If you've read my blog before, you know I have a love/hate relationship with television. Part of the hate thing is a reluctance to spend vast sums of money on a device that eats up my precious spare time without delivering much of value. Yes, I like shows about food and travel and home improvement, but I could get most of the same information online or from the public library for free.
I know, I know, video is sexier than merely reading - but not so sexy that I can justify paying my local cable company more than $100 a month for a fairly basic viewing package. That's why I discontinued the TV part of my cable subscription about 2 years ago and subscribed to Netflix.
At the time, I was able to stream Netflix via the Wii connected to my home wireless network for under $10 a month, and life was good. Until Netflix and the Wii folk had a falling out, and I was only able to access Netflix through the small screens on my tablet and smartphone. Adding insult to injury, Netflix has since raised the subscription price twice.
So, I backed down the level of my subscription and started looking for an alternate streaming device. After reading more Internet reviews than you want to hear about, I finally ordered a Roku Streaming Stick, which was serendipitously on sale.
The Roku arrived two days ago and I have already worked my way through the four episodes of "Cooked," Michael Pollan's amazing documentary about the history of human eating, and "Agatha and the Truth of Murder," a Netflix movie that imagines what Agatha Christie might have done during her 11-day disappearance in 1926.
The good: The Roku interface lets me access additional content channels, and a lot of the content is free. Even the Netflix channel appears to contain considerably more content than I could access through the old Wii interface, although that may be due to global changes that occurred at Netflix during the months I was not using it. Roku also allows me to view in HD, which the Wii interface did not.
The bad: I could become a couch potato pretty easily with all the additional content available.
The ugly: I have to turn off the sound on my TV when browsing the content, because unlike the old interface, this one insists on running a video trailer whenever I move to another selection. I just want to read the quick summary provided - SILENTLY - and move on. Still a Luddite reader at heart, I guess.
“I find television very educating. Every time somebody turns on the set, I go into the other room and read a book.” — Groucho Marx
Showing posts with label Random silliness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Random silliness. Show all posts
Thursday, May 23, 2019
Wednesday, May 8, 2019
Dawn's Early Light
A couple of years ago Lee and I went on a cruise to Alaska. We decided to economize by taking an interior cabin; after all, we reasoned, we would only be there to sleep, so we didn't care about the lack of a view.
However, the door to the hallway was so tightly fitted that no chink of light could make its way into the cabin. Once we turned off the interior lights we were plunged into utter darkness, which was unexpectedly disorienting. Not only did it make dead-of-the-night trips to the bathroom adventures in barked shins and stubbed toes, we had no cues for waking in the morning. The cabin was at the end of the ship, under the outdoor pool (not being used in Alaska in September), so it was also extremely quiet. When we did wake up, we had to turn on the lights to determine whether it was 2 am or 2 pm. We became dependent on wake-up calls to avoid missing our shore excursions.
This was the first time I realized how moving to Arizona has changed my sleeping patterns. Always before I lived far enough north and had a long enough commute that I absolutely, positively had to use an alarm clock in order to wake up on work days. In the winter in Minnesota, in fact, I drove to work in the dark, worked all day in a windowless cubicle, and drove back home in the dark; had the office not had windows in the lunchroom, I could have gone for days without ever seeing the sun. My circadian rhythm in those days was totally confused. I dreaded the minute the alarm would blare in my ear, catapulting me out of bed with my heart pounding.
Now, though, I live in a sunny climate where the sky lightens around 7 am in the winter and at this time of the year is pretty bright by 5 am, and my body responds with enthusiasm to the dawn. I know most of the "how to get a good night's sleep" advice promulgated by experts says to use blackout window coverings and to go to bed and get up at the same time every single day, but Mother Nature has a better idea. Because I now have a short commute, I can wake with the sun regardless of the time of year, and be ready to go to bed 8 1/2 hours before. My body is perfectly happy taking its cues from the light. Waking up is painless, and I only need to worry about an alarm when I'm catching an early morning flight to, say, Alaska.
If I ever have to move back to a part of the country where daylight is in short supply during the winter, I'm going to buy a sunrise alarm clock to fake it.
However, the door to the hallway was so tightly fitted that no chink of light could make its way into the cabin. Once we turned off the interior lights we were plunged into utter darkness, which was unexpectedly disorienting. Not only did it make dead-of-the-night trips to the bathroom adventures in barked shins and stubbed toes, we had no cues for waking in the morning. The cabin was at the end of the ship, under the outdoor pool (not being used in Alaska in September), so it was also extremely quiet. When we did wake up, we had to turn on the lights to determine whether it was 2 am or 2 pm. We became dependent on wake-up calls to avoid missing our shore excursions.
This was the first time I realized how moving to Arizona has changed my sleeping patterns. Always before I lived far enough north and had a long enough commute that I absolutely, positively had to use an alarm clock in order to wake up on work days. In the winter in Minnesota, in fact, I drove to work in the dark, worked all day in a windowless cubicle, and drove back home in the dark; had the office not had windows in the lunchroom, I could have gone for days without ever seeing the sun. My circadian rhythm in those days was totally confused. I dreaded the minute the alarm would blare in my ear, catapulting me out of bed with my heart pounding.
Now, though, I live in a sunny climate where the sky lightens around 7 am in the winter and at this time of the year is pretty bright by 5 am, and my body responds with enthusiasm to the dawn. I know most of the "how to get a good night's sleep" advice promulgated by experts says to use blackout window coverings and to go to bed and get up at the same time every single day, but Mother Nature has a better idea. Because I now have a short commute, I can wake with the sun regardless of the time of year, and be ready to go to bed 8 1/2 hours before. My body is perfectly happy taking its cues from the light. Waking up is painless, and I only need to worry about an alarm when I'm catching an early morning flight to, say, Alaska.
If I ever have to move back to a part of the country where daylight is in short supply during the winter, I'm going to buy a sunrise alarm clock to fake it.
Let every dawn be to you as the beginning of life, and every setting sun be to you as its close.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/john_ruskin_109487?src=t_dawn
"Let every dawn be to you as the beginning of life, and every setting sun be to you as its close." ~John RuskinRead more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/john_ruskin_109487?src=t_dawn
Let every dawn be to you as the beginning of life, and every setting sun be to you as its close.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/john_ruskin_109487?src=t_dawn
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/john_ruskin_109487?src=t_dawn
Let every dawn be to you as the beginning of life, and every setting sun be to you as its close.
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/john_ruskin_109487?src=t_dawn
Read more at: https://www.brainyquote.com/quotes/john_ruskin_109487?src=t_dawn
Saturday, February 22, 2014
Leasing a Puma
The last six weeks have been pretty harrowing. Dad and I had to take Mom to the emergency room with what turned out to be diverticulitis and a C. diff. infection. While we were there he felt ill so I had to take him home; he woke up the next day with a bad head cold, the stomach flu, and back spasms, so he couldn't go near the hospital for a couple of weeks after that. I ended up spending 8-10 hours a day at the hospital in a gown and gloves, trying to work with my laptop and a wireless network that wouldn't send outgoing emails, because my mother wouldn't talk to the staff when she needed anything and answered questions about her medical history with amazingly inventive fiction.
For a while it looked as if the facility where my parents live wouldn't take her back and we would have to move her elsewhere. At the last minute they relented and she went from rehab into their 24-hour nursing facility, which is probably a permanent move due to her increasing physical frailty and confusion. In the meantime, my sister Sue and I also moved Dad to a smaller independent living apartment in the same place. Not surprisingly, once he was settled with all his stuff and without the responsibility of taking care of Mom, his back spasms subsided. Although it's great he no longer has to be on high alert 24/7, Sue and I worried that he would be lonely without our mother. He is almost 88 and has really never lived by himself before.
Dad's beloved cat Mushroom passed on to the great cat condo in the sky about 3 years ago, and he was heartbroken. He started talking about getting another cat shortly after that, but Mom was firmly against the idea. Dad joked that if Mom died, he would stop at the animal shelter on the way home from the funeral. Well, she hasn't died, but she's no longer in any condition to object to his owning a cat. This set Sue into motion. As I've mentioned before, Sue is a volunteer adoption worker at the Humane Society and a dedicated cat pusher. She thinks everyone should have cats. Plural.
One of the local shelters, Four Paws, has a "Seniors Fostering Seniors" program. Senior citizens can "adopt" an elderly cat for a small fee; Four Paws actually retains ownership, and will take care of all the cat's medical needs. When either the cat or its person becomes too infirm for the relationship to continue, the shelter takes the cat back. Think of it as renting a cat.
So, last weekend Sue and I checked out the senior cats available and found the perfect friend for Dad. Her name is Puma; she's a big 12-year old cat with plushy black fur and a loud purr, declawed in the front. She and Dad have already bonded and are spending a lot of time in his recliner watching TV together. He's a little testy about her tendency to take more than her share of the bed at night, but on the whole both of them appear more than satisfied with the new arrangement.
Puma is in excellent condition for her age - she even still has good teeth - so I hope she will be Dad's roommate for a long time to come. If not, we may have to find another Four Paws cat for him to lease.
"Almost every pet owner out there will tell you that their animal companion enriches their life in more ways than they can count, but it turns out that pets actually help prolong their lives, too. Numerous studies have shown that having pets helps lower our stress levels, decrease blood pressure, benefit our cholesterol, improve our mood, and boost our immunity – in other words, lengthen our life span!" ~Mao Shing Ni, L.Ac., D.O.M., PhD
For a while it looked as if the facility where my parents live wouldn't take her back and we would have to move her elsewhere. At the last minute they relented and she went from rehab into their 24-hour nursing facility, which is probably a permanent move due to her increasing physical frailty and confusion. In the meantime, my sister Sue and I also moved Dad to a smaller independent living apartment in the same place. Not surprisingly, once he was settled with all his stuff and without the responsibility of taking care of Mom, his back spasms subsided. Although it's great he no longer has to be on high alert 24/7, Sue and I worried that he would be lonely without our mother. He is almost 88 and has really never lived by himself before.
Dad's beloved cat Mushroom passed on to the great cat condo in the sky about 3 years ago, and he was heartbroken. He started talking about getting another cat shortly after that, but Mom was firmly against the idea. Dad joked that if Mom died, he would stop at the animal shelter on the way home from the funeral. Well, she hasn't died, but she's no longer in any condition to object to his owning a cat. This set Sue into motion. As I've mentioned before, Sue is a volunteer adoption worker at the Humane Society and a dedicated cat pusher. She thinks everyone should have cats. Plural.
One of the local shelters, Four Paws, has a "Seniors Fostering Seniors" program. Senior citizens can "adopt" an elderly cat for a small fee; Four Paws actually retains ownership, and will take care of all the cat's medical needs. When either the cat or its person becomes too infirm for the relationship to continue, the shelter takes the cat back. Think of it as renting a cat.
So, last weekend Sue and I checked out the senior cats available and found the perfect friend for Dad. Her name is Puma; she's a big 12-year old cat with plushy black fur and a loud purr, declawed in the front. She and Dad have already bonded and are spending a lot of time in his recliner watching TV together. He's a little testy about her tendency to take more than her share of the bed at night, but on the whole both of them appear more than satisfied with the new arrangement.
Puma is in excellent condition for her age - she even still has good teeth - so I hope she will be Dad's roommate for a long time to come. If not, we may have to find another Four Paws cat for him to lease.
"Almost every pet owner out there will tell you that their animal companion enriches their life in more ways than they can count, but it turns out that pets actually help prolong their lives, too. Numerous studies have shown that having pets helps lower our stress levels, decrease blood pressure, benefit our cholesterol, improve our mood, and boost our immunity – in other words, lengthen our life span!" ~Mao Shing Ni, L.Ac., D.O.M., PhD
Saturday, September 7, 2013
Folding a Monkey
OK, Holland America is starting to scare me a little.
On my first cruise with them, a cute little animal folded from towels showed up at the foot of the bed every evening. (I guess some other cruise lines do this, too.) The towel animals were adorable, and different every night, and I thought, "how lucky we are to have such a talented cabin steward!"
By last year's cruise, a book was available to show interested parties how to fold 40 different towel animals. I was tempted to buy the book, but really - I've only mastered 3 or 4 different ways to fold napkins, and I occasionally do invite people over to dinner. Learning to fold towel animals would only make sense if I wanted to entertain and astonish overnight guests, preferably guests under the age of 10. In the two years I've lived in this house, I've never had a single overnight visitor. Plus, I was worried that buying the book would spoil the mystery of how the undoubtedly overworked and underpaid cabin stewards managed to pull this off in all of their cabins every single night.
This year, during our second at-sea day, the cruise line actually offered a seminar in how to fold towel animals. I caved. I went. I bought the book.
I also took pictures. See below. I apologize for the heads in the way - people came really early for this so we ended up sitting fairly far back and I had to take some of the photos looking at the TV screens rather than the demonstrators.
"A towel animal is a depiction of an animal created by folding small towels. It is conceptually similar to origami, but uses towels rather than paper. Some common towel animals are elephants, snakes, rabbits and swans.
"The exact originator of towel animals is unknown, but their popularity is often attributed to Carnival Cruise Lines. The ancestors of the towel animals are perhaps handkerchief animals or napkin folds.
"Carnival, Norwegian Cruise Lines, Disney Cruise Line, Royal Caribbean, Disney Hotels and Holland America Line cruises will often place towel animals on a patron's bed as part of their nightly turndown service. Towel animals are also appearing in higher-end hotels and resorts such as Grupo Vidanta's Grand Luxxe Residence Clubs in Nuevo Vallarta and Riviera Maya."
~Wikipedia entry for "towel animal"
On my first cruise with them, a cute little animal folded from towels showed up at the foot of the bed every evening. (I guess some other cruise lines do this, too.) The towel animals were adorable, and different every night, and I thought, "how lucky we are to have such a talented cabin steward!"
By last year's cruise, a book was available to show interested parties how to fold 40 different towel animals. I was tempted to buy the book, but really - I've only mastered 3 or 4 different ways to fold napkins, and I occasionally do invite people over to dinner. Learning to fold towel animals would only make sense if I wanted to entertain and astonish overnight guests, preferably guests under the age of 10. In the two years I've lived in this house, I've never had a single overnight visitor. Plus, I was worried that buying the book would spoil the mystery of how the undoubtedly overworked and underpaid cabin stewards managed to pull this off in all of their cabins every single night.
This year, during our second at-sea day, the cruise line actually offered a seminar in how to fold towel animals. I caved. I went. I bought the book.
I also took pictures. See below. I apologize for the heads in the way - people came really early for this so we ended up sitting fairly far back and I had to take some of the photos looking at the TV screens rather than the demonstrators.
"A towel animal is a depiction of an animal created by folding small towels. It is conceptually similar to origami, but uses towels rather than paper. Some common towel animals are elephants, snakes, rabbits and swans.
"The exact originator of towel animals is unknown, but their popularity is often attributed to Carnival Cruise Lines. The ancestors of the towel animals are perhaps handkerchief animals or napkin folds.
"Carnival, Norwegian Cruise Lines, Disney Cruise Line, Royal Caribbean, Disney Hotels and Holland America Line cruises will often place towel animals on a patron's bed as part of their nightly turndown service. Towel animals are also appearing in higher-end hotels and resorts such as Grupo Vidanta's Grand Luxxe Residence Clubs in Nuevo Vallarta and Riviera Maya."
~Wikipedia entry for "towel animal"
Saturday, July 6, 2013
North to Alaska
This year my sister suggested that we take a cruise to Alaska during the latter part of August. This instantly appealed to me because 1)Alaska is the only state I've never been to, and 2)who in her right mind wouldn't rather be in Alaska instead of Arizona ("Hell's Annex") during the hottest, most miserable month of our year? Add to that the abundant photo ops, and the cruise line's summer sale for return customers, and I was immediately on board - mentally, at least.
Of course, actually booking this cruise was easier said than done. No sooner did we agree to go than our August starting filling up with events we must be here for, ranging from our father's cataract surgery to the publication deadline for our church's newsletter. And then there's the involved process of choosing which shore excursions we want to take. I think my sister is on her third spreadsheet and sixth Word document related to this; I expect to see a decision tree any day. (Just kidding, Sue; I really appreciate your hard work. Especially since it means I don't have to do it.)
Anyway, for the last few years the two remaining travel destinations on my "bucket list" had been the Greek islands and Alaska, so between last year's cruise and this year's I will have knocked them both off. Recently, however, I ran across an article on PBS's NextAvenue blog which suggests that the ideal bucket list involves emotional and spiritual rather than physical adventures. I'm good with that, since it's the direction I've been heading already - and it means I can smugly ignore the friends who think my life won't really be complete without a little sky-diving and zip-lining in it.
"...I'd suggest a different type of list, one with emotional, spiritual or intellectual goals that can bring depth, breadth and heft to our lives in the time we have left." ~Erica Brown, Ph.D., "What's Wrong With Your Bucket List"
Of course, actually booking this cruise was easier said than done. No sooner did we agree to go than our August starting filling up with events we must be here for, ranging from our father's cataract surgery to the publication deadline for our church's newsletter. And then there's the involved process of choosing which shore excursions we want to take. I think my sister is on her third spreadsheet and sixth Word document related to this; I expect to see a decision tree any day. (Just kidding, Sue; I really appreciate your hard work. Especially since it means I don't have to do it.)
Anyway, for the last few years the two remaining travel destinations on my "bucket list" had been the Greek islands and Alaska, so between last year's cruise and this year's I will have knocked them both off. Recently, however, I ran across an article on PBS's NextAvenue blog which suggests that the ideal bucket list involves emotional and spiritual rather than physical adventures. I'm good with that, since it's the direction I've been heading already - and it means I can smugly ignore the friends who think my life won't really be complete without a little sky-diving and zip-lining in it.
"...I'd suggest a different type of list, one with emotional, spiritual or intellectual goals that can bring depth, breadth and heft to our lives in the time we have left." ~Erica Brown, Ph.D., "What's Wrong With Your Bucket List"
Friday, July 5, 2013
Dating with Myers and Briggs
Twice in my life I have started a new job and been asked to take a Myers-Briggs personality test. The first time the company used the formal Myers-Briggs Type Indicator® (MBTI®) instrument. Most recently, the minister at our church handed me a sheet of 4 cartoons and asked me to pick which person in each box was most like me. As Rev. Davis said while handing me the cartoons, "It's important to know who you're working with."
Yes, it is. It's also not a bad thing to know who your friends are. One of the reasons Tom and I got along so well together is that our "types" had so much in common - I am an ISTP and he was an ISFP. The ISP in both types means that we were both introverts, more interested in process and accepting things as they are than in closure and searching for hidden meanings. I was the thinker, who anticipated and solved problems; Tom was the feeler, who taught me to live in the moment and kept us connected to the other people in our lives.
Now that I'm dipping my toe back in the dating waters, I'm wondering whether I should start carrying that sheet of cartoons in my back pocket, or at least somewhere in the depths of my purse. Separating the extroverts and the thinkers among us from the introverts and the feelers is usually fairly easy, but what about the sensers vs. the intuitives, or the judgers vs. the perceivers? I'm not sure I could sustain a relationship for more than half an hour with an ENTJ without feeling steamrollered, and having me around for very long would probably drive an INTJ nuts.
Getting to know anyone is a long-term process, and the danger in dating is becoming hooked on an isolated attractive aspect of the other person before the discovery process reveals basic incompatibilities. Unfortunately, people answering probing questions about themselves, whether in person or in an online dating service questionnaire, tend to shade their answers to sound as alluring as possible. I think they'd be less likely (and less able) to do that with the "pick a cartoon" testing method, and it's certainly faster and simpler than weeks of "getting to know you" Q&A. (If you have read my personality type summary by now, you can see how this preference reflects my thinker bias. Let's eliminate as much of that time-consuming fuzzy-feelie stuff as possible.)
It all boils down to this: who is that guy I shared dinner and a fireworks display with last night? Inquiring minds want to know.
"Instead of labeling a person and putting value judgments on his or her behavior, you can learn to see your partner’s behavior as reflecting personality type, not something designed to offend you. Many couples even learn to see the differences in a humorous light." ~The Myers & Briggs Foundation, Couples and Personality Type
Yes, it is. It's also not a bad thing to know who your friends are. One of the reasons Tom and I got along so well together is that our "types" had so much in common - I am an ISTP and he was an ISFP. The ISP in both types means that we were both introverts, more interested in process and accepting things as they are than in closure and searching for hidden meanings. I was the thinker, who anticipated and solved problems; Tom was the feeler, who taught me to live in the moment and kept us connected to the other people in our lives.
Now that I'm dipping my toe back in the dating waters, I'm wondering whether I should start carrying that sheet of cartoons in my back pocket, or at least somewhere in the depths of my purse. Separating the extroverts and the thinkers among us from the introverts and the feelers is usually fairly easy, but what about the sensers vs. the intuitives, or the judgers vs. the perceivers? I'm not sure I could sustain a relationship for more than half an hour with an ENTJ without feeling steamrollered, and having me around for very long would probably drive an INTJ nuts.
Getting to know anyone is a long-term process, and the danger in dating is becoming hooked on an isolated attractive aspect of the other person before the discovery process reveals basic incompatibilities. Unfortunately, people answering probing questions about themselves, whether in person or in an online dating service questionnaire, tend to shade their answers to sound as alluring as possible. I think they'd be less likely (and less able) to do that with the "pick a cartoon" testing method, and it's certainly faster and simpler than weeks of "getting to know you" Q&A. (If you have read my personality type summary by now, you can see how this preference reflects my thinker bias. Let's eliminate as much of that time-consuming fuzzy-feelie stuff as possible.)
It all boils down to this: who is that guy I shared dinner and a fireworks display with last night? Inquiring minds want to know.
"Instead of labeling a person and putting value judgments on his or her behavior, you can learn to see your partner’s behavior as reflecting personality type, not something designed to offend you. Many couples even learn to see the differences in a humorous light." ~The Myers & Briggs Foundation, Couples and Personality Type
Wednesday, June 19, 2013
The No-Broccoli Zone
Since my parents moved into the assisted living facility last fall, they've been generally impressed with the food - with one exception. It's sometimes (in their words) "too healthy." My father in particular, not a big fan of vegetables, feels that broccoli and brussels sprouts appear on the menu far too often. (If he knew that I sometimes eat nothing but a large bowl of steamed broccoli for dinner, he would probably disown me.) To celebrate Fathers Day, then, my sister and I fed them one of their favorite unhealthy meals - bratwurst and buns, greasy fried potato chips, homemade baked beans, and made-from-scratch chocolate cupcakes. The cupcakes were from this recipe by Giadi de Laurentiis; the baked beans were mine (below), adapted from the version my mother used to make.
No broccoli was served.
Beth's Baked Beans
1 16oz package dried Great Northern beans
1 cup chopped ham or bacon
1 cup coarsely chopped onion
3/4 cup ketchup
3/4 cup brown sugar
2 Tbl molasses
2 Tbl prepared yellow mustard
1/2 tsp salt
Rinse the beans and discard any small pebbles. Cover with water in a large bowl and leave to soak overnight.
The next day, drain and rinse the beans and mix them with the other ingredients. Place in a stoneware beanpot or medium casserole and add water to cover. Bake at 350 degrees, adding more water if necessary, until the beans are soft but not mushy or soupy. (How long this will take depends largely on how old the beans are, which you have no way of knowing, but it will probably be several hours.)
To speed up the process, cook for 1 hour in a pressure cooker before transferring to the beanpot. The beans will only take about another hour in the pot.
“He could do this. He'd survived boot camp. He'd survived combat and the harsh weather of Afghanistan. He could survive broccoli. Probably.” ~ Shannon Stacey, Yours to Keep
Beth's Baked Beans
1 16oz package dried Great Northern beans
1 cup chopped ham or bacon
1 cup coarsely chopped onion
3/4 cup ketchup
3/4 cup brown sugar
2 Tbl molasses
2 Tbl prepared yellow mustard
1/2 tsp salt
Rinse the beans and discard any small pebbles. Cover with water in a large bowl and leave to soak overnight.
The next day, drain and rinse the beans and mix them with the other ingredients. Place in a stoneware beanpot or medium casserole and add water to cover. Bake at 350 degrees, adding more water if necessary, until the beans are soft but not mushy or soupy. (How long this will take depends largely on how old the beans are, which you have no way of knowing, but it will probably be several hours.)
To speed up the process, cook for 1 hour in a pressure cooker before transferring to the beanpot. The beans will only take about another hour in the pot.
“He could do this. He'd survived boot camp. He'd survived combat and the harsh weather of Afghanistan. He could survive broccoli. Probably.” ~ Shannon Stacey, Yours to Keep
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Photographing the Invisible Cat
When I met my cat Charlie at the Humane Society, he was very friendly and affectionate, which was one of the main reasons I adopted him. He continues to be very loving with me, rubbing his face against mine to wake me in the morning, sitting on my lap in our screened porch in the evenings, and helping me grade papers on the computer whenever I let him (he's discovered some interesting key combinations that I didn't know my laptop possessed). I was startled, then, the first time that someone visited the house after I acquired him and he dove under the bed.
Charlie has continued to go into hiding every time another person enters the house. He prefers his original under-bed cave, but he's also learned how to open the doors of the lower cupboards in the kitchen and the bathroom, so sometimes he'll shoot into one of them. He's been so elusive, in fact, that my mother (who is very defensive about her memory loss) actually accused me of making up the whole "adopting a cat" story to mess with her head.
In self-defense, I took up my cell phone and snapped a few pictures to send to the doubters. Here he is, slightly blurry but clearly visible, Charlie the (to other people) Invisible Cat.
Charlie has continued to go into hiding every time another person enters the house. He prefers his original under-bed cave, but he's also learned how to open the doors of the lower cupboards in the kitchen and the bathroom, so sometimes he'll shoot into one of them. He's been so elusive, in fact, that my mother (who is very defensive about her memory loss) actually accused me of making up the whole "adopting a cat" story to mess with her head.
In self-defense, I took up my cell phone and snapped a few pictures to send to the doubters. Here he is, slightly blurry but clearly visible, Charlie the (to other people) Invisible Cat.
Tuesday, April 2, 2013
Getting Organized in Spite of Ourselves
I’ve mentioned before that I’m a little compulsive about neatness, particularly where my work spaces are concerned. That wasn’t always the case; I was as messy as the average teenager. Once I became a full-time worker bee, however, I realized that being organized meant being able to find the things I needed to do my job quickly and easily, and ever since I’ve had offices neat enough for co-workers to call me “Felix” – and people dying to hire me for my efficient ways.
One of the main reasons my current boss hired me, in fact, was to help her get organized, and we’ve made great strides together so far. However, I’ve tended to organize things in ways that make sense to me, and her brain frequently doesn’t work the same way. I’m supposed to be evaluating CRM (client relationship management) software now, but I’m afraid of not picking the right long-term solution for her. After all, what good will it do her if I set up everything to suit myself and then leave a year down the road?
That’s why this week I lent her my go-to book on organizing theory, How to be Organized in Spite of Yourself by Sunny Schlenger and Roberta Roasch. I believe I’m on my fourth copy; I keep giving it to friends who hang onto it forever. The authors’ theory is that organization schemes only succeed when they make sense to the user and work with his or her internal organizational preferences.
What does that mean? Well, for example, some people (like me) are happiest when their desks are clean and all their “stuff” is tucked away out of sight. Others, like a memorable former boss of mine, want everything out where they can see it; I often wondered whether she felt protected by the walls of paper she built around the perimeter of her desk. When that particular boss went out on an extended sick leave I had to manage her desk during her absence; it was clean when she returned and covered in its usual stacks of correspondence by the very next morning. I felt pressured by her mountain of paper; she felt naked without it. Obviously the same paper-processing procedures couldn’t work for both of us.
The authors of How to be Organized… first ask the reader to take a number of tests to identify his or her organization style(s). The remainder of the book suggests the best techniques to use by style; the reader can read only the applicable chapters and skip the rest.
Even if my realtor friend won’t read the entire book, I’m asking her to take the tests so I will know just who I’m dealing with, and where our organizational efforts need to go from here.
“Organizing is what you do before you do something, so that when you do it, it is not all mixed up.” ~A.A. Milne
One of the main reasons my current boss hired me, in fact, was to help her get organized, and we’ve made great strides together so far. However, I’ve tended to organize things in ways that make sense to me, and her brain frequently doesn’t work the same way. I’m supposed to be evaluating CRM (client relationship management) software now, but I’m afraid of not picking the right long-term solution for her. After all, what good will it do her if I set up everything to suit myself and then leave a year down the road?
That’s why this week I lent her my go-to book on organizing theory, How to be Organized in Spite of Yourself by Sunny Schlenger and Roberta Roasch. I believe I’m on my fourth copy; I keep giving it to friends who hang onto it forever. The authors’ theory is that organization schemes only succeed when they make sense to the user and work with his or her internal organizational preferences.
What does that mean? Well, for example, some people (like me) are happiest when their desks are clean and all their “stuff” is tucked away out of sight. Others, like a memorable former boss of mine, want everything out where they can see it; I often wondered whether she felt protected by the walls of paper she built around the perimeter of her desk. When that particular boss went out on an extended sick leave I had to manage her desk during her absence; it was clean when she returned and covered in its usual stacks of correspondence by the very next morning. I felt pressured by her mountain of paper; she felt naked without it. Obviously the same paper-processing procedures couldn’t work for both of us.
The authors of How to be Organized… first ask the reader to take a number of tests to identify his or her organization style(s). The remainder of the book suggests the best techniques to use by style; the reader can read only the applicable chapters and skip the rest.
Even if my realtor friend won’t read the entire book, I’m asking her to take the tests so I will know just who I’m dealing with, and where our organizational efforts need to go from here.
“Organizing is what you do before you do something, so that when you do it, it is not all mixed up.” ~A.A. Milne
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Love in the Afternoon
When I first moved into my house a year ago, a pair of jackrabbits used to hang out in the back yard. They were obviously a couple; they would play games or snuggle side by side.
Then one of them disappeared, and the other rabbit appeared very depressed, drooping around and hiding under bushes. At first I thought that perhaps they had had little rabbits and the mama bunny was staying home with them, but as the months went on I knew that some horrible fate had befallen the missing one.
Today I looked out the back door and saw TWO jackrabbits again. Hares are quite territorial, so I doubt that these are trespassers. It looks as if my Big Bun has found a new Honey Bun. (Sorry for the fuzziness, I had to shoot through the sliding glass door and the porch screen to avoid alarming them.) Ah, love...
"Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen." ~John Steinbeck
Then one of them disappeared, and the other rabbit appeared very depressed, drooping around and hiding under bushes. At first I thought that perhaps they had had little rabbits and the mama bunny was staying home with them, but as the months went on I knew that some horrible fate had befallen the missing one.
Today I looked out the back door and saw TWO jackrabbits again. Hares are quite territorial, so I doubt that these are trespassers. It looks as if my Big Bun has found a new Honey Bun. (Sorry for the fuzziness, I had to shoot through the sliding glass door and the porch screen to avoid alarming them.) Ah, love...
Tuesday, May 22, 2012
Herding Frankenquail
My plan to encourage Barry to cook more, especially for me, is working; he invited me over for dinner on Sunday night, and served baby bell peppers stuffed with ground lamb, rice, and onions – really yummy. Before we were able to eat, though, we had to engage in a little quail wrangling.
Ever since Barry moved into his present house, he’s been throwing out stale bread and crackers for the birds and bunnies in his backyard. This worked well and provided him with a lot of free entertainment until the last couple of weeks, when the latest batches of baby quail started hatching. Some of the parent quail are apparently at their wits’ end as to how to feed all these hungry little mouths, and they’ve started pecking on Barry’s glass patio door to demand more crumbs, leading him to announce, “I’ve created Frankenquail!”
Anyway, Sunday evening he and I wandered out onto the back patio before dinner, and while we were returning to the house one of the quail chicks (a little smaller than a ping-pong ball with legs) skittered inside with us and took refuge under the kitchen stove.
I immediately suggested moving the stove but Barry was afraid that the stove 1) was too heavy for us to move without injury to ourselves, and 2) would squish the quail as well. After a quarter of an hour of hand-wringing, however, he decided that he would worry all night if he just left the bird there – and who knows where it would have ended up if it had come out later on its own? – so we dragged the stove away from the wall and herded the chick into a plastic pitcher. I rushed it outside and deposited it under a sheltering bush. A few minutes later I saw it run at top speed (its legs only a blur) in the direction its family had previously taken.
I hope he (or she) caught up with the rest of the brood. I think it was pretty careless of the parent quail to move on without one of their children. Still, I can understand their problem – herding 10 or so clueless but fast-moving quail chicks must be even worse than trying to herd cats. Plus, quail apparently don’t actually like living in groups; the temptation to lose at least some of the kids may occasionally be pretty strong:
"The Quail is generally a solitary animal meaning they don’t really care for the company of other birds. Sometimes if this bird is in a gregarious mood then they will socialize with one other Quail. With that said, everything changes once mating season rolls around. During this time, different family groups will come together and form flocks as large as 100 individuals. I can just imagine how cranky these introvert birds are after a few days with such a large flock.” ~Wild Facts
Ever since Barry moved into his present house, he’s been throwing out stale bread and crackers for the birds and bunnies in his backyard. This worked well and provided him with a lot of free entertainment until the last couple of weeks, when the latest batches of baby quail started hatching. Some of the parent quail are apparently at their wits’ end as to how to feed all these hungry little mouths, and they’ve started pecking on Barry’s glass patio door to demand more crumbs, leading him to announce, “I’ve created Frankenquail!”
Anyway, Sunday evening he and I wandered out onto the back patio before dinner, and while we were returning to the house one of the quail chicks (a little smaller than a ping-pong ball with legs) skittered inside with us and took refuge under the kitchen stove.
I immediately suggested moving the stove but Barry was afraid that the stove 1) was too heavy for us to move without injury to ourselves, and 2) would squish the quail as well. After a quarter of an hour of hand-wringing, however, he decided that he would worry all night if he just left the bird there – and who knows where it would have ended up if it had come out later on its own? – so we dragged the stove away from the wall and herded the chick into a plastic pitcher. I rushed it outside and deposited it under a sheltering bush. A few minutes later I saw it run at top speed (its legs only a blur) in the direction its family had previously taken.
I hope he (or she) caught up with the rest of the brood. I think it was pretty careless of the parent quail to move on without one of their children. Still, I can understand their problem – herding 10 or so clueless but fast-moving quail chicks must be even worse than trying to herd cats. Plus, quail apparently don’t actually like living in groups; the temptation to lose at least some of the kids may occasionally be pretty strong:
"The Quail is generally a solitary animal meaning they don’t really care for the company of other birds. Sometimes if this bird is in a gregarious mood then they will socialize with one other Quail. With that said, everything changes once mating season rolls around. During this time, different family groups will come together and form flocks as large as 100 individuals. I can just imagine how cranky these introvert birds are after a few days with such a large flock.” ~Wild Facts
Saturday, May 5, 2012
Cinco de Margarita
I don't know this for a fact, but I suspect that my husband Tom tasted his first margarita shortly after meeting me, and he instantly fell in love with it. From then on, he was on a quest to find the perfect margarita - frozen, with salt. He didn't like them overly sweet, nor reeking of an excess of tequila, but well-balanced and preferably with fresh-squeezed lime juice.
On balmy Friday evenings we would park ourselves in an outdoor cafe (frequently the one in Manhattan's Bryant Park, behind the main library), or the outdoor tables of one of our usually interior haunts, and greet the weekend with chips, guacamole, and margaritas. The entire family knew of this obsession; one year he received two (matching, amazingly enough) sets of margarita glasses for his birthday, and kept them both. Brian, his older son, inevitably took us to our first Margaritaville restaurant when we visited him in Hawaii. When we moved to Arizona, Tom's younger daughter-in-law accused him of doing so in order to be closer to tequila country; she gave him a shotglass shaped like a squatty saguaro cactus as a going-away present.
That same daughter-in-law had earlier introduced us to the the delights of the frozen margarita bucket. A relative from Georgia had brought her a bucket of On The Border's margarita mix; one adds tequila, mixes, and places the bucket in the freezer. Voila, frozen margaritas on demand! Add friends and it's an instant party. Tom was thrilled to find both the buckets and the mother lode (actual On The Border restaurants) in the Phoenix area. We also found what we thought was the perfect guacamole in a small Glendale restaurant named Lily's; the owner used his Mexican grandmother's recipe, containing nothing but avocados, onions, lime juice and a little salt. Fabulous.
Of course Tom is gone now, and Lily's also died during road construction that cut off almost all access to the restaurant, but a bucket of frozen margaritas still lives in the freezer section of my refrigerator. Tonight is Cinco de Mayo, and although I'm a little fuzzy as to what it's all about, I'll gladly celebrate any holiday that allows me to pull out the margaritas, chips, and Wholly Guacamole.
"If life gives you limes, make margaritas." ~Jimmy Buffett
On balmy Friday evenings we would park ourselves in an outdoor cafe (frequently the one in Manhattan's Bryant Park, behind the main library), or the outdoor tables of one of our usually interior haunts, and greet the weekend with chips, guacamole, and margaritas. The entire family knew of this obsession; one year he received two (matching, amazingly enough) sets of margarita glasses for his birthday, and kept them both. Brian, his older son, inevitably took us to our first Margaritaville restaurant when we visited him in Hawaii. When we moved to Arizona, Tom's younger daughter-in-law accused him of doing so in order to be closer to tequila country; she gave him a shotglass shaped like a squatty saguaro cactus as a going-away present.
That same daughter-in-law had earlier introduced us to the the delights of the frozen margarita bucket. A relative from Georgia had brought her a bucket of On The Border's margarita mix; one adds tequila, mixes, and places the bucket in the freezer. Voila, frozen margaritas on demand! Add friends and it's an instant party. Tom was thrilled to find both the buckets and the mother lode (actual On The Border restaurants) in the Phoenix area. We also found what we thought was the perfect guacamole in a small Glendale restaurant named Lily's; the owner used his Mexican grandmother's recipe, containing nothing but avocados, onions, lime juice and a little salt. Fabulous.
Of course Tom is gone now, and Lily's also died during road construction that cut off almost all access to the restaurant, but a bucket of frozen margaritas still lives in the freezer section of my refrigerator. Tonight is Cinco de Mayo, and although I'm a little fuzzy as to what it's all about, I'll gladly celebrate any holiday that allows me to pull out the margaritas, chips, and Wholly Guacamole.
"If life gives you limes, make margaritas." ~Jimmy Buffett
Monday, April 9, 2012
Hanging Uncle Guido
Since neither my mother nor my sister really likes antiques, I ended up with most of our family heirlooms, including a gallery of Victorian-era photos in their original frames. When Tom and I moved to Arizona most of the antiques ended up in our bedroom, so I hung the photos there, too.
About a year later we were browsing through a "stuff" store in Glendale when Tom spotted a photo in a frame almost identical to the one surrounding my great-grandparents. (Here's a picture of the frame and its original contents; the owners of the shop had labeled him "Uncle Guido.") Tom immediately bought the picture for the frame, intending to blow up his parents' wedding picture and add it to our rogue's gallery. However, he died before finding someone to do the work, and his parents' photo went back to his family.
Last fall, after moving into my new house and once more hanging up the ancestors, I was trying to decide what to do with Uncle Guido's frame. I asked my Dad which of our small family photos he thought I should have enlarged for it. Dad said that Uncle Guido is better-looking than any of our real relatives, so I should just hang him up and pretend he's related.
And I did. He adds a little class to the central hallway in my house. I can't help but wonder, though - who was he really? I doubt very much that he was the shopkeepers' uncle, any more than he's mine. He does look, though, as if he might have been Italian. Wouldn't it be a hoot if he really was a Guido?
"If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance." ~George Bernard Shaw
Last fall, after moving into my new house and once more hanging up the ancestors, I was trying to decide what to do with Uncle Guido's frame. I asked my Dad which of our small family photos he thought I should have enlarged for it. Dad said that Uncle Guido is better-looking than any of our real relatives, so I should just hang him up and pretend he's related.
And I did. He adds a little class to the central hallway in my house. I can't help but wonder, though - who was he really? I doubt very much that he was the shopkeepers' uncle, any more than he's mine. He does look, though, as if he might have been Italian. Wouldn't it be a hoot if he really was a Guido?
"If you cannot get rid of the family skeleton, you may as well make it dance." ~George Bernard Shaw
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Sanctifying Leftovers
I was amused earlier this year by a restaurant menu entry for shepherd's pie that ranted about the difference between REAL shepherd's pie (with lamb) and COTTAGE pie (with beef). It reminded me of other foodie fights I've seen over what types of fish must be included in bouillabaisse, whether duck or goose is necessary for a bean dish to qualify as cassoulet, and if the inclusion of raisins in Irish soda bread mysteriously transforms it into "tea cake." In all cases, at least one side of the argument states categorically that members of the group which invented the food in question always cook it THEIR way.
Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps shepherd's pie got its name because someone used lamb in it, and Irish cooks without access to raisins made their soda bread without them, but I know many people born and raised and taught to cook in Ireland who always make their shepherd's pie with ground beef and their soda bread with dried fruit. I've also eaten several very different versions of cassoulet and bouillabaisse prepared by native French cooks who learned to make the dishes while growing up in their native terroir.
Here's my theory as to what has happened:
Back in the days when most people's access to cooking equipment and ingredients was limited and standardized recipes were not yet even a gleam in Mrs. Beeton's eye, they made do with what they had. They learned to cook by watching others and by experimenting. Soups and stews - including the sacred bouillabaisse - undoubtedly started when someone threw all the leftovers lying around the house into a single pot and then added some seasonings to meld the flavors together. Over time, people grew used to certain combinations and started to believe they were the only proper versions ("That's how Mom used to make it!"), overlooking the fact that the village down the road did things a little differently. The divergence undoubtedly grew greater as the access to ingredients expanded. Baked goods probably underwent a similar process. Italian bread, for instance, traditionally didn't contain salt, but that wasn't because Italian bakers didn't like the taste of salt in their bread; it's because salt was in very short supply. I'm sure some Italian bread now does contain salt for the flavor, the longer shelf-life, and the ease with which salt can currently be obtained. Does that make it no longer Italian bread? Even when it's made by Italians in Italy??
I've been musing about this today because I'm making myself shepherd's pie tonight in honor of St. Patrick's Day, and although I did splurge on ground lamb for it, I normally make my shepherd's pie with extra-lean ground turkey to reduce the fat content. Does that mean I'm going to start calling what I usually make "turkey-herd's pie?" I think not. And let's not even start on what vegetables should or shouldn't be included. Any purists reading this will just have to agree that we disagree and turn the other way while I dump a few leftovers into the pot.
"When baking, follow directions. When cooking, go by your own taste." ~Laiko Bahrs
Maybe, maybe not. Perhaps shepherd's pie got its name because someone used lamb in it, and Irish cooks without access to raisins made their soda bread without them, but I know many people born and raised and taught to cook in Ireland who always make their shepherd's pie with ground beef and their soda bread with dried fruit. I've also eaten several very different versions of cassoulet and bouillabaisse prepared by native French cooks who learned to make the dishes while growing up in their native terroir.
Here's my theory as to what has happened:
Back in the days when most people's access to cooking equipment and ingredients was limited and standardized recipes were not yet even a gleam in Mrs. Beeton's eye, they made do with what they had. They learned to cook by watching others and by experimenting. Soups and stews - including the sacred bouillabaisse - undoubtedly started when someone threw all the leftovers lying around the house into a single pot and then added some seasonings to meld the flavors together. Over time, people grew used to certain combinations and started to believe they were the only proper versions ("That's how Mom used to make it!"), overlooking the fact that the village down the road did things a little differently. The divergence undoubtedly grew greater as the access to ingredients expanded. Baked goods probably underwent a similar process. Italian bread, for instance, traditionally didn't contain salt, but that wasn't because Italian bakers didn't like the taste of salt in their bread; it's because salt was in very short supply. I'm sure some Italian bread now does contain salt for the flavor, the longer shelf-life, and the ease with which salt can currently be obtained. Does that make it no longer Italian bread? Even when it's made by Italians in Italy??
"When baking, follow directions. When cooking, go by your own taste." ~Laiko Bahrs
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Making a Joyful Noise
One of the things I've always liked most about living alone is that it's a license to be more myself than I can be when living with someone else. Living alone means I can get up at 3AM and watch old movies with the sound on when I have insomnia. It means I can have a peanut butter and mashed banana sandwich for dinner if I want to. If I feel the urge to see Katmandu, I can make the reservations and throw a few things in a carry-on bag. And if I want to sing at the top of my lungs, only the cat objects.
I don't mean to imply that my singing is horrible. I can carry a tune. However, my voice doesn't have much of a range and it's never been trained, and my repertoire leans heavily toward old Protestant hymns, since that's most of what I sang while growing up and during my stint in our church's junior high choir. Various roommates of both sexes have suggested - politely or not - that I confine my efforts to the shower. With the bathroom door shut. (Rusty just howls.)
I haven't been much of a churchgoer since junior high - I actually consider myself to be an agnostic - but my parents' church recently hired me to do the monthly updates for their website, so I've occasionally been attending services to keep the pastor and church staff happy. A few weeks ago, one of my parents' acquaintances there tried to recruit me for the choir. I explained that my voice would not be much of an asset to them, but she introduced me to the choir director who said, "It's just about making a joyful noise." Well, hey, I can do that.
Today I went to my first choir practice and was astonished when the altos and tenors actually squabbled over which section I should join. Mind you, the average age in this church is hovering around 70, so most of the other voices in the group are probably past their prime, but I was still touched after the practice when the woman standing next to me said I have a beautiful alto. Well, no, I don't, but being encouraged to sing is a pleasant change. Now I can warble my head off on Wednesdays and Sundays without antagonizing even the cat.
I don't mean to imply that my singing is horrible. I can carry a tune. However, my voice doesn't have much of a range and it's never been trained, and my repertoire leans heavily toward old Protestant hymns, since that's most of what I sang while growing up and during my stint in our church's junior high choir. Various roommates of both sexes have suggested - politely or not - that I confine my efforts to the shower. With the bathroom door shut. (Rusty just howls.)
I haven't been much of a churchgoer since junior high - I actually consider myself to be an agnostic - but my parents' church recently hired me to do the monthly updates for their website, so I've occasionally been attending services to keep the pastor and church staff happy. A few weeks ago, one of my parents' acquaintances there tried to recruit me for the choir. I explained that my voice would not be much of an asset to them, but she introduced me to the choir director who said, "It's just about making a joyful noise." Well, hey, I can do that.
Today I went to my first choir practice and was astonished when the altos and tenors actually squabbled over which section I should join. Mind you, the average age in this church is hovering around 70, so most of the other voices in the group are probably past their prime, but I was still touched after the practice when the woman standing next to me said I have a beautiful alto. Well, no, I don't, but being encouraged to sing is a pleasant change. Now I can warble my head off on Wednesdays and Sundays without antagonizing even the cat.
“He who sings scares away his woes.” ~ Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Christmas in the Garage
A massive cleaning binge, a space heater, and a tree - and it worked so well that some attendees want to come back for all our big family holidays:
Happy Holidays to everyone!
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| The Garage |
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| The Food |
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| The Family |
Happy Holidays to everyone!
Sunday, August 28, 2011
Mainlining Fashion
Last week I finally gave up and hooked up the cable box and the TV. I still have a lot of other equipment that's lying in the bottom of the entertainment center with its loose wires waving pathetically in the air, but at least I'm no longer cut off from TCM, Masterpiece Mystery, and my guilty pleasures, What Not to Wear and How Do I Look? If you've never seen either show, their premise is that some hopelessly unfashionable (usually female) person is ambushed and made over by professional stylists.
Although I suppose I'd be mortified if my friends and family actually turned me in to the fashion police, I can't help fantasizing about someone offering me a free trip to New York or LA, a new wardrobe, and a fabulous makeover; I think I could manage to overcome the initial embarrassment after receiving The Full Treatment. Well, maybe I'd be scarred for life by the sight of my rear end in the 360 degree mirror, but at least I'd emerge from the experience with better camouflage for all my lumps and bumps.
Since I'm unlikely to be rescued from fashion failure by Stacy and Clinton or Jeannie Mai in the flesh, I do try to benefit from their electronically delivered advice. Over the past few years I've stopped wearing baggy giveaway T-shirts unless I'm refinishing furniture or painting walls. Since I can't find pants that fit off the rack, I found a tailor who can alter them appropriately. I've even made my makeup brighter to counteract my fading tan. I still need a personal visit from Ted Gibson to magically improve my hair, but maybe if I keep watching the shows I will eventually see a style that's right for me and that a local stylist can replicate.
I must admit, though, that I don't want to invest too much money in a new and improved look. If I manage to lift my look completely out of schlumpiness all by myself, I'll never get that professional fashion ambush.
"The finest clothing made is a person's skin, but, of course, society demands something more than this." ~Mark Twain
Although I suppose I'd be mortified if my friends and family actually turned me in to the fashion police, I can't help fantasizing about someone offering me a free trip to New York or LA, a new wardrobe, and a fabulous makeover; I think I could manage to overcome the initial embarrassment after receiving The Full Treatment. Well, maybe I'd be scarred for life by the sight of my rear end in the 360 degree mirror, but at least I'd emerge from the experience with better camouflage for all my lumps and bumps.
Since I'm unlikely to be rescued from fashion failure by Stacy and Clinton or Jeannie Mai in the flesh, I do try to benefit from their electronically delivered advice. Over the past few years I've stopped wearing baggy giveaway T-shirts unless I'm refinishing furniture or painting walls. Since I can't find pants that fit off the rack, I found a tailor who can alter them appropriately. I've even made my makeup brighter to counteract my fading tan. I still need a personal visit from Ted Gibson to magically improve my hair, but maybe if I keep watching the shows I will eventually see a style that's right for me and that a local stylist can replicate.
I must admit, though, that I don't want to invest too much money in a new and improved look. If I manage to lift my look completely out of schlumpiness all by myself, I'll never get that professional fashion ambush.
"The finest clothing made is a person's skin, but, of course, society demands something more than this." ~Mark Twain
Saturday, August 27, 2011
A New Low in Cat Pampering
Because this is Arizona and the climate is very dry, I try to drink a lot of water every day. I even take a glass of water to bed with me in case I get thirsty during the night. (The glass sits on the nightstand, of course; it doesn't actually join me under the covers.)
While Rusty and I were staying with my parents, she apparently noticed this phenomenon for the first time and decided to help herself to a drink. She hopped up on the bed, strolled over to the nightstand, and stuck her snout into my glass. At first I tried to shoo her away when she did this, but she doesn't really drink enough water, so I finally started putting two glasses on the nightstand every night - a plastic tumbler with a cover and a straw for me, and a short wide glass for Rusty.
So now we're in our new house and I've been using a styrofoam cup for Rusty's nightcap, but I leave the glass there all day for her, too, and it looked pretty scruffy. I scouted around the house for another short fat glass that I don't normally use, and there it was - an orphaned highball glass that had originally been Tom's. Its partner broke several years ago while being washed and I never replaced it.
Voila: I now have one of the few cats in the entire world - if not the only one - with a Waterford crystal highball glass for a water dish. (No spoiled cats in this house, oh, no...)
"I tell my wife that you can't spoil a cat. That's the way they are supposed to be treated and anything less is unacceptable." ~Robert Megee
While Rusty and I were staying with my parents, she apparently noticed this phenomenon for the first time and decided to help herself to a drink. She hopped up on the bed, strolled over to the nightstand, and stuck her snout into my glass. At first I tried to shoo her away when she did this, but she doesn't really drink enough water, so I finally started putting two glasses on the nightstand every night - a plastic tumbler with a cover and a straw for me, and a short wide glass for Rusty.
So now we're in our new house and I've been using a styrofoam cup for Rusty's nightcap, but I leave the glass there all day for her, too, and it looked pretty scruffy. I scouted around the house for another short fat glass that I don't normally use, and there it was - an orphaned highball glass that had originally been Tom's. Its partner broke several years ago while being washed and I never replaced it.
Voila: I now have one of the few cats in the entire world - if not the only one - with a Waterford crystal highball glass for a water dish. (No spoiled cats in this house, oh, no...)
"I tell my wife that you can't spoil a cat. That's the way they are supposed to be treated and anything less is unacceptable." ~Robert Megee
Sunday, August 21, 2011
In Praise of Straw
Have you ever moved into a new home and found relics left by the previous owners? Over the years I've seen everything from cleaning and gardening equipment to a sofa sleeper, old clothing and bath soap abandoned in the rush to vacate the premises. The previous owners here left behind a coffee table, a tea cart, and, yes, a sizable stash of cleaning products, including an authentic straw broom.
I can remember my mother using a straw broom when I was a small child (for that reason it's the type of broom I grew up thinking witches ride), but she switched to synthetics early on. I don't recall ever owning a real straw broom myself; I assumed because the straws were uneven to start with and more liable to break than synthetic bristles that it would be more likely to leave dirt behind and wear out more quickly. For a while I even gave up brooms entirely in favor of a Swiffer.
Yesterday, though, I grabbed the left-behind straw broom more or less at random and used it to sweep the tiled bathroom, hallway, and kitchen, and I was amazed at how effective it was. It removed dust from the corners better than either a Swiffer or a synthetic broom, it didn't have any static issues, and the sweeping actually took less time than usual. I believe I'm going to hang on to it and put my old synthetic broom out in the garage sale pile.
I guess sometimes progress isn't.
"A new broom sweeps clean, but the old broom knows the corners.” ~Irish Saying
I can remember my mother using a straw broom when I was a small child (for that reason it's the type of broom I grew up thinking witches ride), but she switched to synthetics early on. I don't recall ever owning a real straw broom myself; I assumed because the straws were uneven to start with and more liable to break than synthetic bristles that it would be more likely to leave dirt behind and wear out more quickly. For a while I even gave up brooms entirely in favor of a Swiffer.
Yesterday, though, I grabbed the left-behind straw broom more or less at random and used it to sweep the tiled bathroom, hallway, and kitchen, and I was amazed at how effective it was. It removed dust from the corners better than either a Swiffer or a synthetic broom, it didn't have any static issues, and the sweeping actually took less time than usual. I believe I'm going to hang on to it and put my old synthetic broom out in the garage sale pile.
I guess sometimes progress isn't.
"A new broom sweeps clean, but the old broom knows the corners.” ~Irish Saying
Saturday, June 25, 2011
For the Birds
In addition to putting out vegetable peelings and stale bread for the birds and the bunnies, my mother keeps a dish filled with water in the back yard. It's one of those small oval baking dishes sometimes used for individual portions of lasagna or creme brulee.
Today at lunchtime I looked out the kitchen window and saw a large black grackle standing right in the middle of the water dish. I pointed him out to my parents and Dad said, "If you'd been walking across that gravel in the 106 degree heat, you'd want to soak your feet, too."
I don't know; my bet is that the stupid bird was thinking, "Wow - this is the smallest bird bath I've ever visited."
"I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than of cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their songs." ~Joseph Addison, The Spectator
Today at lunchtime I looked out the kitchen window and saw a large black grackle standing right in the middle of the water dish. I pointed him out to my parents and Dad said, "If you'd been walking across that gravel in the 106 degree heat, you'd want to soak your feet, too."
I don't know; my bet is that the stupid bird was thinking, "Wow - this is the smallest bird bath I've ever visited."
"I value my garden more for being full of blackbirds than of cherries, and very frankly give them fruit for their songs." ~Joseph Addison, The Spectator
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