, then rolled my shirt back down like a fairy princess before setting up my magical booth that I really wished had a moat of any kind.

As I sat for the next 145 minutes, my gelled and braided hairs slowly reaching heavenward, I texted George the only thing I was thinking: "Why why why do we live here?"

Italy Trip, Part 5: Finale

2009-06-15T10:58:00.000-07:00

Breakdancing for the crowds in front of a church in Rome.

My original reasons for going to Italy aren't the same reasons I'd go back.

For one thing, I was worried because we didn't speak the language, but I found unexpected solace in the incomprehensible bustle going on around me. People sounded like white noise, which was quite relaxing. You didn't have to talk much, and nobody understood you. We mostly mumbled wows to each other and then got annoyed at how often we were saying "what?" because we got used to not listening when we were out.

I thought we'd like the food, but that it might be difficult to order more than pizza or spaghetti. Instead, we ate a wider variety of Italian foods (plus some Swiss ones) than we ever expected — or knew existed — and were rarely disappointed in anything we were served.

I thought it would be pretty, especially lingering in beautifully-crafted churches. I can't tell you the names of 90% of the churches we wandered through, but I do know that we found gorgeous scenery everywhere, simply because we were looking for it. Part of vacation is your brain turning over, switching from your usual thinking to a more appreciative mindset, a valuable asset if you're able to implement it at home as well as abroad. I came home wishing I walked around more, even just in my town, perusing things.

What I would have packed in my suitcase. . .

Coffee — It wasn't just the abundance of fabulous coffee everywhere, it was that the Italians took the time to make it right. There was no "skinny" or Splenda, just straightforward and excellent ingredients. I admit I was greedy — no excuses! — and had at least one and up to four cappuccinos per day. I wish I had one now. . .
Gardens — People grew flowers and plants in every available space, balconies, windowsills, doorways. Courtyards and entries were especially lush with greenery.
Walkability — You could get anywhere you wanted on foot, especially in smaller cities like Florence and Venice. Sidewalks were well-maintained and paths clearly marked.
Restaurant dining — Waiting tables is a career, and staff does not rush you or try to sell you additional things. Instead, we were left to leisurely chow on salad or appetizers, entrees, coffee and dessert without someone popping over our shoulders to see how things were going every five minutes.
Salad dressing — There isn't any. Your salad is accompanied by cruets of oil and vinegar. I love DIY dressing!
Promenades — Everyone has an afternoon and a pre-dinner stroll. It's lovely.
Breakfast — A morning croissant is a necessity. In Rome, they ooze with white chocolate; Florence, they're filled with apricot jam and glazed; Venice wrapped theirs with thin chocolate shavings; and Milan's are orange-scented and dusted with powdered sugar. Rome's were my favorite!
Convenient train service in Italy — Fast and affordable, the trains went nearly everywhere and made it easy for us to travel without fuss.

And now, some of the oddities. . .

Pisa's best park is built inside the center of the city's original walls,
complete with lookout towers.

A gorgeous cemetery in the grounds of an historic Roman fort.
Larger buildings are family mausoleums.

What the hell? There's nothing positive to be said about this icky pope-bronzing trend.

Creepy dome fresco in the Florence duomo. George could only see it by climbing 463 stairs,
but then he realized that Satan was actually eating people. Grrrross.

How people park. With just an inch between cars, I wanted to watch them drive out.

Mausoleum in Pisa, right along the river, all alone but built into the wall.

I spied this tiny bit of graffiti on unmarked stairs up to the Spanish embassy
in Rome. Carved into the wall along the stairs, the story of the crucifixion played out
all the way to the top. Funny to see those words written here.

Italy Trip, Part 4: Milan & Brig, Switzerland

2009-06-13T07:17:00.000-07:00

We like Switzerland already.

To keep it short, we hated Milan. We arrived to crowded, car-filled streets with McDonald's and Burger King on the corners.Our hotel was miserable, rude staff and a room the size of a quarter with a roaring but ineffective window AC unit. At least the sound of it kept out the din of the city. Added to the shopping quarter filled with American stores, we were disenchanted right away. We decided not to waste our limited time in Europe looking around a city that felt eerily like Detroit with Italian-style architecture.

I took all of 3 pictures in Milan. Two were for my hotel complaint form.

From the train, we passed several granite mines, dug into the mountainsides.

Instead of tooling around in the miserable, crowded heat, we took a high-speed train to Brig, Switzerland, a two-hour trip. For a mountain town of 5,000 people, we weren't expecting much beyond a reprieve from the stifling city temperatures. We didn't get that. What we got instead was an adorable postcard town with manicured yards and sweet, stuccoed buildings.

One end of the palace, plus neighboring houses.

Roads through buildings are an interesting choice of Brig city planners.

Cobblestone streets up the side of a steep hill

What I want my country driveway to look like one day

With zero tourists clogging up the streets, George and I had run of the town.The city offers a spectacular mountain view and brims with skiers and snowboarders in winter. Since we didn't plan this particular leg of our trip, we failed to realize that they spoke French or German in Switzerland and also used francs instead of euros.

Spires of the palace tower over the neighborhood

George and his sunglasses have a moment.

We ate at a hotel where a single person spoke English, though very well, and we paid in euros, receiving change in francs that we used the rest of the day. We navigated the menu using all of our best translating skills, but we wanted to order something Swiss. The waitress recommended an off-the-menu platter of preserved local meats for George to make into sandwiches, using butter, cheeses, and the rye breads from our basket. There must have been seven kinds of meat on the plate, shaved so fine the light shined through. We had no idea what they were and quickly gave up our guessing. George ate every last bit with relish.

For my part, I've never had a salad or an omelet like those. An avid beet hater, I ate the full pile of pickled beets served alongside my salad. And they were delicious! Halfway through our meal, a cook threaded the tables, spooning vegetables cooked in butter and cream onto plates indiscriminately. We didn't communicate well. I said no and nein quite clearly, but she poured them over my omelet anyway and said "Good!" enthusiastically. Oh I ate them, and they were good. Dammit. For dessert we ate a strawberry sundae with homemade ice cream. Mmmm.

A cool, landscaped graveyard with a view

Admittedly, we didn't plan too well. Our plan was hatched so late that only one train ran out and back that day, so we were stuck for 7 hours. Which would have been fine, except that almost every store and restaurant, except for hotels and mini marts in the train station, was closed for Sunday. We wandered up and down every street, window shopping, then down to the river, gushing chalk-colored water, and even into the countryside. Switzerland was enchanting. Everywhere the grass was neatly trimmed, shrubbery shaped, and blossoming flowers perfumed the roadways.

Rainier cherries grew on this tree. I ate some.

Some Swiss pastries to round out my obsessive bakery photo collection.

On the way out, I bought a peach danish that I could have made better. We used our last francs to buy a 2-liter bottle of tea, which we chugged in record time, awaiting our train. At 6:30am next day, we were on a bus to the airport, clearing the last round of baggage check just in time to catch our flight. If you travel in Italy, be careful to leave at least two hours for airport check-in. Their lines take forever as nobody is in any hurry except for you.

I got this face a lot. Especially when suggesting a longer walk.

We liked the pairing of a real raven perched on the streetlight with a wrought iron bird.

In Milan we ate a memorable Italian pizza and tomato flatbread made by a Korean man who tossed his crust in an enviable way. Cappuccino and croissants from the train station bar were delicious and cheap. Coffee in Switzerland was terrible. Fittingly enough, we closed our culinary tour of Italy with another amazing pizza. We shared a table with an older Australian couple, veterans of European travel, who told us about their favorite places in Italy. Too bad we didn't meet them earlier.

Coming soon, and last in this series, Italy's oddities and gems.

Note: I'm sure we did Milan a disservice with our breezy, surface tour. But our hotel check-in was so disheartening, and it was just so HOT everywhere, that we wanted to escape to the mountains. We did regret not having seen St. Peter's, but we couldn't have done it all and were pleased to have seen a bit of Switzerland regardless.

Italy Trip, Part 3: Venice

2009-06-08T08:56:00.000-07:00

Us, in front of St. Marks

Ah, Venice, land of canals and waterways.
We knew it would be cool, but we still weren't prepared for it. There was water, dotted with small islands, as far as we could see from both sides of the train as we sped in on a narrow strip of track. Walking from the train station to the hotel, we hefted our suitcases over six short bridges and three long ones, until we regretted every Florentine purchase. Road signs were rather easy to read as you were generally standing right beneath them. Still, shoulder-width, labyrinthine walkways between rows of tall buildings makes for a claustrophobic evening stroll. At least until you get used to it.

The Doge's Palace, as much as I could get in without tourist heads.

St. Marks' square

On the boat to Murano

Later that day, miserably hot and hungry.

Our first morning started with a boat trip to Murano, the island of glassblowers. Supposedly. We found glassware aplenty, but no glassblowers gamboled about. Disappointing, though in hindsight, nothing could've made the humid, 90+ weather entirely unbearable faster than the glazing heat of a fire pit. After three hours of circling the island's streets, eyeing gorgeous and very dear chandeliers, I had my trip meltdown. I was starved. I was thirsty. I was oh-so-stickily hot. Everywhere we stopped was thronged with people. I needed a tiny moment of peace. And perhaps some gelato. At the weirdest time, we found a hidden spot, an embarrassment, I'm sure. The Italian equivalent of a food court. To me, salvation. I'm sorry to say that this food court is where George and I ate our best pizza in Italy, plus gelato. If I wasn't feeling guilty already about my tantrum, the seasick seventh grader who vomited over the edge of the ferry dock in front of his laughing classmates put me to shame. We returned to our hotel room and repositioned the single fan, no AC here folks, in front of ourselves, stripped, on the bed. This is when I discovered I had, in fact, suffered from heat stroke. All the boat trips — and there were four involved — had us standing, exposed to the sun. The other choice was to sit in an airless, inside compartment on plastic seats, praying for the slightest breeze. We had stood outside, of course, taking photos of the Venetian lagoons and ourselves. My itchy, sun-allergic skin plagued me the rest of the trip.

From the Rialto looking north, our hotel is the small, orangish building dead center.

Morning view from the Rialto looking south

The last day of our stay, I visited the Rialto Market, where the vendors unload their wares from boats on the canal. I saw some strange-looking fish, de-inked octupi and inside-out eels. Jealously I stood, photographing, my eyes widening at the fabulous produce I wished I could cart with me across the bridges to Milan. For our train ride, I requested a mix of beautiful, plump black and green olives on display. The man was insulted that I would dare to mingle the Spanish variety with the Italian, and he put them, green and black together, in separate bags by country. I was later glad that he did so, because we found we liked the Spanish slightly better, and George despised the Italian black olives.

One corner of the Rialto market — the building to the rear is the fish market.
Spanning several large blocks, this was the largest market I've ever seen.

One of the dozen ways you could buy pre-cut artichokes.

Aren't they pretty? I just love tomatoes.

Watching the sun set from the pier.

We hid from tourists here. It was the first time we felt like hiding, because the streets are so tiny that meeting three people in an alley means you all have to step aside at some point. The last day, we meandered to St. Mark's square again to walk through the church, at least until we realized that the line to get in wrapped around the palace and over a bridge to the pier, all in full 90º sunshine. We bypassed that visit in favor of a more relaxing tour of our own. Peggy Guggenheim's museum offered a little solace and a beautiful walk through less clogged streets, below.

Scenic byway

And another.

On the Rialto Bridge, again.

An Italian bakery window

The best focaccia I have ever had in my life.

Determined to leave Italy with a stash of parmesan cheese at the very least, I stood in a long line outside a teensy cheese store, where I used my nicest pointing finger to show what I wanted and how much — very big. My generous wedge of parmesan, alongside a sliver of pecorino, passed customs and has been a great friend to me. On the way back to nab our luggage, I passed the bakery, above, where I'd been drooling over the focaccia as we passed it daily. Thick with olives and fluffy as a cloud, it was the best thing ever.

We got breakfast every day in our room on a lovely white tray with
apricot croissants and rolls, accompanied by the best coffee I've ever had.
If the hotel owner had spoken English, I'd have bribed him for the details.

Venice had fewer signature foods, though loads of weird fish gave you the stink eye from a display table outside the restaurants. George had spaghetti with clams, which he pronounced to be delicious. Most of our meals were good, but not entirely memorable, except for our food court pizza. But we kept getting random things here and there that were delicious, like our morning coffee and a slice of bread. We felt sure we were missing the true Venetian culinary experience, but everything about the city was so touristy that we didn't know where to go.

Last up: Milan and a surprise side trip to Switzerland

Note: I do not keep saying "the best ever" lightly. It's completely serious. It saddens me that I can't recreate these treasures, especially the coffee, but I'm delighted to have even had them once. Sigh.

Italy Trip, Part 2: Florence

2009-06-01T08:24:00.000-07:00

Morning on the Arno

Nestled in Florence
Our birdlike hopes unfeathered when the train deboarded onto steaming Florence streets. We'd crossed fingers for cooler weather, arguing at the internet display with three days of smiling suns. On the way to the hotel, we saw pizza in a restaurant window topped with french fries. Streets were smaller, making crowds a bit dense in the popular areas. Luckily, we weren't there for shopping. We avoided crowds with a random, nonexistent game plan.

View from the Ponte Vecchio on a still morning

Of all the zillion churches, this one was dedicated to Saint George.

George enjoyed the view from the top of the Duomo, which he climbed alone.

Our morning trips were meandering and long, ending with a bakery visit for bread and crostada (a jam-filled Florentine dessert) and a mishmash meal of fresh cheeses, pesto, olives and fruit — whatever we could find at a nearby grocery. A cooling down period followed, intended to give both sidewalk rage and body temperatures a time out. By round 2, the tourists were shopping and settling into dinner routines. It didn't take long to figure out the locals' schedule: shopping 5-7, dinner at 8. Fortified by a PM cappuccino, we ignored the shopping and visited the churches and piazzas, devoid of lines. Cool enough by 8 to enjoy patio dining, we barely scanned the menus before falling into a chair next to a bowl of olives and fresh bread.

Half of the steps we climbed up to Piazza de Michaelangelo — they extend beyond the trees —
plus we already scaled two steep hills. It was worth the climb.

The view of Florence from Piazza de Michaelangelo was amazing.

I'd read terrible things about the town of Pisa, which supposedly exists as a tourist pitstop only for its tower. But we had a lovely time there. George climbed the tower right away, there was no line at 4pm, and the duomo was cool inside with an interesting, carved pulpit. Following our free map, we threaded the angled streets, still curved from the original fortress walls, finding more churches to ogle and then a sweet park hidden inside crumbling city walls with lookout towers still intact. We rode the train home quietly and marched back to a pasticceria near our hotel for my favorite type of meal: piecemeal. We bought a cannolo, a tiramisu and a layered cake thing with berries (it had a name, but, alas. . . ). Next door, we got a thick slice of pizza for George and a baked eggplant with parmesan for me, then we headed to the room for a picnic in bed.

Guess what this is. . .

Pisa has a duomo too, and you can see the city wall behind it.

The coolest part of the duomo was this carved pulpit,
which told the story of Jesus all around the top.

What we ate in Florence varied wildly. Grocery store pesto was THE find for me, and I dolloped it onto bread with a heavy hand, making inelegant sandwiches with torn bits of mozzarella and tomato. The stores also sold bits of fresh cheese for under $2, so this became my lunch staple. Florentine baked eggplant proved to be the best I've ever eaten, hands down, and I eat a lot of eggplant. Including an eggplant and almond pesto on homemade pasta that was also delicious. For his part, George ate the second best (Grandma's will always win) lasagna bolognese and found that he likes fresh caper berries.

We left Florence with bottles of olive oil, pesto, apricot honey, caper berries and wine, making our suitcases impossibly heavy. Little did we know then how heavy they'd be to lift over all the bridges in Venice. . . .

View of the countryside — including an olive orchard — from the train

George loved his first class seat, right next to the AC.

Some great sight-seeing this way, tiny towns and orchards whirring by at 100mph.

Part 3, Venice, to come.

Italy Trip, Part 1: Rome

2009-05-29T15:27:00.000-07:00

Fresh off the plane. Or should I say not so fresh?

I've been daydreaming of Italy since high school, back when I thought Seventeen would purchase my angst-ridden romance tome and the $250 prize would finance my whole trip. Last year, George and I were set to go in the fall, before the move to Kansas streaked through our plans with its graceless, nude reality. We were too stressed out adjusting to follow through; we postponed to spring. Fast forward to May. Among the plethora of weddings and graduation rituals, we carved out a plan of attack — 11 days of roaming throughout the country, a caffeinated, whirlwind of sightseeing.

Inside the dome of St. Peter's with an arm of Bernini's bronze pillar

After tooling around the basilica and vatican grounds, we climbed a giant hill. George was pretty excited.

Our view was worth the climb, especially once we found some bread and olives.

Roman holiday, of a sort
Three days in Rome wasn't enough to see everything. We walked up to 12 miles a day craming in the basics, 8-10 hours of hot, dusty trekking. Sustained by pizza and oodles of bottled water, refilled from the city's thoughtful fountains, we stood in lines for the vatican and museums in unseasonably hot 90º weather (July weather, everyone said). I ran into a college friend, Marci, walking to the vatican museum and met her husband for the first time. How embarrassing it was that I couldn't stop sweating after we'd race-walked five miles to get there. Really, with the odds of seeing someone you haven't seen since college on a random sidestreet in Rome, you'd think I'd be less worried about my beading forehead. Ah, vanity.

A few of our closest friends/fellow sheep, funneling down one of the large hallways

Inside, I never imagined viewing the Sistine Chapel ceiling would feel so much like a fire drill practice, shuffling through airless corridors in a herd, following signs to the chapel that seemed like a bad joke after twenty rooms go by. We were packed so tightly in hallways, some only an arm's length across, that people kept stepping on the backs of my sandals so I couldn't move forward. But then we were finally there, sitting on benches to stare up at frescoes I've only seen in pictures. . . then taking my own (blurrily illegal) pictures.

I was pretty excited to have only one guy's head in this shot.
Hundreds of people filled the room.

Cool stairs on the way out.

After smashing against strangers all day, walking the extra two miles back to our boutique hotel, tucked into a quiet neighborhood, seemed like a small price to pay.

A view of the private gardens just outside our bedroom.

We spent a whole day wandering through favorite spots: Spanish steps, Trevi fountain, the ruins of ancient Rome, the museum of the Republic and, finally, the Colisseum. The day was long, hazy with heat, and crushed with weekend tourists. Along the way home, I bought Spanish fruit called nespoles, plus bananas and grapes. It tasted a bit like quince, hard-pear firm but prettily apricot in color. I liked it, but George thought it was awful.

The colisseum looks just as pretend in real life, except for those people.

Listening to our colisseum tour audio.

In Rome, I ate pizza with zucchini blossoms (good), mozzarella in corroza (essentially fried fresh cheese, delish, btw), fresh pappardelle with pumpkin and ricotta (interesting), croissants with white chocolate (best ever), and my all-time-favorite plate of spaghetti with marinara. George discovered that a pint of beer helps his feet relax and there followed a ricotta phase that plagued me for a day and a half, through pizza, sandwiches, pasta. But I had to admit the cheeses were amazing, and any kind of pizza was delicious crowned with fresh mozzarella.

Stay tuned for part 2, Florence. Coming soon. . .

Dear Capital One

2009-05-27T16:33:00.000-07:00

Thank you for sending me so much mail! I'm glad that a valued customer like myself is worth more than an overage fee in monthly postage. It's exciting to know that you're willing to personally keep my USPS guy on his biweekly scheduled visit, a thoughtful boost for the economy as well.

I just went on an 11-day vacation and came home to find six letters from you. Think how excited I was to open each and every one of them, especially with the thoughtful, handwritten notes at the bottom about the new APR.

And thanks for reminding me by mail that I could increase my credit limit with a simple phone call.

Wow, that's a lot of checks you print regularly with my full name and account number on them. You may remember me from my decision-impaired college days, when I extended my limit by using your checks to pay rent and school bills. I even transferred a balance over to you by writing a check. In response, you voluntarily doubled my credit limit, despite my joblessness. I thought regularly of how helpful you were as I paid my minimum balance for the three years that followed. Now, those checks keep my shredder busy. I'm super relieved about that 0% liability policy you guys have — and now I know why you need it!

Please continue to use 8,000 trees a year (or however many you can — go get 'em!) to provide me with excellent, near-daily customer communication. One day, when I go senile, I know I'll come to count on the weekly synopsis you're providing already. I'm lucky to do business with a credit card company that so anticipates my future needs.

Oh, it's in my wallet!
Christine

PS: The card redesign from merely dull to that prehistoric two-tone grey with the green streak — genius! If my wallet was stolen, I'm certain a thief would ignore my Capital One, since it's a duplicate of my seventh grade library card.

The Case of the Blurry Dale

2009-05-22T20:01:00.000-07:00

Have you seen my dad? I mean, really, SEEN him? Because I've lured him out of the church with promises of Dairy Queen, and these are the best photos I could get. Mmm-hmm.

Best one of the bunch and I called it a day.

Visiting

2009-05-20T19:47:00.000-07:00

Now that I am always and forever visiting the cool places before heading home to crappy Kansas, I have loads of photos of the people I rarely see. It's like documenting a zoo visit, almost. Ooooo, look! It's the elusive Kari, out of from behind the trees for a glass of punch — quick, a photo! There's Myntha, shhhhhh! She's reading, part of her natural habitat.

Or something, you know. I just point and shoot, mostly. You know how once everyone went digital, nobody prints photos anymore? I am totally behind on albums (do people make those?) and tired of reviewing images online. Grr. Thought I'd share some recent favorites and start a stockpile that way.

Kari, Evie & Amy

Wedding Wynell, with me

Ana, with George. This girl is a force of nature, plus look at this face!

Amy, posing with her graduation balloons

Allie, tormenting George with a tie-stretching game

Myntha in her natural habitat

Wanda with me and the punch

Branson, Amy, Senia, Ed and Toby

Connie, Isabella and Mom

Stan and Amy

When Friends are Family

2009-05-17T19:34:00.000-07:00

Kari, me, Becka, Allison, Amy & Heidi

It's not a sad story, don't worry. The Lund-Rosette saga is ongoing and epic. We are intertwined, despite geography. To think it all started with a pumpkin-colored rental house down the road. Our family moved in; theirs helped. How funny, our mothers mused, that our girls are so close in ages. They'll be fast friends. Okay that last part is what I imagine them saying, Uncle Arthur style. I love my friends as much as anyone, and some of them are so much like family that I am comfortable ignoring them for years. The Lunds are that for me — a bit of home and history and inbred fights, people who knew you when and love you regardless. Miss you guys.

Farmers Market, Take 2

2009-05-13T19:09:00.000-07:00

Nothing better than sitting, sunburned, at a hot table, bathed in humid Kansas air. Nothing. My shoulders and neck felt as clammy as my wares, opaque bread sweat fogging up the plastic. Late, I sped recklessly to the market, arriving four minutes after the starting bell — yes, the bell is real — only to find my spot filled. The misplaced vendor apologized, saying a truck had been parked in his space at the time, so I swapped him for the day, rushing to set up my table while people browsed.

Brewing storm clouds loomed and droplets fell, but that didn't stop me from selling the heck out of those white chocolate-macadamia nut cookies. Big selling tip: put giant cookies in a clear glass jar. Doesn't matter what kind they are. One guy stopped his truck right in front of my booth to buy one with the engine running.

This week's raspberry crunch bars were gone before the samples were finished, which ended up being awkward when people tried and then wanted to buy those. I think I'm going to need a weekly menu on my future website, plus the schedule. Ooh, and an order form. Wouldn't that be nice?

Prom queen: Apple hand pies
Sore loser: Focaccia squares

Farmers Market, Take 1

2009-05-07T07:13:00.000-07:00

I admit that I didn't plan well. Heck, I didn't even start to plan. After returning from Wynell's wedding in Colorado on Monday at midnight, I caught up on my freelance work until Tuesday afternoon. The baking didn't officially begin until Tuesday evening, when I frantically started mixing up yeast doughs to proof overnight and sourdoughs to, well, sour. Sounds gross, I know.

Yesterday, Wednesday, the actual baking began at 8 am. A few dozen Rocky Road Brownies, Honey Walnut Bars, Cranberry-Lemon Scones later, the bread doughs were ready to shape, finally. It was nearing 11 o'clock, and I was starting to worry. Once I shaped them, they'd still have to rise again, and I had to question my organization of the ups and downs of oven temperatures through the loaves of sourdough, olive-feta, pine nut-sundried tomato, challah and, at the rear, demi baguettes. I had to leave for the market at 3:20 pm, giving myself 20 minutes to set up my booth. The last four rounds of bread were burning hot in their basket, and I cranked the car's AC to keep the rest of the bread from complaining.

It was the first market of the season, plus my first market ever, so I should have allowed myself more time. The lady in charge explained the bylaws for 15 minutes, repeatedly touching on the fact that the people just to my left are sketchy and she had hoped they wouldn't come back. They were standing ten feet away at the time, not quite far enough for me to be comfortable with her running commentary. George bought me a tent, but I (a) didn't have enough time and (b) didn't want everyone to see me wrestle it together for the first time when (c) I hadn't had time to shave my armpits. So the back of the SUV went up, and I set up my table in its slanted shade.

My entire stay at the market was 90 minutes, and I headed home far lighter than I arrived. Plus I have a better idea of what not to bake for rural America. While I was voted best looking booth (no mean feat), I mostly ran into questions. Be amused. I was.

What's this? (old man poking an olive)
I am looking for a bread that tastes good with butter.
What did you say? (I told them it was called "a baguette"; I guess it came off dirty)
I don't know what any of this is. Is it bread?
How do you bake this? Do you have an oven?
Do you have any bread without stuff in it?
How do you sell this? (translation = how much)
Is that what they call a scone?

When you are sampling, please know that you aren't at all sneaky. I just put those out, so when ten go missing, I know it was you. Just buy a brownie already and quit casually walking by. Yes you! I don't need a superpower, I can see you with my eyes.

I'm better than you.

2009-04-22T07:18:00.000-07:00

If you've read this blog at all — and you're probably too annoyed to do more than quickly scan it —, you might be wondering why I'm better than you. I mean, it's so obvious. I cook a mean vegetarian dinner. I clean. I write, okay so it's occasionally, but still probably more than you do. I knit things that people like or that I can wear. I sew. I decorate. I can bake everything I can imagine. I design loads of stuff for clients. I walk my dogs. I jog. I'm learning Spanish. I read gads of books on varying subjects, plus magazines. I do epic wallpaper. I antique in my neighborhood. I bike everywhere. I watch TV. I have a big garden and most of the plants don't die. I subscribe to blogs. I Facebook and Twitter. And when I go out, I am always punctual, even early. You might be able to do a handful of these things, certainly not all, and definitely not with my panache. I'm telling you, it's pretty awesome.

Why? What makes me so great?

Time. You don't have any. You're working or meeting friends for lunch or shopping at the mall or running late to someone's birthday party or casually stopping by the grocery store. You're always scraping together a few minutes to watch whatever show you DVRed last week. Not me. I deleted that already. You're leaving the house with intent, with purpose. I haven't had an unplanned face-to-face interaction with anyone in a month. Last week, when I met you at Chipotle, I ran four errands before lunch and cried in the car afterwards.

See, I'd feel bad for you, since obviously I'm superior, but I'm too jealous.

I heart slogging

2009-04-20T18:50:00.000-07:00

What do you do for entertainment during 84 minutes of nonstop treadmilling? Audiobooks? Heck no. Mama needs something with a beat. There I was, slogging peaceably through seven miles at a 12-minute-per-mile pace, bored out of my gourd with the same stupid music I'd listened to for weeks. Kill yourself with weights and speed intervals and incline? Yes. Something. Anything! I'd never been fit enough to become super bored while exercising. I should be more proud and less annoyed.

I've recently become a slogging fiend — a slow jogger for those who aren't up on the word I invented. It describes my running capacity perfectly. I can slog along for hours, sweaty-but-not-breathless, and feel quite superior to George's twenty-minute speed drills. I'll outrun everyone, just, you know. . . eventually. And once I found stretches to ward off the voodoo curse of January shin splints, I made myself a training calendar for free online. (Everyone knows I like a good checklist.) Nine weeks later and here I am right on track in my training. Bored.

Out of the blue George has saved me. Finally installing the television I got* him for his birthday in February. I spent today's short run mesmerized by the Disney channel. Aaaah, yes. This will at least keep me decently amused for the next two weeks, until the weather brightens and the trails dry. At this rate, I am going to breeze past my mileage requirement for the year. I've already logged 94 miles, 30 this month. One burning question: when is it time for new shoes?

*If you call purchasing someone a gift with their own money a "present" then, yes, I got it.

Sweating in Spanish

2009-04-15T07:04:00.001-07:00

I am struggling to learn Spanish from home. I say "struggling" not because it's been super difficult so far, but reminding myself to actually hit start on the program each day is my own personal feat of strength. Rosetta Stone makes a great program, truly. Yet I'm still actively afraid to reach the end of the section, where the program simulates real life situations, with people in them, and I'm expected to dredge up answers to everyday questions. See, I've always talked a little funny. I don't have much problem with it usually, but when I'm reacting to a program, I find I never say anything in exactly the right order. Add in that second language element, and I am a bit sweaty and breathless. Don't remind me that it's just a one-sided computer program. It's embarrassing enough.

My newest illuminating idea was to borrow the Spanish-English dictionary alongside a Spanish-language book from the library, in an attempt to read the book, using the dictionary to translate. One of the things I find difficult about computer learning is that I'm a tactile person. When I write things down, I recall them better. The program incorporates a writing section, but I have no notes to refer to when each section is complete. No way to study. I thought my reference book and a real story to read would help solidify the language in my brain, and I had a notebook and pencil nearby to write down the words I looked up.

The library I chose to visit, however, had only Dr. Seuss books (which we all know have made-up words anyway, rendering my dictionary useless) and a few of the young adult book series' Twilight. If you haven't seen them, they're about 700 pages. I grabbed one of those. What were my options? Reading aloud is really helping, actually, stuttering to myself being far less embarrassing than in a group. But yesterday I spent half an hour looking up every single word in a paragraph and still didn't understand the gist of it. I think Edward's sister Alice has a deceitful face, despite the fact that her countenance is similar to her adopted brother Edward's. Sheesh. It was a brain twister. And I'm only on page five (cinco!).

So. . . I'm reserving a few library books this week, one being the English translation of that same Twilight book. And then we're going to dumb it all down with a few regular children's storybooks. Who am I kidding — these are the books I sit in the kids' section of Barnes and read anyway. Uncle Arthur or no, I do like a good lesson.

Alumna, unregistered

2009-04-08T07:23:00.000-07:00

Our Lincoln trips always close with George at Scheel's, perusing the Husker apparel
with lust in his eyes. We left this time with only a logoed tee and water bottle.

This past weekend George and I drove up to Lincoln, NE, to visit my sister Amy. It was alumni weekend at Union College, and although I didn't register, I also thought I might peek in and see if any classmates I recognized would make an appearance. While I had good conversations with lots of people, I wished I had taken a peek at the registry to see who was actually there. I'm certain I missed someone in the crowds.

Sisters love each other, plus Amy deleted the other photo of herself.

We spent loads of time with Amy, all snuggled into her one-bedroom apartment for family cuddles. Ed and Senia gave us a home tour and their dog, Booger, entertained Poppy. Or maybe I should say that the two dogs entertained all of us, especially as we tried to get Poppy to figure out how to use a doggie door without being slapped in the face.

Ed is a gifted photographer, despite unruly subjects.

In a disappointing turn of events, my all-time favorite cinnamon roll bakery, the Grateful Bread, (a) stopped making cinnamon rolls and (b) no longer sells bread. I myself would have considered a name change. Surprisingly, they now serve vegetarian soups with rolls or delicious looking savory scones. If I hadn't been craving a darned cinnamon roll, I might have taken the change of scene with more finesse, rather than walking dejectedly to the door, empty-handed. But with this closing added to the untimely death of the Garden Cafe a few years back, all of my favorite cinnamon rolls now rest in peace. I do not take this loss lightly.

Me, sitting in Amy's apartment

Moseying through meals at El Toro and Lazlo's dulled the pain slightly. It took only one meal at Valentino's, with his affinity for all things pizza and Cornhusker, before George suggested we move to Lincoln again. And it's not even football season.

What I'm Reading

2009-04-04T09:04:00.000-07:00

For those of you who like the library as much as me, but don't have time to scour the internet for leads, consider this my quick recommendation list for spring.

Review links jump to the New York Times book reviews for each book. While I don't always agree with their synopsis, it's far more than I'm in a mood to write today.

Unaccustomed Earth, Jhumpa Lahiri Review
An expansive collection of stories about native and immigrant Bengali families, how each transitions to America, affecting culture and connections in diverse ways. In the end, I was interested in how families with such strong a culture, unlike my amalgamous heredity, assimilate — what do they give up and what do they keep and why? These are sometimes hopeful, sometimes painful, but always insightful stories.

Then We Came to the End, Joshua Ferris. Review
I worked in an office and in the marketing department, so this novel appealed to me on a basic level. Deeply quirky and mired in irony, Ferris' storytelling is engaging and bighearted.

The Last Chinese Chef, Nicole Mones Review
Those who like superb food writing will enjoy this book. There's a light romance in it, which is obvious and predictable. But for me, the descriptions of Chinese cooking, the history of it as a fused art of skill and taste is breathtaking. Great for tucking into a beach bag.

Zookeeper's Wife, Diane Ackerman Review
A novel based on real diaries kept by the wife of the Warsaw zookeeper, Antonina, this story spans World War II years in Poland. Antonina's gift is empathy, an innate knowledge of animals' instincts, situational assessments she applies to the German invaders. Treating people like animals and recording her insights, Antonina helps to save more than 300 people.

*******************************
The following are also good reads:

Fiction
Lost Art of Keeping Secrets, Eva Rice
Luna Nueva, Stephanie Meyer (attempting to read the Twilight sequel in Spanish)

Literary Fiction
The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox, Maggie O'Farrell
Guide to the Birds of East Africa, Nick Drayson
Hello, I Must Be Going, Christie Hodgen
The Ladies of Grace Adeiu, Susanna Clark
Fine Just the Way It Is, Annie Proulx
Cannary Row, John Steinbeck

Nonfiction
Izzy and Lenore, Jon Katz
The Invisible Wall, Harry Bernstein

My Sentiments Exactly

2009-04-02T08:43:00.000-07:00

This sums it up nicely. Thanks, Curious Sofa. (And Jessica, for introducing us.)

I didn't think I would be complaining about rain. It's normally my favorite, an excuse to cuddle up with books and warm drinks, simmering soups on the stove that perfume the whole house. But this type of rain isn't always rain. Slushy and snowy in turns, it offers none of the calming pitterpat sounds that I like. Instead it sashays down quietly, then clings to everything, forming invisible slippery patches on my steps and choking my hopeful tulips and crocus. Meanly winterish in spirit, this rain doesn't have sun peeking over its shoulder, just more cloudy promises of similar rain.

Under the blue tarp is our leaf collection.

Last week I seeded the yard with grass, thinking the rainfall would help it grow faster. I should've taken a picture of Ziti's feet after she comes in, but it's too annoying already for me to want a reminder. We have a new towel for her by the door, covered in mud by end of day. Poppy refuses to go out until evening, when she hopes for the best and trots out, legs high and straight as a little nazi soldier's.

Our raking made a lovely pile of sticks and leaves, which we're allowed to burn. The idea of torching something so irksome excited us, George especially. We watched the weather. For a week it was too windy to burn without risking the house, and now they're all too wet to catch fire. Fun is rapidly leaking out of that idea.

I sewed this pompom edging onto a dish towel. The colors give me hope.

A Different Kind of Plot Twist

2009-03-26T10:45:00.000-07:00

For the nine years I've known him, I've been telling George that he watches too much television. More like harping about it, really. Don't get me wrong, I adore that stupid talkbox. She's kept me company through illnesses aplenty and bouts of insomnia, even mitigated a few mild cases of loneliness. Sometimes I wish our familial bond wasn't so one-sided.

Back to George. He went off to a conference in Wichita on Tuesday, leaving me to muss the house frivolously until this evening. Have you ever thought about what someone else thinks you like to do when they're not around? It's funny. George thinks I like to eat big salads and steamed broccoli, listening to books on my iPod while I knit. Um. Yeah. None of those things happened, even separately.

What I did do was shutter the television for two days. I was able to finish a book and a half per day, just reading in the evenings rather than knitting through comedies — I've been boycotting crime dramas as the rural crime spree plotlines have lead to uncomfortably realistic nightmares.

Instead I baked a disappointing orange tart with meringue from Cooking Light and spent the next hour writing my complaint postcard about that (it was bad). Then I finished raking leaves from the yard; seeded the grass; mixed and spread 400# of compost/topsoil in the bare spots to coax new grasslings; started my vegetable seeds indoors; made this year's birthday cards; dug up the weedy patches around the porch; and much, much more. In fact, I'm not sure when I've last been so productive. Whether I can attribute this swirl of activity to the dormant television or spring slapping away my winter trance, I cannot be certain.

I do know that this house breathes and sighs, the wood creaking out footstep noises at night. Or else the crime dramas' dark, rural plots are seeping out of the television.

The Road of Inaccurate Measurements

2009-03-19T14:09:00.000-07:00

It leads here, that road.

Due to a precarious state of mind, I will be writing of the following event in the third person, a silly attempt at distance.

Christine ordered wallpaper in a sweet damask print for the guest bedroom in November of 2008. She was hopeful that George, with mastery of the wallpapering experience, would help her put it up. Shouldn't take long, she thought, to cover up that stupid camouflage wall.

Several times during 2008 and even early 2009, she unrolled the tightly wound papers and held them up to the wall, sighing loudly as George walked past. No takers. But Christine was determined to put the wallpaper up, if it meant doing it herself. With 9'6" ceilings, the tops of the walls were hard to reach even with the ladder. She tacked up the paper at the top, unravelled it, then clipped the bottoms to size. One roll at a time, she snipped, wet, adhered and pasted. Slowly, slowly, slowly, the wall started to look wallpapered. Pretty, even.

Until, reaching the end of the last roll, Christine looked suspiciously at what remained of the wall. She was supposed to have extra, leftover wallpaper. The universe had succeeded in its evil plot. Four inches of wall to the corner lay exposed, plus a six-inch swath along the bottom of the last section. Rats!

Okay, honestly, that wasn't the word I was thinking. Luckily I was able to order another roll, problem solved. But now I have to work myself up to finishing the job. Not as easy.

A Middling Start

2009-03-16T14:25:00.000-07:00

My bakery dreams involve walk-in refrigeration, flour bins on casters, double ovens in air conditioning, and one of those squeaky screen doors that opens to daintily-printed, mismatched furniture. Isn't it adorable? Yes, I know. I've dreamed it a thousand times.

But my Barbie bakery doesn't exist in real life, and the combination of economy realities + location issues don't give me much hope. I've sat shiva for the brick-and-mortar bakery that wasn't. I'm finished with mourning. After all, summer's nearly arrived. Summer. . .

Summer means farmers markets, my all-time favorite. Watch out for a super cute bakery booth lined with dainty, vintage tablecloths and fresh-baked breads, bars, cookies and pastries. There won't be A/C or even a screen door, but I'm just getting started.

The Gelato Virgin (and Other Stories)

2009-03-12T13:24:00.000-07:00

What love at first sight looks like

Admittedly, I am a bit dorksome. I take horrible care of my feet and don't like to shave my legs in the winter due to the invariable appearance of mid-shave goosebumps. Bad, very bad. An early spring pedicure appointment seemed like a great way to avoid the usual embarrassment of having unseasonably ill-kempt feet. The perfect camouflage.

I recently re-met Rachel (Oliver) Lassel after nearly nine years of complete absenteeism. (We'd basically forgotten about each other post-college, keeping in touch occasionally via networking sites. Then we discovered the map-friendly happiness of our relative proximity, immediately rekindled our love. Ha.) Anyway, so we have this thing going with the weather. It can be absolute crap outside for weeks, but the day we're meeting somewhere — gorgeous. No lie. Pedicure day shined in at 70º, sunny with a light breeze. Perfect flip-flop weather.

Rachel accompanied me to Beauty Brands on the good ol' plaza, where we got long foot scrubbies and pretty toenails. Ah. Time for lunch. We hit up Re:Verse, which was as trendy as the name implies, but their one server was a nervous-making combination of overzealous and zany. Most of my salad blew away in the breeze, which by this time had worked into a stiff wind. It was funny, actually, because I didn't want to eat it anyway.

Revelling in the gorgeousness of the outdoors, I spied a (new?) gelato place off Brush Creek. I didn't believe Rachel when she said she'd never had gelato. Half an hour in line later — no lie, the weather drew a huge crowd —, we'd talked to a lovely woman in line for so long that it was actually weird when she left without us. Ditcher. But then I had a half scoop banana, half scoop peanut butter cup of heaven that deserved my full attention. Rachel's scoop o' tiramisu proved unshareable unless I won a shovel-spoon duel. For the record, Balsano's homemade gelato is worth the wait. Promise.

Who knew they had mud masks for feet? It's minty in there.

Rach truly enjoyed the massage portion.

Driving the Emmings

2009-03-10T13:09:00.000-07:00

My in-laws, squished into the back, quickly reconsidered the seating arrangements.

Instead of hiking up to KC as usual, we were delighted to entertain the Emmings for an afternoon. They hadn't stopped by since a few months after the move, so they wandered around the house oohing and aaahing — always a nice pick-me-up. We drove them to Iola to see our old rental house, George's work, the town square, grab the best Mexican lunch around, browse an antique store and then stop at the candy store.

Iola is home to a large Russell Stover factory, now partially hidden by an enormous Walmart facade. I've taken my parents there, so it's something of a parental visit tradition. Unfortunately this trip was ill-timed for two reasons. One, it being directly after lunch, everyone had a post-mealtime sweet tooth. Two, we accidentally visited during the Factory Bloopers sale. It's a real thing. All of the factory's mistakes are packaged under generic white wrapping, so for $1.99 your box of chocolates is 3# of surprise. Jerry purchased four of these surprise boxes, and we hauled one home, which George took to work this morning. Whew.

Dale's slogan comes from El Charro, my favorite local Mexican restaurant,
where it's part of their decor. Once I saw it, I knew it belonged to him.

Embracing the headaches

2009-03-09T06:58:00.000-07:00

Allergy season slammed into our household in the usual backhanded manner. After a week of daily and day-long headaches, I finally realized I needed to resume the allergy pill regimen I left off when the temperatures dropped. Only a loose hug of a headache remains, surfacing late afternoon and sticking determinedly to the backs of my eyes. My mother-in-law notes that her allergies stay year round in Kansas. Such good news.

This week's warm weather inspired George and I to start cleaning up the yard. We filled four bags with leaves and are about 1/10th through. Though I did weed the dog run (finally) and it's easier to rake without the attack dog Ziti "saving" us by racing off with your tools. She mounts valiant rescue efforts to thwart threatening vacuums, blow dryers and — scariest of all — lawn mowers.

Continuing to pretend I can be easily motivated, I wrote up a daily schedule for myself in pen. With the implementation of daylights savings time, things are not going well. Hope your workweek isn't as tired and wrinkled as mine.

Burgling Tip: Don't Eat First

2009-03-02T09:52:00.000-08:00

Our first attempt to shove Amy under the garage door didn't go well.

George and I took a weekend trip to Rolla, in part to set up a booth and do juice tastings for one of my clients. That plan was half foiled when an unexpected snowstorm rolled in, cancelling one event with horrible roads. On the way to church, we missed our turn as we skidded down the hill in front of the church. Then on our way home, we had to push the car up a (different) hill, stumbling through six inches of snow in heels.

We finally had one tasting on Sunday, and then hit up a great Mexican place to reward ourselves with yummy chips and salsa. Piling family into two cars, we headed back to my parents' place to gather our things and head home. Only we arrived, keyless, to a locked house. After thirty minutes of waiting, haplessly re-testing doors and window locks, we decided to try shoving Amy beneath the crack left in garage door for the cat. It didn't work on our first try — we decided because we'd just eaten so recently. But a half hour of running outdoors improperly dressed made Amy digest just enough to shove through with George forcing the door up an extra inch. My parents, whose cell phones we could hear ringing through the front door, didn't show up for another hour. Walmart, they said, though we suspected a bout of bickering.

George watches a different kind of burning bush.

We were still awaiting their arrival when we started burning the ornamental grass in front of the house. (Yes, with permission.) The shrubbery sounded like fireworks when the blaze caught, fast and violent, melting our impatient anger away.

Dale enjoys a nap after lunch, living up to the credo
we gave him: Fiesta, then siesta.

Motivation: R.I.P.

2009-02-26T08:10:00.000-08:00

Where does motivation go to die? I had it. I did. And I called on it daily — I used to get up at 4 a.m. every day and write. I worked at the bakery and at home, took yoga and pilates classes 2x/week and ran every other day, went to book club, spent time with friends, met George somewhere fun for date night, read volumes in my spare time, volunteered weekly and monthly, and then planned brunches and parties for more excuses to see people. Now that I need it, the spark of Must that spurred me, it's vanished.

Lately I've attempted to fill my schedule with meaningless things in an effort to have a schedule. Like real people. Mornings, I read while sipping my coffee, slurping up some words with breakfast, hoping both are meaningful. I'm at my computer by 9 o'clock, checking email, updating project lists, revising ads to get more clients, sometimes just staring forlornly at my lack of work, organizing emptiness. Time passes.

By lunch I like to go outside at least once, usually for no reason. There may be a package delivery and there's always the mail, but sometimes I need to walk down for milk or stamps, providing a legitimate excuse to venture out. Otherwise I fear I may not leave the house that day. When I eat, I'll watch TV sometimes, read other times, depending on whether my meal allows page turning. If I'm endangering the book, it's TV.

But now we've reached the part of the day that gets muddled and lost: afternoons. The black hole of my day. Without a project to work on, I have zero reason to go back upstairs. My Spanish program uses 30-60 minutes before I itch to move. I can bake something that later I'll have to eat or give away. If it's nice, I'll walk/run/bike with the dogs for an hour or so. If it's not nice, I'll walk/run in the basement. Maybe I'll read more. Maybe I'll clean. Maybe I'll finish one of the hundred projects gasping for air. More likely I won't. I'll find something online to distract me, Facebook perhaps or filling shopping carts with items I'll never buy (or worse yet, do). Hours of wanton, circular web trafficking laying waste to an afternoon.

I don't feel sorry for myself. I feel annoyed. I am not this person who does nothing. What is wrong with me?

Springtime tiptoes toward me, and a large cluster of the hurries is forming. Something must be done, planned, decided, executed. Winter's restlessness ended. The problem is, who's going to do it? And what? I'm anxious for it — dying, really — but this vacuum of the blahs is quite paralyzing.

George turns 33

2009-02-19T08:13:00.000-08:00

Completing the turn of rural birthdays, George spent his in relative solitude, just the two of us having dinner in on a Thursday evening. We'd gone to eat the previous weekend with his family at an Italian buffet in KC, a gluttony of pasta and garlic it's best not repeat regularly. For his actual birthday dinner, more pasta, of course (secretly whole wheat this time), with a stack of parmesan rolls on the side. This is traditionally followed by a Dairy Queen ice cream cake. Which I bought. When we pulled it out, we found it sadly reminiscent of our wedding cake, tilting and malformed. Funny. Still, it seemed about right for a cake from Garnett.

Even proud birthday boys have to eat salad.

Ol' Country Crafting

2009-02-15T13:36:00.000-08:00

I feel eighty-nine for admitting this, but lately I've gotten into embroidery. These dish towels started out as a screen printing project, from a class I took with Janelle where we made our own screens. But then I looked at them and thought, Hey, these would look even better with embellishment. Too bad I can't actully use that old Martha Stewart embroidery kit I "won" on eBay for $8 four years ago.

So I whipped out the kit and discovered that, with more patience this second go-round, I can embroider. Especially freehand. Now the dish towels do look much, much better, with scrolling embroidery across the bottoms. Of course I thought they needed one more thing: trim. I bought some at Jo-Ann fabrics in Lawrence, and am hoping that this will be the end of it. Do not complain if this is your birthday gift. The labor of love alone is worth at least $50, and they are even cuter in person, I swear.

The Disturbing Effects of Stress: A Carb-Lover's View

2009-02-13T13:17:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago we discovered that, despite our laidback living in rural Kansas, George has developed high blood pressure. I tagged along to the doctor’s office, hoping to thwart a drug prescription, and ended up admitting defeat. Temporarily. A trifecta of medical pre-diagnoses included high blood pressure, high cholesterol and high glucose. By “pre-diagnoses,” I mean that readings weren’t high enough to warrant “serious” concern, said the doc, but they’re on the watch list for pre-diabetes and more dramatic heart conditions. George’s fluctuating blood pressure already gave him afternoon headaches and drained him of energy by evening, so a low dose of medication was prescribed. (He already feels better.)

Armed with government-distributed healthy diet booklets — so obtusely difficult to comprehend that they typically accompany a six-week class, hooray USA — we planned a mealtime makeover. I love a challenge, especially when it comes to making food George won’t touch into food he really likes. But trying to find things to eat that are high fiber, low carb/sugar, low cholesterol, low sodium, low fat, and still filling is definitely challenging.

We met our initial goals: replacing George’s toaster streudel breakfast with something substantial (enter peanut butter wheat toast with banana slices) and substituting a mug of morning coffee for the vast amounts of Mountain Dew he drank daily, a jolt of caffeine sans sugar. Dinner is the true challenge.

Today’s concoction, spinach-parmesan turkey meatballs, are a shock: tropical green islands floating in marinara. Like a Dr. Seuss recipe. I used the food processor to mix them, which colored the entire effort, though even George has admitted they’re making the house smell fantastic from the crockpot.

Two things I miss so far are butter on vegetables and oven-fresh cookies. My Valentine’s Day breakfast plan is pillowy-soft, buttery cinnamon rolls. They’re really a gift for me.

The Return of Lazy Sunday

2009-02-08T18:32:00.000-08:00

Nothing like a vacation to make you appreciate down time, wrapped in blankets on a Sunday morning, snaking a hand out every so often to turn the page of your book. Or at least that was me today. I am enjoying "The Zookeeper's Wife," the story of a zoo (obviously) in Warsaw during WWI. It's not as quick a read as "The Vanishing Act of Esme Lennox" which I read compulsively and highly recommend (Wanda, please write this down. You'll love it!). Maybe it was the weather or a post holiday doldrums, but I've merely read four books this year. To blame is my precarious balance of work for money, work for free, and crafting in the hopes of money — eventually, someday, maybe, if I practice enough.

On Friday, I took advantage of an unexpected energy burst to rearrange our upstairs closets (in desperate need of some help and dissembling the last remaining box upstairs!) and then reorganized the entire kitchen. Finally things are in places that make sense!

Janelle came Friday afternoon to stay the night. We braved the antique stores in Garnett, finding a few treasures to make the walk worthwhile, made sort-of healthy biscuits and gravy, and didn't craft at all, despite fantastic intentions and even some well-meaning discussion.

Saturday was a surprising 70º, and we didn't want to waste it all indoors. George, the dogs and I took a long walk on the trail, mourning the trees that are already blooming. I do hate when good lilacs go to waste. Today the sun didn't poke its face out at all, and the weather took an autumnal turn, briskly windy and grey. We spent the afternoon doing puzzles on the coffee table, leaving to complete a chore, then returning to put in a few more pieces. We finished the 550-piece puzzle #1 in a slump of dedicated laziness. Gauging by current speed and disloyalty levels, the 1000-piece puzzle #2 may need its own toothbrush.

Gym Yoga

2009-02-06T18:40:00.000-08:00

Since there's not even a gym in Garnett, I've been looking for classes to take nearby. I'm not picky either. I'll take anything — painting, ballet, pottery, cupcakery, shovelling, you name it. So when I found a yoga class in a neighboring town, I signed right up. Coming from Denver, it is awesome to pay only $35 for 8 classes, rather than my previous $13/class. I had low expectations, though, because I didn't know if country yoga is comparable. But I was so excited that I accidentally showed up a day early. It was embarrassing to walk into a church chili feed with my yoga mat and flipflops.

When I went back the next day, more tentative during the entrance this time, I found a moderate group of attendees waiting in the hallway, mats tucked under their arms. Yoga took place in a large gymnasium, which was frigid. The instructor turned up the heat, but when it kicked on you couldn't hear her directions. Midway through, I could tell the class would at least be amusing. We were asked to keep our eyes closed and listen to her voice guiding us through the poses, then the heat kicked on, and nervousness set in. I'm already left-right challenged, so I've worked up a healthy paranoia about doing things wrong. After a few minutes in the same pose, I sat up, confused. All around, people were lying on their backs in the same pose. The teacher's eyes were tightly shut,. Completely oblivious to our lack of participation, she moved from pose to pose alone. I giggled to myself and laid back down. Country yoga is definitely different.

Midwestern Tour

2009-02-05T09:36:00.000-08:00

George and I test out brunch at the Leaf in Iowa City, IA

Our rapid tour of the midwest lasted only four-and-a-half days, but took us through all kinds of weather and people. Some people don't find this whirlwind type of activity relaxing. I do.

We live so far away that I needed to reconnect with friends. Jenney said it's easier to smash everyone in with the midwestern states being so close together. But this was also our first trip with the single goal of seeing multiple people, uninfluenced by scenery as we may have been come summer. It had a boosting affect on our moods and connectedness, which had been petering with the combination of relative friendlessness and winter weather. Driving conditions were optimal. Seriously. I was surprised too.

Myntha, our Iowa City guide, has fabulous taste in restaurants.

George was pretty proud of his real bacon,
though it doesn't help his heart go pitty-pat.

Dane and Ellie Britain attacked George with Packers gear
while he enjoyed the Barbie Nutcracker DVD (WI).

Jenney and I huddle in the backseat of the minivan, post-Superbowl.

Dawn, Melissa and me, together again at Jon's restaurant, al Vento, in Minneapolis.

Ryan and George, pretending to be old buddies.

My aunt Ellie

Cousins Alexa and Azjah

Nephew Patrick tries to give Poppy a kiss goodbye, but she's not having it.

Where we went & who we saw
To be brief, Kansas, Missouri, Iowa, Wisconsin, Minnesota, Kansas. For the two hours when we weren't visiting anyone in Minneapolis, we were at Ikea. More on that later. We saw the Emmings, most of the Martins, Myntha, Paul, Jenney, Ellie, Dane, Melissa, Ryan, Kyle, Corey, Dawn, Ellie, Alexa, Azjah, Jennifer, and Tanner.

A few apologies. . .
This was a terrible trip for me and photos. I brought the camera, but it didn't seem to occur to me to use it often or well. Oops. Paul, I am sorry I didn't take a picture of you. It's not that you weren't pretty. Everyone, I am sorry that my hair had a bad trip. I hope you were happy to see me despite it. No promises of future greatness, but it looks pretty good now that I'm at home alone.

Kansas, New & Improved

2009-01-21T12:12:00.000-08:00

We've been busy around the house lately, and I thought it was time to show some of the finished work. First off is the guest bathroom shower, which had to be modified to fit the space. I guess usually the bathtub is outfitted to face a wall, rather than the center of the room, so the set needed extra pieces for showmanship. I'm making a screen print for the shower curtain to keep it from being starkly white, but we had to hang it as is to let the packaging wrinkles relax. Take it from me: you can't iron plastic.

I finished my hallway shelving project, a hodgepodge display area now bedazzling the upstairs walkway with pictures and found objects.

Not pictured is a horrible and precarious little shelf George made to place the 8" workout TV directly in front of the treadmill. He's been getting a calf cramp while he runs that he insists is due to the TV being situated slightly to the right, even though he turned the treadmill to face it head on. He's one of those people who can't look to the side while running or he loses balance, so I like to tease him about that anyway. I told him the calf thing was probably more due to underuse than anything, but he thinks he'll prove me wrong this week. Stay tuned because that'll be riveting.

George also completed a rough-and-tumble hanging space for his closet, so our things now rely on hangers rather than sheer volume to stay in place. It's nice to be able to pull a single item from the fray without imminent collapse. The newly breathable space has left room to expand my shoe collection, starting with these moccasins!

I enjoyed watching the inaugural yesterday. It's inspiring to see people delightedly crowded together, practically wearing hope. Though I know there are many Americans rabid with anger over this election, the energy and easy community of yesterday's proceedings spoke volumes about our country's future. Hope has caught me.

Cavity confusion

2009-01-16T08:00:00.000-08:00

How pretty my cleaned teeth are. Hooray for invisible holes!

Maybe it is just me, but I am confused about my dentist visit yesterday. When they looked over my film, it appears that I have a cavity beneath a filling. See, I thought that the filling was the end of it. Or I wouldn't have paid $180 to have a swollen face for four hours. Now I have to go in to have a filling removed and then get drilled on anyway. I hate the dentist. They're actually very nice people over there, and I still loathe them. I can't get away from the bad news.

Out of spite, I set up a cleaning appointment for George. I know there's got to be something wrong in there. He says he's going to cancel it, but it does make me feel better. It appears I'm pettier than I'd like to be.

(Sing in the tune for Gilligan's Island). . . A 3-Year Term

2009-01-15T08:44:00.000-08:00

The worst news
Yes, my Chamber of Commerce election is apparently a three-year deal. I was early to our first meeting last night and thereby narrowly avoided being elected president. Though they still tried to force me, and I think the look of shock I was wearing probably read as incompetence and saved me. That was before I knew I was there for 3 years, so the look of shock stayed.

I was waiting for someone to ask why I hadn't paid dues yet, since we went over the roster. Save that embarrassment for another time, I guess.

The good news
I am in charge of the Easter Parade and Egg Hunt event in the square. It's good news because I am pretty sure the egg hunt part is taken care of people with kids, and it's on a Sunday in the morning but not too early, and it's with kids so I don't have to make a speech or anything. More like shouting "Go!" into a blowhorn. Which I can do and actually have a lot of practice doing. College prepared me well.

The better news
I might quit. I still don't want to pay dues, and during the meeting we established Chamber Socials, a monthly event encouraging members patronage of other membership businesses by basically rotating open houses between them. This means that we have to promote now monthly events, which works well for the two insurance agents on the team who thought up the idea and are hosting the first events. For me, it reinforces the idea that joining the COC wasn't the best move for my type of business in the first place.

The low blow
George thinks it'd be stupid to quit. He's decided anything that gets me out of the house is a good thing. My secret is that he's really the stupid one, because he has to work 40 hours/week. Which I am thinking right now and laughing loudly, wearing pajamas and drinking tea at 11 a.m. in the solace of my empty house.

It's "Ms. Board Member" to you

2009-01-08T19:50:00.000-08:00

In a weird twist of fate, I've been voted in as a member of the board at the local Chamber of Commerce, just as I had decided not to renew my membership. How? I hear you ask. Well, let's just thank Donna at the local antique store for throwing my name in without consent. Yep. Here's how it happened.

(SCENE: I am browsing for a vintage tree topper for my Christmas tree, trapped in the bowels of a crowded basement when the talkative store owner approaches. Immediately, I plan my exit strategy.)

DONNA: Oh hi Christine. Is business picking up for you? (Yes, she's always this direct.)

ME: Yeah, some. Thanks for asking.

DONNA: We have a free spot on the Chamber of Commerce board. Would you be interested in being a member next year?

ME: Well. . . maybe. I don't know. What does a board member do?

DONNA: We meet on Wednesday evenings and talk about city business and the like. We're in charge of the square calendar, so we try to plan things to boost business. . . . (More vagueries ensue.)

ME: Uh, I'd need to know more about the specifics. Can Cecilia call me or email me more about it?

DONNA: Yes, yes, I'll tell her to be in touch.

ME: Okay, thanks.

END SCENE: And I leave the store empty-handed, probably backing out as I typically do following these ambushes. Though I do venture back a week later with my mom and find a tree topper, for those who worried over that detail.

But by the following afternoon, I have completely forgotten this conversation. When the mail arrives the following week, I am astounded to see my name at the top of an official ballot as a nominee for the Chamber of Commerce board. There are, apparently, three spots open and (the ironic twist) three nominees.

I was only mildly surprised at the phone call from Cecilia today, welcoming me as an official board member. But when she asked which town event I'd like to organize, I froze. Um, I'm going to have to call you back, I said. I haven't.

Wish(ful)

2009-01-05T10:20:00.001-08:00

Happy 2009, everyone!

To celebrate the unseasonably warm weather , I've been doing a lot of things outdoors. Walking to the post office and bank and grocery, sans my hat and mittens, has been lovely and makes me feel like a real person rather than a bundled snow monster. The dogs and I have also trekked through the woods on our favorite trails frequently in the past two weeks. The walking and quiet time outdoors gave me plenty of time to finish my wishes for the upcoming year, difficult since I just wanted to write "I wish I didn't move here" and ring in Sulkfest 2009. But I'm 32 and it's time to grow up — two very hard but solid facts.

So, after careful consideration, I present the (tidier, shorter and less sarcastic) public version of my wish list. Ahem.

Bake professionally again.
Run 350 miles.
Learn to speak basic Spanish for reals.
Find a paid writing assignment!
Join a group — knitting, reading, whatever. I need local friends too.
Sew something wearable.
Read 60 books this year
Visit friends. (Top of the list is Jenney and Paul, who I've promised to visit for the past, oh, five years. I'm thinking an elaborate Minnesota-Wisconsin tour by car.)
Start a community walking group.
Give handmade (or found) gifts all year.

George and I are trying out, informally, the Bitchery Reduction Plan. He's writing down one thing he wants me to stop harping about, plus one thing he's going to work on in the coming year. I'm doing the same. We are trading ideas next weekend. The BRP has promise.

I'm excited about 2009, both my plans for it and whatever it unfolds itself to be. New year, new president, new secret superpowers, — wait. Okay, just the first two for now, but I aim high.

Purdy Clothespins

2008-12-31T12:05:00.000-08:00

Inspired by Martha Stewart Living's December issue, I used paper scraps to make these cheap clothespins pretty. Turns out to be a simple cut-paste job, though I did coat them with ModgePodge to make sure the paper wouldn't scrape off with everyday use. Those of you who scrapbook, make these with your odds and ends. The clothespins were $1.99 at WalMart for 50, making them a candidate for the cheapest craft promoted by Martha. Finally.

This new craft is step one in my above-the-countertop kitchen decorating solution. Any ideas on what I have in mind?

Happily 32

2008-12-30T09:48:00.000-08:00

My private, breakfast celebration involved the death of an owl cupcake
named Franco and the best cup of almond biscotti tea.

For my birthday, I played the video of my family singing to me from earlier that month, followed by my sister's charming birthday voicemail, more of a gospel rendition she improvised. Then I opened my mom's card telling me where to find the gifts she hid for me in my own house — awesome! — and my sister-in-laws lovely bracelet. A dinner out in our new digs didn't seem as much of a treat as trial, so we stayed in. I made cupcakes with owl faces on them, a fun recipe from my sister's earlier gift, and ate one for breakfast and one for supper. Altogether a great day.

Now I'm 32, another number that should have more meaning than they ever do. And on to my New Year's wishes, now only slightly behind.

Ah, Franco. He was such a happy, if slightly befuddled, little dude. RIP.

Happy Holidays!

2008-12-28T12:13:00.000-08:00

George, posing in his newly opened Christmas/Mr Rogers sweater.

We hope you're enjoying time with your friends and family this year, as much as we have been. We were lucky enough to see quite a few of them this holiday season, some several times. My family, the Fikes, Wynell & Peter, Myntha, Aaron & Becca, DeAnn, Heather & Jim, Janelle & Branson, Tony, Fro, the Emmings and the Martins. Then, for the first time ever, we traveled a mere 75 minutes to see family — right on Christmas day! It was so relaxing.

I love all of the holiday cards and photos that are flooding in. It's fun to see familiar faces smiling at us. We've all changed so much and are eerily the exact same. It's all very odd and miraculous.

We're missing those of you we didn't get to hug this season. I have high hopes for next year!

Trying to get a picture of nephew Patrick required holding Poppy up for him to see.
George and his sister Jennifer and mom Carole are shining examples of how to smile.

A little pic of our tree for good measure.

Holiday Shopping: Bliss or Blight?

2008-12-18T07:37:00.000-08:00

Wind in your hair is not much better than beneath your wings.

Despite the crazy, high-speed winds that made our picture turn out like this, among other atrocities, George and I spent last Saturday shopping at the Town Center Plaza in KC. It's not my favorite. What I liked was the little shopping center across the street that housed Crate&Barrel, West Elm, Z Gallerie and an exclusive shoe store that I'll revisit when I'm not supposed to be shopping for others.

If you're ever in the KC area, head over to SPIN! Neopolitan Pizza for yummy pizza with good crust and fantastic salads. Their olive & artichoke pizza with caramelized onions and greek side salad (George loved the caesar) made up the best dinner I've had out in ages.

We started out with good intentions. Our county here in Kansas is really small and also quite poor. We called the local relief office to see what they needed help with this time of year and decided to shop for kids' gifts and clothing at Target.

First, it was the weekend.
Second, it's too close to the holiday.
Third, it's Target.

Rookie mistakes that we won't be making again.* Luckily, we saved this run for last on our list. After 90 minutes circling the toy department while reading the backs of the little glittery angels with the kids' preferences on them, we raced our carts to the checkout and were relieved to escape traffic on our way to the boonies. Now I know why my mom used to pack us all up for shopping in November.

My wish for you this shopping season: Good luck and good exit strategies.

*Note for next year: earlier in the month + weekday shopping.

Cookie Swap '08: Sans You Guys

2008-12-16T07:59:00.000-08:00

Part of our party group for Cookie Swap 2007

Oh, girls of the Cookie Swap group, how I miss thee. Turns out that this year's swap is going to be pretty much me and my mom, so not nearly as fun or so pretty on the table.

Mmmm. More cookies than Mom and I will be making.
And this wasn't even all of them!

I just dug up the wish cards you all wrote for 2008, and I hope that some of you were hoping for life changes. It seems over half of you have new addresses, a few have (or will soon have) new last names, and a third have had a family addition in the past year. That's a lot of changes for one small group. Agape, Julia, Wynell, Kari, Gina, Laurel, Myntha, and Gretchen: Your wishes are going in the mail today. The rest of you need to send address updates. You know who you are. ;)

Here's some of what I wished:

Bake bread & desserts more
Accomplished. Between my bakery job and the extra 10 pounds I'm carrying around, it's easy to cross that one off the list.

Organize the closets
And also pack them up, move them across a few states and set them back up again. Check.

Keep in better touch with loved ones
I am using this blog. Done.

Run more
Well, this one is staying on for next year to help deplete my bakery storage.

I've just begun thinking about my wishes and plans for next year. For me, planning is fun. I've been writing myself these wish cards since high school, though it's been more exciting to do it as a group. I'm pretty sure 2009 will include more exercise, more travel, more writing, and hopefully a reupholstery class. How about you?

Special thanks to Gina for sending me the individually wrapped cookies
and printed recipe book from her work's cookie swap last week. Love it!

Vintage chairs for $12.50

2008-12-13T09:08:00.000-08:00

The old and new chair tops. I really like my fruity one better!

At the antique store in town, I found a set of tall, vintage, swivel chairs for my kitchen island, still covered in the original '60s oilcloth picturing roosters, trees and farm scenes. It was a bit stained and discolored, so I decided to reupholster it with an oilcloth print that I have.

The original chair

Store co-owner Robin said to polish the chrome up with that stuff you rub onto your hubcaps (or George does) and it would take away the tiny imperfections and get back the metal's sheen. Still haven't done this, since it wasn't available at our grocer. Maybe next week.

The finished chair, for now.

I'm excited to replace our backless, wooden Target stools with something more functional and cute — plus I get to celebrate my first reupholstery job!

2009 Calendar

2008-12-12T11:57:00.000-08:00

Meet my new calendar. I'm very excited about her. Not only is she letter-pressed on beautiful Paper Source paper, she's also imprinted with designs on the back for use as pillow boxes in her off-season. A fun example of reuse that had me immediately infatuated, which friends may be delighted to see wrapping their birthday gifts later in the year. If I can actually bear to give them up.

Kansas Snow is Mean

2008-12-10T08:41:00.000-08:00

Ah, the first delightful snow in our first Kansas winter. See how it barely covers the grass. Beware how it nicely masks the thick glaze of ice atop our decks and sidewalks. Very sneaky and hurtful, our snow.

As I walked to the bank yesterday, I was surprised by a sideways wind pricking me in the neck with ice at a fierce speed. It hurt. I would have picked up the pace, but the sidewalk was slippery and, alas, I left my new all-weather boots in Colorado.

It reminded me of the unrelaxing walk Myntha and I took last Sunday. Thinking the winking sun was a lovely break from her freezing Iowa weather, she and I headed out, bareheaded and smiling to the trail. Upon turning around 20 minutes later, we were unceremoniously chased with brisk winds that swept away our good moods and left our ears ringing with aching cold.

I have learned my lesson and, despite the sun's apparent goodwill, I won't be fooled into going outdoors today.

Thanksgiving in Breckenridge

2008-12-03T11:07:00.000-08:00

A post-meal but still pre-pie stupor settles over the Fikes

Mountain Thanksgivings are my official favorite. I've had only two of them, and I'm ready to call it for all time. While mountain trips don't generally fall into my "relaxing" category, these winter visits are laden with fat snowflakes and the sort of Dr. Seuss-esque scenery that stuns me into quiet.

George, happy about turkey.

Our family, and the visiting Fikes, filled our Breckenridge rental with the bipolar mix of angst and congeniality that accompanies all Rosette holidays, followed by group conversation and dueling stomach aches. We ate pie and fattened our Wii miis to accurately reflect fluctuating waistlines. All the usual stuff. As the Fikes ambled home that evening, snow started to fall, the innocent beginning of our 18" pileup.

My mom and her Wii mii

A day later, we were snowed into the gorgeous house my family rented for the better part of two days. George and I snowshoed on a trail behind the house, basking in the glory of making fresh tracks. There's a softness to the world under snow, a smiling in secret.

Our house when we left. You can actually walk in at ground level, if you can see the door.

When we finally reached Denver after three hours of slow, snowstorm driving, it was disappointing to rejoin the world of noise, traffic and dirty snow. I'd like to pretend it doesn't exist, lace up my waterproof boots and thread uphill while the snow falls, leaving a trail of clean, perfect snowshoe tracks.

Where I wish I was right now.

Who Wants to Carpool?

2008-12-02T07:44:00.000-08:00

A few hours into our return trip to Kansas from Denver, George must endure this ritual driver hazing.

First, I smile at him creepily for ten minutes (above).
Next, I secretly videotape him until he realizes what I'm doing.
Then, I make up a little reason to videotape both of us (in this case, head bobbing).
Last, I take close-up pictures of his eye, ears, chin, whatever I can see from my side.

When he finally loses his temper over my poking and generally annoying behavior, I take a nap.

Weekend George

2008-11-26T09:04:00.000-08:00

In true Thanksgiving week fashion, I'll disclose that one of the things I'm most grateful for year-round is Weekend George.

Don't get me wrong, I am occasionally quite bored at home during the days. It's true. But I try to stay busy, even if I have to invent the work. I write proposals and write actual things I get paid for and design some things and clean a little and do a home project and research new work projects and work on projects for real clients and let the dogs out and try to exercise and grocery shop and then make dinners.

Staying busy during the week keeps the weekends sacred for both of us. Usually, we'll catch up on the DVR a little, make a big breakfast to eat while we read the paper, and then tackle the yard work or a major home project together. But occasionally, just often enough, Weekend George makes an appearance.

Weekend George is my favorite because he'll watch, say, four episodes of Life in a row without getting up. He doesn't feel badly about staying on the couch for the whole day when I really want to and then going for a long walk at dusk. It doesn't happen all of the time, but it seems that Weekend George always arrives just when I need him. Like my favorite kind of lazy superhero.

Fakesgiving

2008-11-24T08:37:00.001-08:00

Chocolate pie! Chocolate pie!

Our Thanksgiving dry run with the in-laws took place Sunday. They provided most of the dinner, while my job was pies, rolls and green beans. Normally, when I say that I don't need a vegetarian entree to replace the turkey, somebody buys a tofu something that tastes like tree bark. I must then pretend to eat it gratefully and with compliments.

Carole, George's mom, doesn't usually take me seriously when I protest. She makes me a cheese lasagna when they have one with meat sauce, and she buys vegetarian meatballs to replace the real ones on the side. She keeps black bean burgers in stock for summer barbecues. She makes salmon alongside brisket for family dinner. Consistently and thoughtfully, she has something for me to eat.

So when I said honestly that I'd just like to eat the sides, I wasn't sure she'd allow it.

One second later, Patrick's cute little fingers go right into Daisy's nostril.

Yet when I peeked into the numerous pots simmering and baking and chilling, I found nothing to be afraid about. I was free! At dinner, I piled my plate with mashed potatoes, green beans and veggie stuffing, rolls, cranberries and Jennifer's fruit salad. And, a few hours later, a second plate with thin swathes of pie and a mug of coffee completed the dry run. Mmmm.

Another item added to my list of thankings: considerate in-laws.

Long weekend in Vegas

2008-11-21T12:37:00.000-08:00

Wynell and I trying on obnoxious sunglasses. We're so Vegas.

This year's Las Vegas vacation may be the last for a few years. During a preliminary poll, it was decided that next year New York City is probably in order. It's so much fun to see everyone, and we love getting together. But nobody really ventured out this year, beyond the usual shopping, and we knew we'd already seen the sights. I miss the people and hope everyone will be able go to NYC next year, plus maybe even a few more people!

What did we do? First we got lost. Our flight came in well after dark, and we tried to find our way to Gwen's house in our rented van. We finally called her as we passed the "Leaving Las Vegas" sign to say we thought we might have missed our turn. She helped us out, then let us take over her lovely new house, and fed Wynell and I the very best cinnamon toast for breakfast after the others left to grab donuts and watch the Chiefs game.

Naughty Peter, all grown up, at the Bellagio.

The rest of the time, we stayed at Caesar's Palace, which I kept referring to as "Little Caesar's" (like the pizza place). George thought I was trying to make him hungry, but it was a simple memory issue. We watched Ka, a Cirque de Soliel performance we hadn't seen (I liked La Reve better — more water). We ate at Bouchon and Trevi, a little French followed by a little Italian, plus grabbing bites here and there. The boys spent lots of time at the pool. While, separately and together, little shopping groups of girls hopped between the Forum, Miracle Mile and the Town Square.

Toby drove us all, squishing 10 of us together into our van, to In-n-Out Burger two times — I felt sick after both, even just eating a grilled cheese. I bought a yummy chocolate croissant at our hotel's coffeehouse, then later a caramel apple from another place that was so cold the caramel didn't budge when I tried to eat it. I hurt my teeth. That sucker was saved for hours later and then passed around the group for bites because, once warm, it was delicious! We ate more, shopped again, gambled a bit, a few of us got molested while dancing, and we finally said goodbye to the group at Studio Cafe.

At Studio Cafe, post-dancing, a little tired and delirious at 3 a.m.

George and I caught two flights home, stopping at first in Denver. We were depressed to be reminded that we didn't live there anymore as we said goodbye to Allison, Toby, Wynell & Peter. By the time we got home, around 11:30 p.m., we were oddly awake. After all, it was only 9:30 in Vegas, and we'd been up until 3 or 4 a.m. most nights. We had been awake only 10 hours.

Light brooding

2008-11-10T14:10:00.000-08:00

It's another bleak, sunless day here in the country and no amount of hot tea is improving my mood. My brain is addled with balancing work proposals — Must. Find. Projects! — and lack of sleep. I'm having nightmares and lots of them. Quirky, random nightmares with the unsettling undertones of the X-files. I'm simply too lazy to stay awake, and so I doze back into them, my fear twisting the sheet into odd lumps. Poor George awakes in sheet puddles and wonders about me. As he should.

Needless to say, I'm quite ready to jet off to Vegas next week. If only my overdue client would pay me so I can take the large shopping spree I'd envisioned rather than the small one currently available in my bank account.

Soooooo, I promised photos of the rooms, and here are photos of the no-longer-rugless rooms. The rooms feel pretty pleased with themselves, though messy.

The messy family room and its colorful new rug. Poppy, in her pile of blankets, looks on.

The library table I went back to buy from the antique store. (Yay, Myntha!) Still not sure if I should refinish it. It would look nice, but I'm not sure my skills are fabulous enough to take on those hand-carved legs. What if I wreck it?

The new dining room rug. Love it.

In other news, I just finished reading The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society and I want everyone who adores Jane Austen to read it as well. For that particular crowd, and quite possibly a much wider audience, it will be an especially nice winter treat.

Jitters

2008-11-04T12:20:00.000-08:00

Today is election day, so go out and vote! If you can. George and I failed to register in time, so we filled out our own ballots — okay just colored "Obama" in crayon — and mailed them to the county building. I'm pretty sure they won't count, but we feel a smidge better.

George's new company is hurting due to the down economy, as a large part of their business is engineer pipelines for the oil industry. This isn't what George or even his Kansas location does, but it's more than 50% of the company's overall business.

Last week, his office manager confided that there would be layoffs in his office. George has been a frazzled combination of stressed and guilty ever since. Stressed because he feels it's more important for him to pull his weight now, so he's been working nonstop and worries about taking holiday time away. And guilty because he's not going to be one of the people laid off even though he's the most recent hire. Instead, they let go a guy with 16 years of service, because his area of the company may soon be obsolete. Then, late yesterday, they gave Virginia, a secretary, notice. George thinks she's in her 60s at least, so it doubly sucks.

Yes, Virginia, the same wonderful lady who's given me fresh vegetables and herbs since we moved will now be searching for a job. Today I am looking at the box of pears she sent over and hoping she's doing okay.

Goings on

2008-10-30T11:46:00.000-07:00

The lovely surprise lilies I got from George! Had to show them off since it's a rare occasion.

Our rugs have finally arrived! The lovely local UPS man, and one of our neighbors, actually carried them into the dining room for me — since they're 9x12' and pretty awkward. Wasn't sure if that slap on the butt was the best repayment, but I'm in the football spirit. Kidding. Now I'm just waiting on a chandelier installation and a hallway bench before taking some photos. The house is actually looking like home these days. Sigh. And, with the fall weather sputtering in, it's been nice to have warm feet.

My sister Amy arrives this afternoon on her way home for school break. It's not really on her way, but she's visiting a friend in Springfield and we're totally on that route. She wanted to stop by and see the house. Then George and I are off to Rolla for the weekend to visit my parents. Mapquest says it's only a five-hour trip, rather than the 12-hour monster (from Denver). Good news.

On this episode of small town weirdness. . .
Tony, one of our college friends now living in KC, went fishing two weeks ago and mentioned in conversation that he had friends (us) who just moved to Garnett. The guy he fished with, who works with Tony's wife in KC, asked if we moved into this house. He'd heard of us. Really?

A couple pics from last weekend's KC trip. . .

My nephew, Patrick, loves bananas.

The dogs won't stand still at the off-leash park. Not that I blame them.
Our two are in mid-stride, center frame. Like my shadow?

The scale incident

2008-10-27T09:21:00.000-07:00

I spent most of the weekend feeling impressed with myself.

After all, my accomplishments this week can be listed, which in itself is worth celebrating. And one of my greatest feats is that I'd run more than 10 miles by Friday. This may not even be so great to anyone who works out regularly or is a runner. But I am reconverting to my former running lifestyle, and this week was the first step in consistency, rather than the here-and-there workouts of the summer.

I ordered, cleaned and rearranged the entire house, including the new carpeting and rugs for the entire downstairs. It now looks like people live here. Clean, regular people, not those summer weirdos with junk in boxes.

So when we drove off to Kansas City for the weekend, I felt light and accomplished.

But you know how sometimes you see people, say at the grocery store, and they're wearing too-tight clothing yet they seem to feel proud of themselves? That's what working out does to you. I am now fully comprehending the problem of exercise endorphins. How they surge through you and make you feel all invincible and skinny. Grrr.

One of my tasks on the trip was to find a bathroom scale. Ours in Denver was electronic, meaning we shouldn't have shoved it in the rear window of the car during our move where its resolve to tell the truth slowly baked away. I found us a shiny new one, hidden in the back of a corner aisle in Target, secretly on sale. We invited her home, determined to love her, even if she brought bad news. Well, I am taking it all back. I wish I could erase it -- the decision, the resolve, and especially the news.

I have gained 20 pounds in the past six months! Apparently, I AM that grocery store girl in the spandex-looking pants. My 10 miles seems a bit inadequate. Today I am uncelebrating with loads of motivational iced coffee, some nice salad and a new pair of running shoes.

The weather outside

2008-10-23T14:08:00.000-07:00

Kansas is on my bad side today. Again.

For three long days, I've endured cool weather with either constant drizzle or incessant downpours. Three long days stuck in the house or venturing out with rain boots if I lay down boards along the path to wade to the garage. Where did I pack my umbrella? Yesterday I ventured to the health store in my all sweats outfit, which I never give myself the option to do, because it was too cold to change and I was going to get wet anyway. I wore an inappropriate summer hat with a beachy brim that sent off a crazy vibe, I'm sure. Then I ended up tucking my sweatpants into the legs of my rain boots because my calves were getting wet, so then the water dripped into my socks. What can I say, I'm a trendsetter, albeit a cold, uncomfortable one.

It's perfect weather for reading, wrapped in blankets, cupping a mug that's alternately filled with tea and soup. I'm almost through the slow-starter novel of 900+ pages that I've fought with the past few months, plus a multitude of magazines. I've made three kinds of soup and two kinds of bread. Enough already.

The Passing of a Weekend

2008-10-19T18:38:00.001-07:00

I'm in mourning for this weekend — about a millisecond in length — during which I managed to complete exactly none of my intended tasks. George and I had planned to run up to KC for Saturday evening and visit his parents, but his mom worked on Sunday and that means early to bed. So late Friday afternoon we postponed until next week, leaving an unexpectedly free weekend. And how did we fare with the time? Wasted it.

Friday
Stayed in watching movies, then walked to Dairy Queen for a ice creamy treat. I had an oreo brownie blast and don't recommend it.

Saturday
Drove to Ottawa to pick up a table the antique store woman forbade me (yes, really) to attempt lifting myself (after she declined aid) by calling me back and telling me to wait for the weekend. Hmph. Could've lifted it alone, thank you very much, but George came along to ogle my bulging biceps. We brought the dogs and walked along the trail, super far, thinking how oddly different the terrain is just ten miles from home. Then we talked about our five year plan for moving back to Colorado, Steamboat Springs this time, ironing out a few minor details. (Kidding, of course, since nothing we do is that clear.) Ordered Chinese takeout for dinner and walked the entire two blocks to get it. I have no idea what happened to the remainder of the day. Pretty sure there was TV involved.

Sunday
Spent the morning cleaning out our cars. Ick. I know it's my own fault for waiting, but the mud Ziti shook all over my leather interior during our Crested Butte trip in August was really difficult to scrub out. Three hours later, we watched almost all of the Chiefs game, crestfallen, and then I made bread. We took turns watching sports (George) and recorded MTV shows (me) while tag-teaming gym time. Some laundry and dishes and a little reading round out the day.

What happened to wallpapering the guest bedroom, hanging the chandelier and building hall shelves? Postponed, like the closet renovation. The list gets longer as the days shorten. Still I'd rather make this jam tart recipe I found earlier today. I bet I know what will happen first.

I have prairie spirit!

2008-10-15T13:37:00.000-07:00

Yes, I do. Or at least I have access to the Prairie Spirit Trail, a 52-mile pathway from Iola to Lawrence, Kansas. Technically, George could bike to work, but as it is he can barely drive there on time.

A slight rant of a sidebar
He has time management issues, or as I call it, the two-speed turtle complex. There's a plodding, unrushable pace for everyday use, and then a second, clipped gait for sporting events.

I've been taking the pets on this trail since we moved to Kansas. For one thing, it seems to be completely bereft of the swarms of people I'm used to seeing on Colorado trails. This is a great feature, since it means I ignore the leash laws and let the dogs run crazy. It tires them out and leaves me free to forage. I generally walk with the pets and carry a backpack. The past couple of weeks I've found some pretty great things.

Wild grapes
Supposedly four varieties grow in Kansas, though I've only run across the one so far. They are tiny little muscadine grapes, and I had to freeze the bucket of them in order to pull them from the stems intact. They're not something I'd eat off the vine, since I'm not a fan of the seeds. But they have made excellent jelly, and I'm determined to learn how to can or preserve it. Does jelly freeze? That would be much more convenient.

American persimmons
Did anybody else know this was a thing? I hadn't a clue. I've paid $2/fruit during their short season and thought it was great. Now they are free, albeit smaller and still on the trees. They may be a bit more trouble to pick, but they're everywhere. If I only knew what to make from them. One of George's co-workers said you can just freeze the flesh and it's like sorbet. I might try that.

Hedgeapples
These are pretty common in the midwest though completely inedible. Why am I excited about them? They're supposed to deter spiders. It's worth trying. They give off this light, citrusy smell, and they look pretty in a dish on the table.

With all of the underbrush along the trail, I can also tell that I'll find blackberries or raspberries come spring. And there are still many wild flowers, even in October. The one scary thing is how far you can walk away from everything, miles and miles, and then there's a sudden ruckus in the bushes. Which is about the time I turn around.