Valerie Keiser Norris--A Haphazard Blog

Hooked on DVR

2011-12-08T10:18:00.000-05:00

I am in hopelessly, ridiculously besotted with love for our DVR.

Before DVR, I seldom watched TV. The remote control resides in John’s hand whenever he’s home, oftentimes while he’s sleeping through his shows. He watches sports, Westerns, and precious little else, so I would happily sit in my reading corner and read books. If ever I had control of the remote I couldn’t find anything to watch, anyway.

But with the advent of DVR I’ve discovered there are shows I actually like! Property Brothers, who find and remodel homes that end up in the 700,000-800,000 range. Too-modern style for me, but amazing transformations. (They never would have sold me on the stinky cat house, though. Been there, done that, got the PTSD.) The Middle and Raising Hope, dysfunctional family sitcoms so absurd they crack me up. A couple of cooking shows, The Daily Show with Jon Stewart.

And then comes the feature I really love—the stopping and backing up of the show! The show is recorded and when a phone call interrupts or a husband snores really loudly or you go off imagining yourself using that amazing outdoor kitchen, you can magically back up the show and watch it again! It even works when you haven’t taped the show. You can pause and start again, or rewind. It’s amazing.

I think I’m DVR dependent, though. I find myself wanting to stop and back up in other areas of my life. The car radio: Should I be getting out of the car and lying as flat as possible in that wet ditch beside the road? Better take another listen. A fascinating conversation partially overheard in a coffee shop? Would be nice to know what happened prior to the point where the police were called on Aunt Phyllis.

I especially need a pause-rewind button for Sunday sermons when the pastor repeats something, repeats something with emphasis, repeats something with a little added part to it. After a few too many repetitions my brain goes off on its own, reminding me I need to stop for potatoes after church and that next Sunday I need to bring canned goods for the food drive. I notice, not for the first time, that the woman in front of me wears the worst scent since Evening in Paris, and those two little boys are poking each other with pencils and why don’t their parents notice what’s going on? Once again I’ve derailed and probably missed the important, the most important, the most relevant and important part of the whole sermon.

What are the times you could use a pause-restart or rewind button? Or is it just me?

Thanksgiving Tree

2011-11-23T09:05:00.000-05:00

I didn’t grow up with a lot of family traditions. My parents were so busy trying to keep up with eight kids some of the finer points got missed. We decorated eggs for Easter and danced dangerous pirouettes with burning sparklers on Independence Day, sure. But quiet gatherings around Dad as he read the Christmas story? No, it was never that quiet. Eggnog and cookies while eight kids pushed and shoved to decorate the tree? Would the living room even have survived?

My children, I’m sad to say, were raised pretty much like I was. Oh, I squeaked in a few more traditions here and there, but having three kids in fewer than four years will suck up most of the energy and good intentions you have. Avoiding accidental death and dealing with whining were the major activities. We’re lucky we all survived.

So now that I have grandchildren I pay better attention to traditions. Okay, I pay attention to the daughter who is very conscious of tradition-making. Now we do annual apple-picking trips, visits to the Christmas light village, and try to do vacations as a group.

I wish we had those fond memories to look back on, both in my childhood and my children’s lives.

But I’m very proud to have instituted a new tradition, all on my own. The Thanksgiving Tree. I printed leaf shapes on goldenrod paper, cut them out with a grandchild, hole-punched them, and tied on loops. Then at a recent family dinner (a weekly tradition), we all sat down and wrote the things we’re thankful for. Some wrote three, some four or even more, until we ran out of leaf shapes.

We read them out loud before hanging them on a little tree in the dining room. There are some other answers, but most say, essentially, “family.”

I think we’re doing okay.

Gift Shopping Frenzy

2011-11-16T08:43:00.001-05:00

The holiday season is almost upon us, and you know what that means. Everyone gets a gift!

I’m not good at gifts. First of all, I don’t like to shop. Unless it’s books or kitchen stuff for myself. Second, I am not good at listening to others and making note of the books, music or games they’re coveting, and have to ask outright, “What do you want?” or go with a (Thank-God-they-make-them-or-you’d-all-get-sausage-and-cheese-gift-sets) gift card.

Almost everyone collects something. Figurines, sports memorabilia, antique hat pins. Makes it easy to shop for them for Christmas and birthdays—just buy the latest bear figurine in the collection. But I didn’t collect anything. (Well, books. I find them everywhere—gift shops, antique shops, even in actual book stores. And, no, I’m not a book hoarder. Don’t listen to my husband; I never do.)

People have tried to force me to collect things. When I asked my 90-year-old grandmother for something meaningful to remember her by, she gave me an ugly frog figurine. People thought it was so funny my one heirloom was a hideous frog they started bringing me more.

Then I confessed my loathing for squirrels (see my blog post Squirrel Dreams for my rational and intellectual reasons why), and certain family members now look for squirrelly items to torture me with.

So in self defense I decided on a collection I could live with, nightmare-free. (If that doesn’t make sense to you, I remind you of the Squirrel Dreams post mentioned previously. Now maybe you’ll listen the first time I tell you something.) I settled on salt and pepper sets.

But then I added a codicil. Not just any salt and pepper sets. They had to mean something to me, such as the oxen/covered wagon ones to honor my obsession with the 1800s pioneer journey west. Asparagus ones to memorialize the two summers I spent as a teenager picking asparagus for a cool $1/hour. Corn ones for the incredible sweet corn Uncle LaVern grew and shared with us.

My insistence that the s&p’s mean something to me, though, makes it nearly impossible for others to add to my collection. Oops. Kind of defeated my purpose. So last Christmas most of my gifts were books or gift cards to bookstores.

I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried.

Remember, if you don’t want a lovely sausage and cheese gift basket it’s time to throw obvious hints my way. Let the holiday shopping frenzy begin!

Rolling with the Punches

2011-11-02T10:52:00.000-04:00

I caught myself wishing it wasn’t drizzling with rain so I could grill on my Big Green Egg. (Don’t know what a BGE is? Oh, you’ve got to come to my house for a burger or my Unbelievable Chicken. I’ve tried the same recipes on the countertop grill and blah. The hardwood charcoal does something to the food. Besides adding carcinogens.)

Back to wishing. When it comes to weather, sometimes it feels like I’m wishing my life away. I wish the weather was cold so we could snuggle up in front of the fire—without the TV on, John! Or chilly so we could roast hot dogs over the metal fire pit outside. Or warm so we could eat dinner on the patio, or eat at one of the many sidewalk cafés downtown. I wish it wouldn’t rain so we could enjoy the outdoors. Then I wish it would rain so we wouldn’t have to go through the guilt of wasting a precious resource to water grass, or the frustration of letting all that expensive “bought” grass die.

I wish a lot of things. I find myself wishing I had one of those automatic doohickeys that scoot all over the floor to clean it so I wouldn’t have to mop. Then I think, as long as I’m wishing, why don’t I wish for a cleaning lady who could do that dang shower, too?

I’m sure you have situations in your life you wish were different. Health, a love relationship, family strife, a sad or tragic loss. We find ourselves looking back and wishing things were different. One little change and life would be so much better.

You can spend a lot of time dwelling in yesterdays, what-ifs, wishing things were different. Or you can work through it, deal with what is, and not worry about how much better it might be if your wishes were fulfilled. Roll with the punches, and you may even enjoy some of the rolls.

I choose to roll.

Girl Directions

2011-09-14T15:03:00.000-04:00

When I leave a restaurant bathroom I always turn in the wrong direction. I’ll admit it—I’m directionally impaired.

Getting lost has plagued me since childhood. I remember being on an expressway and thinking my dad was brilliant to navigate the roads. I thought that every time you came to a new overhead sign you had to make a decision on which way to go. Didn’t realize you simply stayed on the expressway until you were ready to exit. Duh.

Three years ago I moved to a new city and was trying to find my way to a writers’ meeting. I was so excited—I’d left a wonderful critique group in Georgia and was hoping to replicate the group here. I consulted a map, feeling like a grown-up as I tracked the route.

All went well—until the last road. It wasn’t there. I drove a half-mile past where it should have been before I gave up and turned around. Then I backtracked a mile. The road simply wasn’t there.

I consulted my map. There it was, big as life. So I tried again. But again, no road by that name or any other appeared where it should have been located. So I tried again. (I know, the definition of crazy is doing the same thing over and over expecting a different outcome. Have you met me?)

This time I noticed a very short gap in the commercial buildings lining the road and a miniature wall off to the side. I was on a bridge? The map hadn’t showed a bridge!

By the time I got to the meeting, 20 minutes late, I was babbling and a bit wild-eyed. Recently one of the guys mentioned that day, laughing: “I thought you were either crazy or just cute.” He still hasn’t told me his final decision—which, now that I think about it, probably tells me his final decision.

I finally bought my husband a GPS which lives in my car and which he doesn’t have a clue how to use. Without the GPS, I need girl directions. Don’t mention compass points, mileage, or bank names. Tell me to turn left at the dead-end, go straight until you pass the big school on the right, then at the next light, where there’s a gas station/car wash, turn right, etc. I will fill up a page with handwritten directions and I will get there. Someday.

Bless the Dress

2011-08-22T10:15:00.000-04:00

When I was eighteen, my mother went ballistic at me for going braless on a date. Hey, it was the early 70s and that was the style for hippie-wannabes like me. Mom and I didn’t have too many fights. I mostly behaved until about 17, and then usually snuck my bad behavior out of the house without discovery. But this time Mom caught me and got Dad involved. They said some things parents shouldn’t say to their daughter, and I’m sure I said things a daughter shouldn’t say to her parents. Not a night we talk about when we reminisce around the dinner table.

And I am over it.

But I was reminded of the event Sunday as a pretty, young girl, maybe 15-16 years old, sat in the church pew ahead of me. She had a knockout figure—a trifle full for today’s bone-thin standards, filling out her Jessica Rabbit sheath dress and then some. The dress was skimpy on both ends—strapless and mid-thigh, with ruching (a kind of gathering/tucking) at the hips, in case your eyes needed help noticing that part. I assume the conservatively-dressed woman sitting beside her was her mother. As I told my Facebook friends, I didn’t know who to slap first.

I’m not a fan of strapless or even spaghetti straps in church. I think many males have trouble following a sermon if the female in front of them is sticking her thumbs in the bodice of her dress to yank it up over her boobs again and again. Or if lingerie straps are peeking out. Or missing. Actually, I have a whole list of church no-nos: see-through clothes, mini skirts, skimpy shorts, tight tops. Also, if your full skirt has a tendency to get stuck where the sun don’t shine, wear a slip! The people behind your behind don’t want that image stuck in their heads as they rise up to sing to God.

I know short, tight and sexy is the style, but just like back in the early 70s, just because it’s in style doesn’t mean your parents should let you wear it. Especially to church.

So, gentle readers, tell me how you feel. And if my parents somehow see this, I swear I don’t go braless in public anymore.

Public Toilet Dreams

2011-08-03T15:04:00.000-04:00

I have deeply paranoid dreams about public toilets and huge, maze-like hotels. Recently, the two combined forces in a dream that had me trying to find my room, racing against a deadline, and dealing with terrible public toilets, as well. That’s just not fair! If one of those nefarious squirrels from another bad dream had made an appearance, I probably would not have survived to whine about it all.

I used to ask people if they have public toilet dreams. Too many people drew away as if to escape the fearful darkness that they must have thought emanated from my being, so I quit asking. But I know I’m not the only one. Just Google “toilet dreams” and see what I mean.

Some of my classics? A row of stalls with the doors cut so high that as you sit, you’re exposed from the waist down. An outhouse lying on its back, so you have to lie on your back to go. (Think about that for a second. Gross, eh?) A huge bathroom built like a stadium, with toilets in ascending rows, and no privacy anywhere.

The literature on the subject (and by literature I mean Google hits) says that toilet dreams indicate feelings of embarrassment and vulnerability. Thank you, Captain Obvious.

The maze of hotel rooms stems, I’m certain, from my inability to find my way around in the world. Coming out of a restaurant bathroom I’ll turn the wrong direction every time. Before the invention of GPS I knew only one way to get somewhere. Or maybe not even that. One memorable time prior to cell phones I was trying to drive from one mall to another without going to “home base” first. No matter what I did, I’d end up where, instead of the road I swear showed on my map, I’d be facing a lake. After three tries, I found a payphone, called John and said, “You’re going to have to move the house. I can’t find you.”

Any recurring dreams in your life? And all you public-toilet-dreamers, I know you’re out there!

Hell on Wheels

2011-07-21T08:17:00.000-04:00

Recently we took our annual 700-mile, life-sucking, everlasting car trip to visit family Up North. We stayed in a hotel two nights at my insistence—once on the way up and again on the way back. If my husband was still the boss of me, we’d drive the 12-hour trip in one go, with infrequent pit stops for fast food and to stumble, stiff-legged and blinking, to nasty rest area toilets as necessary. We stop overnight now, because I have learned the hard way that after eight hours in the car, one of us is going to be exceedingly not happy.

For years John ably filled that role while I hunched my shoulders and plugged my ears to the cursing and huffing emanating from the driver’s seat. We’d swerve and slam through heavy traffic, brakes and gas pedal stomped abundantly, all the other cars manned by, ahem, orifices of the anal kind. Eventually I got older and meaner, and quit tolerating his behind-the-wheel transformation from The Quiet Man into The Hulk. Now he tries to keep it in check (“You won’t like me when I’m angry,”) because he knows if he doesn’t he’s going to hear about it from The Hulkess. You’re welcome.

Lately, though, the exceedingly not happy person in the car is me.

No, I don’t cuss and swerve and huff and puff. I squirm. And writhe. And try in vain to find some position that doesn’t hurt my behind. You’d think with all this padding I’d have the most comfortable seat in the car, but that’s what you’d get for doing your own thinking. Something happens after eight-plus hours on those leather seats and I cannot sit there one minute longer. My bottom hurts and the arm rests make my hands fall slap asleep. If only my behind would do the same.

How about you? Do you love the open road, embrace long trips with much enthusiasm and a bag full of snacks? Or rest in the comfort of your La-Z-Boy and never leave home?

That’s Another Thing I’m Never Going to Do

2011-03-25T17:38:00.000-04:00

What movie/TV show was that from? Two guys making all these elaborate plans, and then they start laughing: “That’s another d___ thing I’m never going to do!” The line makes me laugh but I don’t know what it was from. Anyone?

I’ve gotten to a point where I realize there are some things I’m just never going to do. I’m never going to walk the Appalachian Trail. I’m never going to finish that quilt. I’m never going to fit into my skinny jeans.

Some things are just not meant to happen.

I’ve decided to embrace this time in my life. Okay, I haven’t completely given up on the quilt. I still hope to finish it before the fabric disintegrates. It probably would go faster if I ever actually worked on it.

But organize the photos into albums? Live in a big city? Buy a small farm to grow my own food and raise my own meat?

Honestly, did anyone ever see me as Farmer Valerie? I dig in the dirt about as much as the Queen of England does. And I kind of hate animals. (Don’t judge me. I have very good reasons. They stink and you have to clean up their poop.) But I’ve always had this image of me with a big braid of thick gray hair down my back, dressed in long skirts and shawls. “Little House on the Prairie”—but with central heat and good plumbing. And I’m finally, officially, letting that go.

Anything you’re jettisoning from your life-plans? Some wishful-thinking kinds of things that you finally accept that you're never going to accomplish or experience? Add it to the comments below and free yourself. Say it with me; "That's another d___ thing I'm never going to do!"

World Enough and Time

2011-03-11T12:22:00.000-05:00

I never thought I would say this, but there’s too freakin’ much out there to read! And not nearly enough time.

For Christmas, I was the thrilled recipient of a Kindle e-reader, and promptly loaded it up with books. I also received several bookstore gift certificates, and a 26-volume set of Time-Life “The Old West” books, which I love, and am on the second volume. I can’t read just one book at a time, so I’m reading a nonfiction book on writing and a novel set in Georgia in the 1960s, too. When I’m walking (okay, I’ll get back to it soon, I promise), cooking, or sewing, I listen to a novel or memoir on an MP3 player from the library—currently, Ape House, by the author of Water for Elephants.

I am on a lot of email lists: cooking, writing, health, church committees, and several people’s “forward” lists. (Gotta admit, one person’s mass forwards get almost automatically deleted. Bless her heart.) Occasionally, I get an actual personal email. For my writing’s sake, I follow many agents on Twitter, and when they’re not tweeting about the weather/kids/pets/sushi, they’re linking to articles on writing and publishing. Which I feel compelled to read.

And somewhere in all that reading, I’m supposed to write, volunteer, do laundry, clean house, shop for groceries, cook, be a good wife, mom, and grandmother, floss my teeth, and, oh yeah, search for a part time job.

I know of some people who actually look for things to do. Things seem to find me. Okay, I admit, I volunteer for some. But others appear on my doorstep like orphans, with arms reaching out and “Please help me!” scrawled across their little buntings. And I love to help—I am kind of a do-bee. I know myself well enough to know that if I don’t factor in down time, time to write, read, plan, and ponder, I will turn into someone else, someone I don’t like. The not-happy Valerie.

I’ve never yet found the perfect balance. How do you balance your life? Do you leave enough time for you to be you? Are you in a phase of your life that simply doesn’t allow much time for that? What can you do about it?

The Cutting Edge

2011-03-07T10:43:00.003-05:00

I cut myself on the face while shaving.

And no, smart-alecks, I wasn’t shaving my face.

I was shaving the hair on the back of my neck—sometimes it gets a little scruffy between haircuts and I have to clean it up. I do it while in the shower so the hairs don’t stick to my neck and itch. Got it?

So, as I was transferring the razor from my left hand to my right, somehow my chin got in the way (?), and slash! Splashes of blood hit the shower floor and spattered like a horror movie. I rushed, worried that I might run out of blood and faint, naked. in the shower, and EMS would be called. That’s my idea of a horror story. Probably the EMS squad’s, too.

I stuck toilet paper to the cut and tried to get dressed, but one wad of toilet paper didn’t begin to staunch the flow. I had to press toilet paper against my chin for, oh, fifteen minutes before the flow slowed to a trickle.

I've had other bad experiences with sharp objects. Last year when the whole family gathered, I dressed the three granddaughters in pillowcase dresses (handmade by yours truly, thank you very much) and took pictures out front on the wicker rockers. I’d cut my hand with a paring knife just prior to the photo session and stuck several bandages over the cut. A few minutes into the photo session I guided one of the girls into position and a bright red stain showed up on the dress’ shoulder. Oops. Son-in-law Jeremy did some quick first aid, taping and binding my hand into immobility, and I lived.

On Thanksgiving Day I was chopping up turkey thighs to roast (makes a gravy to die for—literally) and wham, another slip of the knife. John wanted to take me to Emergency for stitches but I refused—the work-intensive gravy would never get done, and I didn’t have a Plan B. He cleaned and bound the nasty cut, making dire predictions about poultry diseases, and took over the gravy preparations. The following Tuesday at the dermatologist’s I was told, “Your husband was right. You needed stitches. Too late now.” It hurt until February.

So when I cut my chin recently, five-year-old granddaughter Ella asked, “What did you do to your face?”

“I accidentally cut it. I have a little trouble with sharp things.”

“Yeah, because you always cut yourself with them!”

The next time she saw me she greeted me with, “So, did you cut yourself again?”

What about you? Are you known for something as stupid as impaired knife-handling? And if you ever want a blood-brother (or sister), I always stand ready.

The Booby Prize

2011-02-22T12:29:00.002-05:00

I like to think the best of people. I’m not suspicious, and kind of take people at face value until they prove themselves unworthy of my respect.

John says I’m gullible.

Last week I got a phone call—I’d won a chef for a night! Woo-hoo! Chef Ray reminded me that I’d filled out a card at a Taste of Home Cooking Show (lots of vendor tables and I’d filled out lots of cards) and my name had been drawn! The show was a few months back, so my BS-O-Meter should have twanged, but no. He told me to invite a few other couples and he’d bring his own cookware and food, and would see me on Friday night. I often haul my own cookware along when I rent a beach house, so again, the BS-O-Meter remained in hiding.

When Chef Ray began hauling in, unpacking and arranging pots, pans and other equipment, the truth began to sink in. This was a salesman demonstrating cookware. Now, I love to cook and at least one of the other guests loves to, also, so I thought, okay, so he demonstrates his cookware. Unethical to represent it as a chef-for-a-night prize, and I was hideously embarrassed that I’d invited friends without warning them this was a sales pitch, but I’m basically a kind person who doesn’t throw people out of her house even when the situation warrants it, and I hoped my friends would accept my sincere apologies afterward.

He’d promised we eat about an hour after the guests arrived at six. After an hour of oohing and ahhing, still no food cooked in his fancy-shmancy cookware. Lunch was a distant memory. I dealt with my creeping annoyance by plotting ways to mock the whole night on my blog.

Finally he started cooking. At eight I was getting a little light-headed but the food was ready—and then he held it hostage in those heat-holding pans of his while he witnessed to us about what Jesus had done for him. Finally the BS-O-Meter sets off alarms.

Don’t get me wrong. I am a Christian. I have been known to tell someone my faith story. But I’ve never told someone she won a prize as a way to get into someone’s house to sell them something. I’ve never used a sales call as a vehicle to witness to someone else’s guests.

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me in front of my friends, shame on you even more! Bad enough I was clueless, but I invited friends to my home to be held hostage by this guy and his outrageously overpriced cookware (electric skillet $580, small set of cookware $1400). Seriously. Want the big set? $2300.

To my friends who politely sat through that evening, please forgive me! I’ll cook for you soon and will not try to sell you anything, I promise.

And to everyone else, tune up the BS-O-Meter. Chef Ray is out there.

Making a List

2011-02-04T08:05:00.000-05:00

Every morning, I make a list of things I’m never going to do.

Of course, that’s not my intention as I make the list. I honestly think I’m going to dust all 21 window blinds today. I think I’m going to clean out the fridge, mop the kitchen, shop for replacement cabinet hardware and hot-tub supplies, complete all the tasks on my list and go to sleep tonight secure in the knowledge that I’ve done everything in my power to keep my life perking along.

I’m Valerie Norris and I’m a listaholic.

I love making lists. Each morning I make the day’s to-do list, with everyday tasks such as laundry, mopping, making a meal plan for the week, errands, etc. Also, I have a list for those big, pesky tasks that could take days/weeks/months to complete, such as that quilt that’s going to disintegrate before I finish it, or filling out the “Grandma” books, or putting photos from the last 30 years into some semblance of order. You know, the things I’m never actually going to do.

But the other day I actually crossed something off my long-term to-do list. It was an historic moment. Tears stood in my eyes as I held my pen aloft in a moment of respectful silence before inking a solid line through the listing, knowing that the task itself was not that big a deal, but the fact that I had finally done it—priceless.

Most people don’t make lists of mundane tasks. Most people don’t have my tendency to—ooh, something shiny! What was I talking about? Oh yeah, lists. I tend to get caught up in whatever’s in front of me, and soon the day disintegrates like the fabric in that quilt I can’t seem to finish. So my lists keep me on track. Even if I only cross off half of the items, I can see that I accomplished something. I didn’t “p--- away another day,” as my long-retired parents say. And for some reason, that helps me.

Are you one of those who somehow remembers that the hot tub needs to be checked regularly, or that you need to plan and shop prior to the Superbowl party or your guests will be eating that frozen fish that never sounded as appetizing after you lost the article about Omega-3s? Or are you a list-maker? Let me know which type you are. I’m making a list.

Unfiltered Valerie

2011-01-19T10:38:00.000-05:00

Have you ever found yourself with someone who was spouting off or misbehaving, and you just sat back and thought, wow. Yeah, that’s what I used to do. When I was younger, I kept my head down, didn’t make too many waves, performed my role as middle child fixer of all relationships, even let my husband be the boss of me for awhile. (Right now John is getting all misty-eyed, remembering those bygone days.)

These days I’m more likely to laugh, comment, or even respond in kind. I don’t know if it’s maturity, hormones (or a lack of them), wisdom, a sense of justice for the oppressed, an inability to suffer fools gladly—but let’s call it maturity. I was in the grocery store one day as a scowling middle-aged man pushing a grocery cart was followed by his obviously browbeaten wife. As soon as he saw me blocking the aisle on the far end, talking to another woman, he made an even worse face and hunched forward as if to mow us down. We had plenty of time to pull to one side before he got near, but he still looked murderous as he pushed past, mumbling about us blocking the aisle. I laughed and said, “If that’s the worst thing that’s happened to you today, you’re having a blessed day.” His wife’s eyes widened and she scuttled past like I was contagious. I hope I was.

Just this past Sunday I was in a meeting with a church group and the subject of a Mission Statement came up. “You’re a writer, Valerie! You would be good at helping us come up with a Mission Statement.”

I made one of those rude, you’ve-got-to-be-kidding-me huffing noises. “Just shoot me now.”

“You don’t believe in Mission Statements?”

I said, “Oh, I believe in them. I’ll get behind whatever Mission Statement you make. Just don’t make me sit through another meeting with a group of people trying to come up with one. I hate those meetings.” A respectful silence followed my words. Or else most of the members of the group were saying a little prayer for my soul.

The filter seems to be gone, doesn’t it? Instead of my edges being rubbed smooth with age, I sometimes wonder if some of them are being honed even sharper.

What about you? Are you more open about your opinions? Do you react out loud, or have you learned to keep it to yourself? How is aging—I mean maturing—affecting your “filter”?

Trashing the Kitchen

2011-01-03T22:53:00.000-05:00

Had a fabulous time talking cooking when my brother and sister-in-law visited. Pam mentioned gadgets and pans (“I have this jalapeno pepper holder for pepper poppers from the grill! Oh, have you ever cooked on wooden planks?”) and we tried to find an open kitchen supply store in Greenville this past Sunday, January 2. No luck—one was closed for inventory, the other just to tick me off.

Pam has the amazing talent of making meals look effortless. You imagine that behind her orderly, streamlined kitchen there’s a real working kitchen, where minions toil silently and ceaselessly, sliding finished dishes through a hidden cupboard. When I cook for a crowd it’s like a cartoon—I knock over pans, stack baking sheets in precarious piles, and dirty more utensils and pots than most people own.

I’m not sure when my love of cooking developed. Early on in the marriage I made stuffed green peppers from The Joy of Cooking, and found no joy in it. “After all that work,” I lamented, “it’s just—stuffed green peppers!” My husband said, “You don’t need The Joy of Cooking. You need the I Hate to Cook Book.” But at some point I began reading and collecting cookbooks, learning more about the science of cooking, and trying more recipes than the few my mother taught me. My collection of cookbooks began to overtake my pioneer history books, my books about writing.

What about you? Love cooking? Hate cooking? Are you messy like me, or so tidy your relatives surreptitiously check your trash for takeout packages?

Redneck Solutions

2010-10-20T14:45:00.002-04:00

In my last post, I told you about my little thumbnail drive’s misadventure in clean living—a three-time tour of my front-loader’s wash cycle. Today I got the courage to give the flash drive a try, and everything is still there. I can open files and work with them and all. I’m amazed. It didn’t even need duct tape.

I’ve not had such good fortune in the past. My first breadmaker, for example. In our last house, the inside corner of the countertop had a bad buckle. Stupid me didn’t realize you could reject that kind of sloppy work in a new house; we lived with it until just before we moved out 20 years later, when we replaced it in a desperate frenzy to make the house attractive in a terrible market. Anyway, I was in the habit of setting the breadmaker to do its thing overnight, and one night I must have set it too close to the bump in the counter. The breadmaker (I’m assuming, since I didn’t actually witness this part) “walked” itself to the edge of the counter and jumped off. Breadmaker suicide. I’d always thought it was happy.

My husband, whose fixit skills are mostly limited to duct taping, shooting with WD-40, or smacking with a hammer, duct-taped the lid back together. Suddenly the electrical connections lit up again. Instant redneck breadmaker. Whenever I remind him of that, he reminds me of the house I grew up in. The hot water handle in the basement shower broke off, and Dad replaced it with a vise grip. Thirty years later when the vise grip rusted, Dad replaced it—with another vise grip. One year I gave my dad one of those 365 days of duct tape calendars, which gave a new use on each day’s sheet. He called me, triumphant: “I discovered use number 366! The calendar fell apart and I duct-taped it back together!”
Any redneck solutions in your life?

Flash-drive Fiction

2010-10-11T13:48:00.007-04:00

I'm kind of obsessive, in an absent-minded way.

I write, and I keep copies of what I write. Back in the dark ages, I made actual carbon copies of my typewritten manuscripts (shut up--it was not stone tablets). I'd read that a fire will usually spare a freezer so I stored the carbons in there. Then we got a fair-sized safe, and I transferred my carbons into that. Soon my scribblings hogged much of the safe's interior, and my husband was thrilled when computers and floppy disks were invented. Usually I kept back-up disks at work, but right now I don't work outside the home, so what to do?

These days I save my files on a little thumbnail/flash drive stored in my purse. The drive is attached to a lanyard so I can find the drive quickly in the scary depths of my shoulder bag. That way I have my files on hand if someone requests a recipe, or if I want to work on my laptop instead of on my home computer. (A daughter's friend said, "I can't imagine my mother knowing what a flash drive is, much less keeping one in her purse." He thinks I'm weird? My grandmother carried a jar of yeast in hers.)

Okay, here's where the obsessive part comes in. (Refer to my first line if I've lost you. It happens.) Recently I realized that I spend a good amount of time away from my purse and computer. So I stuck the drive in my pocket as I went on a walk. And here's where the absent-mindedness comes to play. A day later I found the flash drive in my washing machine. Since I was finishing up the towels, the drive had gone through three complete loads, hiding in the front loader's rubber seals.

Oops.

I should have known better. After I confessed that during a walk I had to stop at a neighbor's for a tissue for my runny nose (imagine such a person knocking at your door), a friend advised me to keep tissues in my pockets. Tried it. Picked soggy tissues out of laundry load after laundry load, so I knew my memory couldn't be trusted. That's the trouble with a bad memory. You forget you have one.

Why didn't I just slip the drive's lanyard around my neck, you ask? Well, because I already had one lanyard around my neck, an audio book on a little MP3 player, with earphone wires hanging down. Another lanyard just seemed--excessive, like three necklaces. Better obsessive than excessive, right?

Are you obsessive? To what lengths would you go to protect things that are important to you? In case of fire/flood/tornado, what would you save first?

Tune Wedgy

2010-09-29T11:53:00.002-04:00

I suffered a tune wedgy the other day.

You know, when a song gets stuck in your head? Earworm? Repitunitis? Humsickness? Daniel Levitin, PhD, author of “This is Your Brain on Music,” says it happens to all of us, so don’t be making the crazy-lady finger swirl at me.

Usually I take a book on a little MP3 player and listen while I trudge through my walk. Makes me less likely to throw myself on the ground and demand rescue. But I’d finished one book, and the next one I’d ordered from the library (what a lovely system!) hadn’t arrived, so I borrowed my husband’s iPod. (Random thought: All this random capitalization in iPods and iTunes and such is really annoying.)

Anyway, one of the songs played was “A Bad Goodbye,” by Clint Black and Wynonna Judd. It’s a sad song with haunting words and melody, and I hit the replay button to listen twice. Bad idea. Two days later I’m still mentally harmonizing with Clint. (Who needs Wynonna? I can rock her part, no problem; “Goooodbye. Easier said than done. Gooooodbyyyye…”)

I shouldn’t complain. I’ve had some really bad songs stuck in my head: “Happy Together” by the Turtles, or Harpers Bizarre “Feeling Groovy,” or just annoying ones, like the Doofenschmirtz Evil Incorporated jingle from Phineas and Ferb, a cartoon my grandkids love. Oh, no, tune wedgy again: “Ba da da da da, feelin groovy…”

What about you? Any earworms you want to confess to? Meanwhile, I’m all “Life I love you, all is groovy…”

Why I Couldn't Be Homeless or in Prison

2010-09-23T10:21:00.004-04:00

As I was brushing my teeth I realized something. I couldn’t go to prison or be a homeless person. It just wouldn’t work—I have too many special needs.

I recently complained to the dentist (hey, he regularly hurts me, so he has to listen to my whining) that toothpaste burned my tongue long after I’d quit brushing, that I was like a small child crying, “Too spicy! Too spicy!” Were there any toothpastes that wouldn’t make my tongue feel as if I’d built a bonfire on it and roasted a couple hot dogs?

“You want a boring toothpaste,” he said.

“A boring toothpaste?”

“Yes. In the old days we had plain old boring Crest paste. Then manufacturers started adding a foaming ingredient. Look for SLS-free toothpaste.”

He was right—no mad-dog foaming. Kind of boring. And I had to add mouthwash (diluted, of course) to my routine because after brushing with my health-food-store toothpaste, my mouth feels like I’ve just brushed with Crisco.

I also need special body soap and laundry detergents that don’t make me itch. They used to make colored toilet paper and I had to ask a boss’ wife to switch to white or I would have to bring my own. Don’t ask why.

Even though I think of myself as low maintenance, I started adding up all the little specialty items I use, and I realized I’d have a terrible time in prison or homeless. You can’t be picky about what you get when you’re taking handouts. Is the homeless shelter going to buy my special shoe inserts that keep me from crying with each step? (Arthritis. I’m sure I’ve whined about it before.) Are prison guards going to care that my thin fingernails need a special nail hardener?

I was telling my daughter Amber about my worries, and added, “Toothpicks! I bet they wouldn’t even allow toothpicks in prison, and with all my dental work I have to pick food out of my back teeth all the time!”

For a moment she stared at me with that “I hope my sisters plan to take care of her when she’s old” expression. I see it far too often. Then she said, “I guess I have a similar problem. My legs are so sensitive I have to use a non-alcohol lotion, and can’t use it until the day after I shave.”

“Are you crazy?” I said. “What prison is going to give you a razor in the first place?”

Some people have no sense of reality.

How about you? Would you be a good prisoner or homeless person? How “special” are you?

Somewhere Else

2010-09-08T14:47:00.005-04:00

I asked my husband a question the other day, and by his expression, realized I’d stumbled onto another of those “Uh-oh, maybe I’m not normal” moments. You know those moments, when you’re telling someone a hope or a thought, and they look at you like you’re babbling in Ancient Hebrew.

Or is it just me?

I was telling John about my wishes to live, umm, somewhere else for a time. I’d like to live in a big city for awhile, or in a small town, right downtown, long enough to get to know all the characters there. I’d like to live on a houseboat or on a lake—for awhile. I quit naming places (yes, there are more) and asked if he’d ever thought about doing something like that. And that’s when I got the deer-in-the-headlights look. Oh, he’d love to live on the ocean, to walk the beach every morning, but since he lives in reality, he is content to live where we live, and not entertain fantasies about unlikely occurrences.

And then there’s me.

Since I was in over my head, anyway, I also said I wish I had a friend in real estate who wouldn’t mind showing me properties once in a while. Not to buy, but to use as locations in novels. I saw an amazing Victorian-looking home and checked it out online, but want to see it in person. I’d want to buy it if I didn’t have to give up my neighbors, and, oh yeah, if our money wasn’t all earmarked for things like insurance and my teeth. (Another crown this morning. My dentist looooves me but doesn’t want to marry me because then he’d have to provide free dental work.) Then there’s this terrible house-like dump in the middle of an industrial zone—you just gotta see the inside of something that sad. And my brain was coming up with all sorts of characters who might end up in such a desperate place.

What about you? Do you have these odd wishes? What are yours? And if you have a real estate license and love little adventures, call me. I’ll buy your lunch.

Not a Morning Person

2010-08-26T10:20:00.002-04:00

I am not grouchy in the mornings.

My husband, a morning person, will disagree, but since we seldom take his word for anything, let’s move on.

Okay, I’ll admit, I used to be grouchy in the mornings. That was because people did not respect my need for quiet. Nowadays with just the two of us in the house, my morning-world is quieter, as God intended. If you try to converse with me, you’ll get my blank stare. I’m not crabby; it’s just that the words are deflecting off the sleep-shield surrounding my brain, and the only way to lower the shield is to prime me with coffee.

Not-morning-personitis is a generational thing. The morning after their wedding day, my father greeted my mother with, “Good morning!” She opened one eye and growled, “What’s good about it?” I’ve been known to say that if I knew I was never going to feel better than I do when I first wake up, I’d never wake up. One of my daughters told me, “I don’t care if it’s a list of things you’re giving me for Christmas, I don’t want to hear it in the morning.”

On a house-rental vacation with a sister, we got up the first morning, got our coffee, and my husband, she and I all retreated to comfy chairs in silence to read, watch TV, sit with a blank stare until the gears began to turn. After an hour or so, we began to speak. The next morning was the same. When her husband arrived that day, she greeted him with, “It’s been wonderful. We get up and nobody talks!” Guess who’s a morning person?

Do you live with your opposite? How does that happen, anyway? How about you? Morning person? Night person? I’d love to know—after I’ve had my coffee.

Never Mind

2010-08-13T14:57:00.002-04:00

I love avoiding potentially humiliating situations.

The other day the nearly-new washer began making a terrible death-rattle. Our old front-loader sounded like a rocket lifting off in our laundry room. Guest would duck and yell, “What’s that?” But the new washer was advertised as quiet—we made sure of it. I would nip this right in the bud, call service and get someone out here pronto to turn the washer back into a non-conversation piece.

I went to see exactly at what point in the cycle the washer was going into spasms—and realized that a handful of hangers were bumping against a jumbo bottle of Tide on top of the hi-rise washer. And rattling.

Last month I received a postcard from the dentist reminding me of my appointment on the 26th. My husband was going to the dentist on the 25th, and I said, “I’m going the next day.” On the 25th when he got home he said, “I checked your postcard. Your appointment is the 26th of next month, not tomorrow.” (Why the dentist sends out reminders six weeks before an appointment, I cannot imagine. Gives you time to forget all over again. Or misread the month.) John said, “I screwed up and went in a day early. If you went in a month early they’d think we were both losing it.” Thanks for taking one for the team, honey.

And then there was the time the grocery bagger pushed the cart out to my car and the back hatch wouldn’t unlock, either with the button or the key. I was getting upset when I realized the car had an out-of-state license plate. And a Sarah Palin bumper sticker.

How about you? Any near-miss humiliation moments? Leave your humbling story. I promised I won’t repeat it. Much.

I Gotta Be Me

2010-08-02T13:43:00.004-04:00

Got up feeling all domestic and homey today, maybe because for the past couple of days the temperature hasn’t soared into the mid-90s or above. After the usual tidying up I decided to make bread.

I love homemade bread, and make all different kinds. (How many people do you know who keep millet and rye flour and two kinds of flaxseed in the freezer?) This particular bread, Four-Seed Bread, is mixed in the bread maker, then shaped into a ring, left to rise, and then baked in the oven. As long as I was making bread, I decided I should make chicken noodle soup, too. I took out my Cook’s Illustrated The Quick Recipe book and started chopping vegetables and skinning chicken thighs. (To the dedicated folks at Cook’s Illustrated, anything under an hour is a quick recipe..)

So now the house smells like somebody’s grandma lives here. And I don’t mean the litter box/BenGay/need a shower kind of old person smell. The good grandma smell, like someone just spent awhile chopping, sautéing, and simmering, just for you.

I know, a lot of you are crying, “I don’t have time to be all homey and domestic!” Maybe you do, maybe you don’t. I’ve always been this way. When I worked 40+ hours a week, with three teenagers and all their activities directing the other hours of my life, I still made suppers (often started the night before) and bread.

Why did I bother, when there were restaurants and frozen foods all over the place? Well, I’ll tell you, I spent a lot of years being a square peg in a round hole, so to keep my sanity I did the things that made me, me.

What do you do?

Projecting Happiness

2010-07-22T10:20:00.004-04:00

Just finished “The Happiness Project” by Gretchen Rubin. Good book! And, oddly enough, I found out that a lot of it could be summed up in my basic philosophy—clean up your messes, act like you’re happy and in a good mood, and most importantly, do what makes you happy. And conversely, try not to do things that make you unhappy.

Lots of things make me happy. We moved to South Carolina when the last of my little birdies flew the Georgia nest; my husband and I both knew we wouldn’t be happy seeing our daughters and their families just once in awhile. I write, even though I’ve had relatively little publishing success over the years, because I don’t know who I’d be without writing. I love to cook, be near water, read, spend time with friends and extended family, celebrate holidays… There are lots more, but I’m sure your list of likes is far more interesting to you than mine is.

Things I don’t do, or don’t do often, because I don’t enjoy them? Go to the mall. Golf. Watch TV sports. Read non-fiction except from a short-list of interests. Work in the yard. Listen to operas. Watch reality TV. (Reality isn’t my favorite subject.)

I used to be moody, but for some years now I wake up happy and content every day. Not sure what made the difference—maturity, wisdom, surviving cancer, possibly hormones or a lack thereof.

Maybe it’s the practice of happiness?

What about you? Do you think you could be happier if you did something different? What makes you happy/unhappy?

Lousy First Drafts

2010-07-08T17:26:00.003-04:00

Several years back I wrote 45,000 words of a novel and then tossed the white flag in the air. I’d written myself into a ditch and had no idea of how to fix it. So I put the manuscript away and worked on easier ones until life calmed down.

A year ago I had lots of time and an entire house to myself all day long, so I hauled out the pages. I made piles, shuffled pages, made new piles, discarded some scenes and characters, and then made an outline. Well, not an outline, more a summary of each finished chapter, and notes for future ones. I’m more of a seat-of-the-pants than a plotting writer. Fits with my life; I know what I’m fixing for dinner tonight, but I have no idea of what’s coming up next week, even if it’s my anniversary. Which now that I think about it…

So I finished that manuscript, and pulled another one from the cupboard. Another 45,000 words written two years ago in longhand on notebook paper, waiting to be keyboarded and finished. It doesn’t have the huge cast of characters the other book has, and I was sure my first-draft writing had improved over the years so I would have an easier time with this one.

But what did I find? Two different opening scenes. Many spots where I’d left a blank for a word that escaped me. Notes: Could this door rattle on its hinges? Were hinges even in use then?

Apparently first drafts don’t get easier. Good thing I love to write.

Too Dang Hot!

2010-06-23T14:45:00.006-04:00

This heat is brutal, with mid- to upper 90s day after day after livelong day. Although I water them obsessively, my hanging baskets of flowers wouldn’t look out of place surrounded by sand, cacti, and dried longhorn cattle skulls. The short walk over black parking lot to the grocery store feels like a stroll through the fires of hell. Health-walking is best done prior to 8 A.M., lest you dehydrate.

It’s too dang hot!

Yes, I know I live in South Carolina. And I know it’s summer. And yeah, yeah, if I hate heat so much, why did I ever leave Michigan? Oh, stop. You’re getting on my last nerve, which means you’re too dang close, especially in this heat. No one should have to suffer this heat day after day, especially the girl who used to get heat rashes in Michigan.

If you’re sitting in the bow of a fast-moving boat, cutting across a beautiful lake, an ice-cold bottle of water in hand, with huge dollops of sun screen rubbed into your exposed parts, the heat can be tolerated. If, however, you’re grilling over hardwood charcoal on your South-facing patio, or taking a walk, or experiencing the 3:30 P.M. Farmer’s Market in town, it’s too hot. I can’t imagine how the workers building a house down the street manage. I should go over and turn the water hose on them—they’d probably erect a shrine in my honor.

Maybe I’ll go turn the hose on myself. The shrine-erecting can come after. Possibly in October.

Purge

2010-06-14T11:11:00.004-04:00

If you walked into my house, you would think I was obsessively tidy. You would be wrong. There are pockets of chaos in my life—mostly to do with the written word. Too many books, too many articles torn out of magazines, too many recipes clipped or printed from the internet… Periodically I have to go through and sort, file and purge so that I can breathe again.

I have a lot of stuff. Every kitchen drawer and cabinet—except the one above the fridge, now that I think about it—is stuffed. I use most of my kitchen items regularly. But I realized recently that I even hang on to stuff I don’t like and don’t have a need for.

An example? Tarragon, an herb. I can’t stand the stuff. But brilliant me kept it in an overcrowded spice cabinet until I forgot how much I hated it, and last week I ruined some chicken salad (new recipe) with it.

So the tarragon is gone now, and the sesame seeds and thyme sit a little closer together in the turntable. (Shut up. It’s not obsessive to alphabetize spices. It’s practical.) And I am eyeing a few other things in my house that are no longer needed and I don’t even like. No, John, I’m not talking about you.

My brain gets cluttered, too. I’m an emotional person and have many loved ones in my life. Sometimes I get caught up in their pain and chaos, and I worry too much. So then I need to sort, file and purge. And breathe.

The next time you walk into my house you probably won’t notice a difference, but underneath I may have made a bit of a difference. In my house clutter, too.

What about you? Are you a clutterer? Ready to purge?

Vacation Brain

2010-06-02T10:58:00.002-04:00

Recently I went on a vacation, a true vacation, not the annual grueling trip to our birthplaces, where we stay in other people’s homes whether they have room for us or not, and spend half of the trip in the car. No, this was a vacation. Beautiful rental house two blocks from the ocean beach, next to the pool, two blocks from restaurants, shops, free music nightly and an ice cream shop.

Heaven.

My life consisted of reading, hanging out on the beach, going to the pool, and usually going out to dinner. The hardest decision was when to shower; were we going to the pool or ocean in a minute? Shower before or after?

Before we left for Hilton Head Island, SC, I had visions of spending hours writing. I would have nothing but time, right? And I did write, some. But if I wasn’t in or near the water, I wanted to relax and read.

Vacation brain. I’ve only “suffered” from it a few times. As I mentioned, many of our vacations are spent driving 700+ miles to Michigan, then driving all over the state to visit family and friends and attend a reunion, then driving back home. It’s a blast, if exhausting, but there’s not much time to fully relax or to write. One summer I was so determined to keep writing, I wrote on a yellow legal pad in the car. And no, I wasn’t driving.

Vacation brain is the absence of worries, a calm, orderly, beautiful life, doing only what you want to do. In real life I don’t have a job to rush back to anymore, but I have a house, laundry, groceries to buy, children and grandchildren to cook for and spend time with, volunteer work, extended family concerns, friends, church, and writing. The first day back, I felt overwhelmed.

Ah, well, life is life and vacation is vacation. Time to get back to my real world and the fictional world of my novel, and neither of them are bad places to be. But oh, vacation brain—it’s a wonderful place.

Where is your wonderful place? Where do you go to experience “vacation brain?”

Sidetracked Again

2010-05-18T09:16:00.003-04:00

I make these wonderful plans, these elaborate schedules of tasks and goals I want to accomplish. And then life throws its curves, and I’m sidetracked again.

Last month an illness (my mother’s) knocked my writing plans aside as I dealt with her, my siblings, nurses, therapists, doctors and everyone else who cares for my mom. Each time something like this happens, I’m determined to keep writing through it all. I’ll be disciplined and faithful, and not lose sight of the novel’s twists and turns as I go through life’s twists and turns. Each time, I fail. I tell myself it was a legitimate sidetracking! I shouldn’t feel guilty! But I do.

I’ve realized that part of the reason I write is to keep myself balanced; I’m happier when I write regularly. Recently I told a daughter I think I use writing to distance myself from the world. Life doesn’t seem to have the power to hurt or disturb me much when I’m in my writing zone. This coping system might be very unhealthy, but I’m not going to twelve-step my way free of it. La-la-la, life is good, I’m happy, don’t kill my buzz, don’t suck my joy.

Things seem to be settling down again, at least for today. So today, I write. La-la-la, life is good!

How do you cope with the world?

Fashionista

2010-04-12T11:32:00.004-04:00

Picture a cross between the Web site peopleofwalmart.com and your grandmother. That’s me, on a healthful, bracing (cursed, painful) walk. I wear whatever is hanging on the closet door (too clean to put in the laundry), a hat, big old walking shoes, crew socks (the little ones slip off my heel), and usually have a tissue in hand, due to the cold or to allergies making my nose run. Excited yet?

I’ve never been fashion-conscious. When I worked, I wished for a uniform I could throw on each day, instead of having to fuss about getting ready. Never got the shoe bug. Or the purse bug. Or the shopping bug. When I need something (i.e., when my favorite black Capri pants begin to fray in awkward places) I go shopping—for another pair of black Capri pants that will go with most of my tops. Now that I think about it, it’s almost a uniform. Hmm.

How about you? Mad for shopping? Love new styles and trends? Or happy just to find a pair of pants that fit?

By the way, check out www.peopleofwalmart.com. Pretty funny stuff, like the picture above. But you might not want to read some of the T-shirts or side ads. I don’t dare wear my “I’ve been to Hell (Michigan) and back” T-shirt down here in the Bible belt for fear of offending someone. Apparently others have a, shall we say, broader view of what’s acceptable. Vulgarity aside, it’s a funny Web site.

Did I Tell You This Already?

2010-04-07T11:54:00.002-04:00

I hate when I shower, including leg shaving, and then stand there wondering if I’ve washed my hair. It’s wet—is it clean?

My memory problems are not age-related; I’ve always had a terrible memory. Performing my job required checklists and reminders for everything but starting up the computer—that I could remember. The rest, iffy.

My husband understands this. For the first few years of our marriage we fought about things I’d forgotten: “Did you call about the ___?” “Did you remember to _____?” Eventually we worked out a system; he either did it himself, or gently reminded me (code for nagged) until whatever it was got done.

A college-aged daughter, working a summer job at my husband’s place of work, came to me saying, “Mom! Dad is driving me crazy! He reminds me of things constantly! I’m twenty years old—why does he keep treating me like I’m four?”

I thought about it and said, “He’s lived with me a very long time.”

A minute later he walked in and said to her, “Honey, don’t forget, you have a dentist appointment tomorrow so you’re going to have to drive separately to work.”

She rolled her eyes at me and told him, “I know I have a dentist appointment! I made the appointment! Why do you remind me of things over and over?”

He considered the question for a moment, then said, “I’ve lived with your mother a very long time…”

I’ve told everyone who’ll listen my dream is to publish (no, not self-publish) novels. Hand-in-hand with that is the fear that I’ll have a book signing and forget names: “Umm, how did you want me to make that out? Oh, sorry, Mom!”

Like I said, I’ve always been this way. I rehearsed and rehearsed before introducing my entire eighth-grade class to my cousin, who was joining us for a party. Somehow I made it around the entire room—all fourteen kids—and then said, “This is my cousin…” I’d forgotten her name. Only for the moment, but it was a horrible moment.

In the usual way of things, I married a man who seldom forgot anything, who seemed to have a “tickler” file in his brain that kept things forefront until they were completed and he could file them away. But now he’s experiencing senior moments and seems to have forgotten that I forget everything. He’ll say, “Remind me to put out the garbage tonight,” and I just laugh. “Sure. Hold your breath.”

What about you? An elephant’s memory? Or like me, each day is a new adventure because you can’t remember yesterday?

Spring Cleaning

2010-04-01T08:12:00.006-04:00

My favorite appliance is my double oven. Not because of the convection cooking option, or the built-in temperature probe, or even because there are two of them. No, it’s my favorite because it’s self-cleaning. Cherry cobbler spills over, and burns on like charcoal, and all you do is push a button. In the morning you wipe out a little white ash and you’re done. It’s a miracle!

It’s also an idea that could catch on. In the past I’ve eagerly anticipated the delivery of new appliances, but within a week was sadly wondering where the shiny glow went. You used to be able to count on the washing machine, at least, taking care of its interior, but even the new front-loading washers have to be cleaned or they stink of mildew. Nasty! Self-cleaning could help in lots of areas: When the girls were small I used to wish I had a big floor drain in the kitchen so I could simply hose down the room—maybe the babies, too—after the pureed peas hit the walls. And don’t get me started on soap-scummy shower walls. Thank God and “As Seen on TV” for microfiber cloths.

Someone after my own heart invented the little floor-cleaning robots, Scooba and Roomba. Do they work? Would it be worth it to hock my diamond and buy them, or would they ultimately be as disappointing as the automatic sprayer that promised chubby, rubber-gloved ladies to descend on the bathroom each time we exited?

What’s your favorite cleaning aid? (Mine is my friend Chris who used to clean my house faster than I could do the kitchen. She gave up scrubbing other people’s toilets a few years back; can’t imagine why.) What’s your grand, affordable idea/discovery for streamlining housecleaning? Share, please! I can hear the tiny screams of the dust settling even now. Or is that me?

Pajama Pants in Public

2010-03-25T10:22:00.003-04:00

Yesterday at Chick-fil-A I saw a young man dressed in a bathrobe, his bare knees and hairy legs sticking out. He didn’t appear sick or weak, so I don’t know why he wore a bathrobe to a restaurant. To shock people? Laziness?

My response? I laughed, thought, “He’s an idiot,” and went on with my lunch.

I know people get freaked out about how others dress in public. The pajama-pants in public craze is one I don’t understand, but I’m not going to lose my joy over someone else’s low standards. Bathrobe-boy didn’t spoil my chicken nugget experience. I just didn’t care.

Okay, I must admit, I do have some standards. I’ve never liked underwear-exposing styles. Or young women dressed like hookers. Or bare shoulders in church. But pajamas are just—silly. If people are brave or crazy or lazy enough to dress like that, that’s their dignity dragging its ragged hem along the floor. Why should it ruin my day?

A male friend of mine hated those long banana clips women used (and still may) to clip their hair into a fluffy, cascading tail. He fretted and stewed and complained that it showed their total lack of care about their looks. The clips didn’t bother me—I thought they were kind of cute. But I hated those short, curly perms briefly popular in the 80s, a wash-and-go style that I thought made a woman look like she’d simply given up on a hairdo and now was going for something that stayed out of her eyes. I used to have a boss who hated sandals and open-toed shoes, and wanted to ban them from the very-casual workplace so he wouldn’t have to see toes.

You never know what’s going to bother people.

So, what about you? What styles bug you? If you had the power to eliminate a style/look/hairdo from the world, what would you choose?

As for me, sandal season officially began yesterday. You toe-haters out there stand warned.

Good Sports

2010-03-17T15:13:00.002-04:00

Truth-time. I’ve never bungee-jumped, snow-skied, snow-mobiled, skateboarded, hang-glided or even slid down the length of a Slip-n-Slide. I rode on the back of a motorcycle once, in the sidecar of a motorcycle once, and on a horse without someone else leading it once. As a teen I did learn to water ski—sort of—but my family still taunts me about the plume of water as I was boat-dragged, facedown, halfway across the lake.

I’m not good at sports. In fact, I’m so not-good at sports I knocked out my own front tooth playing softball. Tried golf, tennis, trampolines and gymnastics, the latter resulting in a Funniest Home Videos moment as I dangled in a highly inappropriate position on that stupid vaulting horse thing in my high school gym. It’s possible I’m a great dancer but we’ll never know, because during our second week of lessons my husband randomly threw out his back, and blamed the Swing.

Outdoor activities are just not as fun to me as writing, reading and cooking. I would love to live on the water, but not for the speed boating, skiing and Ski-dooing, another thing I haven’t tried. A poky old pontoon boat or a houseboat is more my speed—on which I could write or read or even cook! See how it all works out in Valerie-world?

What about you? Natural athlete or klutz extraordinaire? Tell me the truth. And if you have pictures—of anything but my vault on that horse thing—send those!

Squirrel Dreams

2010-03-08T09:21:00.004-05:00

My daughter’s family brought me a gift bag, a thank you for all I’ve done lately. And what was in the lovely gift bag with fresh, crisp tissue paper? A squirrel figurine.

Some background: I have dreams. I have strange, awful, threatening, embarrassing dreams. There are the recurring public toilet dreams, the driving-a-train-that-has-jumped-its-track dream, and the squirrel dream. I dreamed I woke up only to find my double cheerfully making breakfast, none of the family realizing the Stepford Wife wasn’t me. Then, still dreaming, I glanced outside and saw a half-dozen squirrels staring in the windows. I knew immediately the evil, nasty rodents had plotted this to phase me out for nefarious reasons of their own.

Finally I woke up for real, and later that morning sat down with coffee. On the picnic table not six feet away sat a squirrel, staring at me with his beady little eyes. It was true! The dream was true! The squirrels were evil, cunning little rodents plotting my takeover!

Okay, so it wasn’t true. But for a moment I freaked out and the feeling hasn’t gone away. I hate squirrels. I tell people squirrels are wicked, cunning and not trustworthy. I will proclaim the truth!

So when I opened the gift bag (still with me after the dream/flashback sequence?) and found a squirrel figurine, my first reaction was horror. My second was caution—don’t want to hurt feelings, you know. I said to my granddaughter, “Did you pick this out, Ella?” Behind her, her parents were cracking up. “We saw it and thought of you! We couldn’t resist! And we thought it would stimulate ideas for your writing.”

Yeah. That or more freaking dreams.

So. Now I have a squirrel added to my small collection of writing totems, which includes a miniature typewriter/pencil sharpener, a computer/tape holder, an ugly ceramic frog, a fireplace candleholder, rocks and angels. Any weird little items in your possession? Or, any weird dreams you want to admit to?

Kitchen Disasters

2010-03-01T15:58:00.002-05:00

Okay, the "indoor electric turkey fryer" may not have been my best buy.

I love to cook, to chop, dice, simmer, stew and all that fussy stuff, but I also love small appliances and the convenience and versatility they add to cooking. So when a local store put the formerly $130 indoor electric turkey fryer on sale for under $35, I caved. Lugged the thing home, filled it with $20 of peanut oil and proceeded to fry chicken for the family. Except fry isn’t quite accurate—how about petrify?

The coating was ugly—dark, crusty and nothing like the heavenly stuff the Colonel turns out daily in his restaurants. Once we tore off the skin and coating, the meat was tasty, but the experiment was not a huge success. And the house smelled like a fast food joint, not the “grandma’s cooking” ambiance I was going for. One wonderful thing happened, though—my husband, Mr. “She Cooks and I Eat,” helped me with the frying. Yes, his willingness to help cook was fueled by the fear that I would burn down the house, but still, we cooked together. In 37 years of marriage, that may be a first.

But back to the fryer. I don’t give up easily. I remain hopeful that a turkey—no batter coating, just a bird, maybe some injected flavor—will showcase the fryer’s true greatness. And next time, despite its being called an indoor fryer, I’m cooking outside. It’s harder to stink up a whole neighborhood. Although I’ve had neighbors who tried.

What about you? Are you a small-appliance junkie? Are your cabinets filled with bread makers, food processors, hand-held blenders? Which do you like best? Least? Are there any appliance “turkeys” in your house?

I Loved This Book!

2010-02-17T15:00:00.001-05:00

Just finished a book, “Velva Jean Learns to Drive,” by Jennifer Niven. I loved this book! At first I thought it was a humorous novel—the title is the reason I picked it up. A glance at the back cover dispelled that notion but didn’t put me off; I’m always up for a good 1930s Appalachian Mountains story that begins, “I was ten years old when I was saved for the first time. Even though Jesus himself never had much to do with religion before he was twelve, I had prayed and prayed to be saved so that I wouldn’t go to hell.”

Some books are very put-downable. Not this one. The author creates a wonderful main character, an entire town, a world, and I was wrapped up in it. When the book ended I looked up the author to see what else she’s written. Sadly, no other fiction, although she is writing a sequel—but she’s written a few non-fiction books about female adventurers. I’ll try those even though I’m not a fan of true stories. (Reading them or telling them, right?)

I don’t know how to categorize the novel; it’s not a thriller, not a murder mystery, not a romance, not literary genius of the sort I find incomprehensible. It doesn’t fit in any category I can define. For those of you who’ve asked me what kind of book I like best, this is it—a great story.

So, what’s your favorite story? What book grabbed you and didn’t let you go, kept you thinking about that world long after you put the book away and started another? Do you have a “Velva Jean” in your fave list?

Ladle It On!

2010-02-13T12:06:00.003-05:00

You know the romance is gone when your sweetheart asks you to postpone vacuuming so he can clip his toenails first. Eeyew!

I’m not a big romance reader. I had a brief affair with “bodice rippers” in the late 70s/early 80s, when my days were spent diapering and wiping slobber, but that can be understood, right? I kind of wanted a hero to come and drag me off to his love nest. But as a rule, I don’t read romances. I wish I could write them, as they’re the biggest market share of novels being published these days. But I just can’t write those scenes. I’m afraid my eye-rolling would be evident in the writing.

Just read a book called “The Beach House” by Mary Alice Monroe (Jackie Swanson, thank you so much for sending it to me!). Various plot lines ran through it, including a romance. That’s the kind of romance I like. The hero wasn’t a brooding, misunderstood man, the heroine wasn’t the most beautiful girl in the world, and the romance wasn’t central to the plot. Actually, the romance was a little too understated even for me—at one point she’s throwing herself at him, and then the story skips over weeks when they spend time together, and doesn’t mention anything about the relationship. Hello, isn’t the main character even wondering why he thwarted her moves? And what’s she doing, throwing herself at him like that? Have some dignity, girl!

What’s your romance meter? Ladle it on like marinara on meatballs? A little splash, like white wine in a lemon-butter sauce? (Why do my analogies involve food, hmm?) Let me know your thoughts. Name names (titles, authors) if you wish. And by the way, my sweetheart brought home a dozen roses last night, so I guess I’ll forgive the toenail thing. Again.

Secret Confessions

2010-02-04T15:08:00.005-05:00

I’m a pen freak. There, I’ve said it out loud. Yes, I like pens, and have an assortment of colors and styles in a pencil cup on top of my desk. I have my favorites, mostly Pilot G-2 Extra Fine gel ink pens in assorted colors. When I used to write all my stories in longhand (as recently as last year), the gel pens gave me fewer hand cramps than ballpoint pens.

Over the years I’ve dallied with an array of pens. I remember a stick pen called a Lindy, a long, no frills, no curves ballpoint pen in the 70s, I guess. I’d probably still have some—I’m a loyal sort—but they went the way of Ipana toothpaste and 45 records. If fountain pens didn’t dry out so quickly I’d use them—and for awhile, I did. But I spent more time scribbling warm-up loops or running water over dried-out pen nibs than writing.

Upon borrowing an unusual pen from a man, I oohed and aahed and mentioned that I was a pen freak. Quickly I learned that my affection for pens was of the puppy-love variety, while his was full-blown crazy love. Did you know there were pen shows (think boat shows for pen enthusiasts) in LA, Philadelphia, Atlanta, Chicago? Even Arkansas has a pen show. You can get custom made pens, replicas of “famous” pens, special pen holders, etc.

You won’t see me at a pen show. I love pens, but I love to pay my mortgage more.

What are some of your little joys, your little puppy loves in life? Or are you more like the pen freak, with huge love for something most people don’t think twice about? Let me know. I won’t think you’re weird. Unless it’s something really out there, and then all bets are off.

What Makes Us Crazy

2010-01-30T12:33:00.001-05:00

Recently stumbled on a “rant” about the font used for the titles for the movie “AVATAR.” Apparently the font Papyrus (check your MS Word fonts—it’s there) is held in low esteem by many people. My first reaction was, come on, this is what you’re upset about? This is what you get passionate enough about to devote a blog to it? With all the real issues in the world, this is what you’ve decided makes you crazy? On a scale of one to ten, my concern about the font was zero; it does not affect my life/happiness/comfort level at all.

Okay, I must admit, I hate Courier. When people in my writer’s group bring stories printed in that nearly-unreadable font, I cringe. But there’s a difference between a fleeting, private cringe and a public flogging.

I find it interesting to notice what drives others over the edge. Maybe it’s because I’ve developed a Zen-like calm about most things. Traffic? It’ll clear up. Someone stole my parking space? Oh, well, I need the walk anyway. Someone in the 10-or-fewer grocery line with 15 items? So what? My husband’s company keeps letting people go and restructuring? All right, that one worries me a little.

Do you “go off” about stuff? What drives you crazy? What drives others crazy but doesn’t bother you? If you hate the font I’m using, sorry. It’s automatic with the blog and I can’t change it. And it doesn’t bother me.

January (A)Musings

2010-01-17T16:48:00.003-05:00

Writing fiction for publication is like throwing pennies in a fountain for wishes. Either one is a long shot. Often, beginning writers think that all they have to do is write it and then sell it. That’s like saying all you have to do to become a major league baseball player is to hit a ball in the backyard and boom—there you’ll be. (Should I be snide here and say you’ve forgotten a necessary component—performance-enhancing drugs? Sorry—cheap shot.)

Even knowing it’s a long shot, I still remain hopeful that I’ll be one of the lucky few, the princess whose fairy godmother shows up and restores her rightful place in the kingdom and ensures her “happily ever after.” I’m not optimistic about winning the lottery or waking up thin or a Nigerian prince giving me a large share of his wealth, but I do hold a spark of hope that someday I will see my novels on the bookshelves of Barnes and Noble and Borders.

I like January. It’s a time of establishing goals, making resolutions, mentally cleaning house. If I were ever going to quit writing, I would probably do it in January, swearing it off like chocolate milkshakes or cigarettes or a joy-sucking relationship, But this year I’m diving headfirst again, wallowing, giving myself permission to be giddily hopeful that this, this might be the year!

So, what about you? Do you feel the need to do some mental housecleaning, to throw out the junk that weighs you down or holds you back? Is it a time of re-defining yourself? Does January fill you with hope?

Christmas--Love It or Hate It?

2009-12-18T15:24:00.006-05:00

I know we’ve got some Christmas haters out there. I’m not one of them! I love the Christmas season, with decorations lighting up houses inside and out, Christmas music on the radio, special holiday meals and traditions, and family! Lots of family. Love it!

When our girls were upper elementary ages we moved 650 miles away from family to Georgia. I was used to noisy, wild, crazy holidays at Mom and Dad’s with my seven siblings and their families. Holidays in Georgia were subdued, not at all the fun holidays I remembered. Somehow we muddled through that first tough year of sad holidays, and then I realized I was going to have to actually make friends! I started some new traditions with friends and neighbors, like Christmas caroling in the neighborhood and Christmas treats at my house afterward.

Fast-forward 20+ years. Now I’m host to my three daughters and their families for the holidays, and it’s more like my memories of Christmas. Bedlam! We plan a time for the little ones to decorate Christmas cookies, we eat traditional (to our family) meals, play games both Wii and board, take walks, go downtown or to a local park, do the drive-through Christmas light village and have the hot cocoa and marshmallows on a stick, and we watch movies. We’re creating traditions and memories with another generation.

If I didn’t have family, what would I do? Well, I’d do what I did in Georgia. Invite church friends and neighbors to go caroling, and come back to my house for treats. Branch out. Fun multiplies—the more fun you start, the more it comes back to you. I remember the day when my friend Jody’s family came Christmas caroling at our house—on a hot summer afternoon! (My neighbors remember it too. Not the reason we had to move, though. I promise.)

Christmas haters can hate Christmas, it’s okay with me; let bad memories taint today’s celebrations, refuse to let new traditions replace the missing ones. But me? I’ll be decorating Christmas cookies, cooking City Chicken (our family’s favorite), driving through the Christmas Village, and hanging out with family. And loving it.

How about you? Do you love Christmas? Hate what it's turned into? Does Christmas make you sad? Share your story.

Cookbooks—Talking Turkey

2009-12-09T15:22:00.004-05:00

Anyone who has visited my home knows I have mad, mad love for cookbooks. I own tons of them, bursting out of their bookcase and beckoning, luring, enticing me to browse. One of my vacation rentals included a kitchen with a row of unfamiliar cookbooks—heaven! My cookbooks aren’t just reading material. I often try new recipes. In fact, my husband will ask, “Can you make _____ again?” I’m like Rachael Ray: 365 and No Repeats.

Often, other women will tell me they love to cook, too, and I always question them; Do you like to cook, or do you like to bake? Usually they say cooking is okay, but they love to bake, especially desserts. I’m the opposite. Give me the main course. Give me seconds of the main course and skip dessert. I’m not attracted to a book full of cakes, cookies, trifles, cheesecakes, pies and candies. Oh, I’ll eat dessert, and make it occasionally, but I love the main course. Beef, pork, poultry, fish, soups, stews, salads, sides—I love making them all.

Every week I sit down with cookbooks, a notebook and pen, and make my week’s supper plans. If we’re having company, I plan out all the meals we’ll have while they’re here. I fill the fridge, freezer and pantry, chop, dice, slice, simmer, braise, sauté, slow-cook and grill. For the last two Thanksgivings, I used Cook’s Illustrated recipes (serious cookbooks—line drawings, no photos, featuring the science of cooking) for my turkey and gravy. I brined the turkey, let it dry out in the fridge overnight, then roasted it in a hot oven (400 degrees), turning that heavy bird three times in two hours to brown it evenly. The gravy was even fussier. The turkey and gravy were the best I’d ever had, moist and tender. (I sound like my mother; “That’s the best meal I ever cooked!”) I admit, my arms and back ached from all the lifting. But maybe if I use the lower oven next year…

See, most people would say, “Never again!” They’d stick the turkey in at 325-degrees for hours and, if it was dry, pour canned gravy over it. And it would be good. But mmm, my turkey was great.

How about you? Are you a cookbook collector? Do you love to cook? Bake? Both? Neither? Are you happy to eat out, or let Stouffer’s and Lean Cuisine cook for you? Let’s talk turkey!

Obsession

2009-12-02T08:53:00.004-05:00

Disclaimer time: I'm sorry it's been so long since my last blog. Life got in the way: I was taking care of ill parents. Their computer has no word-processing software at all, and has a dial-up connection (shoot me now!). And the computer was in the sick-room. Enuf said! On to this week's blog.

I love walking through other people’s homes, seeing their furniture, their knickknacks and décor, their lives. When I interviewed folks for a small newsletter I always conducted the interviews in their homes. You can find out a lot about people by seeing the things with which they surround themselves—and the things they don’t.

Recently I was a spur-of-the-moment guest in a gorgeous home so perfect the owners could entertain royalty—or in-laws—in an instant. I looked around at that perfection and realized I didn’t see a single book. Not a bookcase, not a bookshelf, nada.

I buy books new and used, collecting them like some people collect fine crystal or Teddy bears. When I travel I pack books in my suitcase, and stuff one in my purse for every appointment or errand, just in case. There are books in every room in the house: Fiction, history, travel, cookbooks, writing books—books everywhere you turn, stored, stacked, bookmarked and available. Recently I won some money and my first thought was, “More bookcases!” (I was dreaming. We bought new tires. Sigh.) When I was a kid, I won the local library’s summer reading program and the prize was a book to keep forever. Choosing a husband was easier. (Note: I still have the husband. The book is gone.)

What about you? Are you obsessed with books, helpless in the clutches of Barnes and Noble and Borders? Do you frequent your local library? Are you irresistibly drawn to used-book sales? What books surround your world?

Reading Light

2009-11-10T12:38:00.003-05:00

Island Murders by Wanda Canada is a story that grabs you by the throat on page one and keeps on choking. Dead bodies pile up like magazines on the back of the toilet. I lost count—six dead in the first half of the book? Plus one house fire and one attempted house fire, and shots fired in the main character’s back yard. Before I even get to know people, they’re dead. Hey, I get it—people are getting killed; who has time for characterization?

Murder mysteries are not my favorite books, but I read them sometimes. I never relate to the main character. Me? I’d be cowering somewhere with my eyes closed, afraid of finding yet another body—or being the next body.

I think murder mysteries are the snacks of the literary world. They’re usually not good for a full meal, like Sue Monk Kidd’s The Secret Life of Bees, or Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath. But sometimes you don’t want a full meal. You just want a little nosh, a nibble. And that’s when a murder mystery or a romance or Janet Evanovich’s humor comes in. Sometimes it’s just right. Years ago when we lived near a small branch library I got tired of trying to select interesting books from their small assortment and began reading alphabetically by author. Haphazard, yes, but I discovered some great books that way.

Time to ‘fess up. What do you like to read when you’re not reading War and Peace or Anna Karenina? What are your go-to “snacks”?

By the way, you don’t have to register anymore to comment on my blog, so jump in!

Settlers vs. Pioneers

2009-11-04T11:35:00.002-05:00

As a child I put Barbie dolls in a shoebox/Conestoga wagon and took them for outdoor prairie adventures à la the “Little House” books. I love the pioneer era in history and have a collection of women’s diaries of the trip west and other histories of that time.

So it was a huge shock when it finally dawned on me that I was a settler, not a pioneer.

All these years I had this image of myself as a pioneer, even though I married at 19, dragged my feet about moving, and anchored myself with overstuffed bookcases. One day I looked back at the high school Valerie and realized she thought she would have a glamorous life. Not lamb-chops-and-little-black-dresses glamour, but a more bohemian big-city-adventures-and-literary-people glamour.

Yet here I am in my South Carolina home with a few awards and publishing credits, still trying to sell my first novel. I’m no pioneer—I’m about as traditional as they come, with kids, grandkids, my “Barbie dream kitchen” home. Did I become a settler because of the way I lived? Or was I always a settler and didn’t know it?

I guess I don’t have to be a pioneer to love reading Cathy Luchetti’s history books, and I don’t have to be a bounty hunter to enjoy Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum series. I didn’t have to be an Elvis fan to read “Tender” by Mark Childress, which seemed like a thinly-disguised biography of The King. I read all sorts of books. I just love to read.

Do you like to read? What are your favorite books? Let me know—I’m open to suggestions. And if you always wished for a Pioneer Barbie (but they didn’t create one until 1995), I want to know that, too!