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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?