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Christmas Pageant 2011

2012-01-05T16:31:00.000-08:00

The church Christmas Pageant of 2011 was one of the best yet, as far as I was concerned. I am the organist, and usually a day ahead I am given a notebook with the script for the play. It doesn’t matter what is written there; I won’t hear the words muttered into microphones at the other end of the sanctuary, and won’t know when to play the congregational carols. This year the Sunday School superintendent played the only song the parents and doting grandparents were allowed to sing in the middle of the production. The rest was karaoke!!! The woman confided that she gets physically sick the days she has to play. She said she took one look at the accompaniments and told the director she couldn’t possibly play the pop, syncopated rhythms called for. I don’t know who ran the iPod, but they did an excellent job. The superintendent, meanwhile, was struggling. I thought that was overkill for playing “Away in the Manger”, but then I noticed she accompanied one of the teens for a solo. She did a wonderful job, as did the boy. She also helped direct from the side, singing and going through the hand motions. After I saw all she did, I understood why she was nervous.

The pastor’s wife proudly showed me the new costumes several weeks ago. I knew before she pointed to it, that the blue costume was for Mary. I think Mary has dressed in blue since the dark ages. Poor thing never has a choice, but she is always recognizable, even if played by the roughest tomboy in the group. Our sheep were a frisky lot, on two feet as often as four. I’m sure the real shepherds wouldn’t recognize their counterparts, whose costumes were a bit too designer perfect. You can usually pick out the wise men who carry pretty boxes, but at a distance I couldn’t see if they had anything in their hands. The angels were the ones who really looked spiffy, having just earned their new wings. They will look more realistic next year. The wings were useful, though, because you often can’t tell the difference between angels and choirs. One angel’s mother took no chances on the costume. Her daughter was dressed in a floor length white dress.

The only mistake was Pastor’s skipping over one choir piece. We quickly jumped in at the next available quiet spot. It wouldn’t take a wise man to know we did the right thing. At the end, the director had each set of characters take a formal bow before exiting down the center aisle of the church while the relatives clapped loudly. It was a resounding success.

Anne’s Americanized English Christmas Pudding

2011-12-09T18:42:00.000-08:00

Stir together:

1/2 cup flour

Pinch salt

Breadcrumbs – 2 slices of bread whirled in a food processor

1 cup brown sugar

Lemon rind if you have any

¼ cup cocoa (first American aberration)

1 Tbsp cinnamon

1 tsp nutmeg

1 tsp ground cloves

1 tsp allspice

Measure 5 ½ cups of fruit in another bowl:

3 cups raisins

1 cup dried cranberries

1 ½ cups candied fruit

Some chopped almonds, if you like nuts

Or whatever ratio of the above that you like

Melt about ¼ cup butter or margarine.

To the dry ingredients, add the melted butter, 2 eggs and about ¼ cup of brandy or fruit juice. Stir well and add to the fruit. At this point, call everyone in the house to the kitchen. It’s traditional for all to take a turn at the stirring while making a wish. I personally think this is done so that everyone will have a stake in the outcome and will agree to eat some on Christmas Day.

Grease a five cup Pyrex bowl, put in the fruity batter, cover with aluminum foil, and steam on high in a crock pot for about 6 hours. When it’s cool enough to handle, remove from the crock pot, let it cool, cover with plastic wrap, and store in an airtight plastic bag in an unreachable corner of the refrigerator until Christmas. Haul it out the day you are serving it, replace the plastic wrap with aluminum foil, and steam it in the crock pot again for about two hours. You’ll be sorry if you forget to remove the plastic wrap. It won’t matter if you forget the pudding while it’s steaming, because 4 or 5 hours wouldn’t harm this indestructible blob.

Brandy butter. Cream together:

Half a stick of butter

1 cup confectioner’s sugar

A little milk, just so there is something virtuous in there

Add brandy – as much as it takes. Our family doesn’t drink, but oh! do they like a generous portion of tipsiness to drown out the pudding! Come to think of it, go back and double everything above.

Serve with flair. Run a thin knife around the edge of the pudding to loosen it. Cover with a pretty plate and turn both together so that the upside down plate is now right side up, and the pudding is on its head. It won’t get a headache, although you might if you eat too much brandy butter. It’s important that you unmold the pudding while it’s quite warm. Pour a little brandy in a cup or bowl and warm for a few seconds in the microwave. The last time I did this, I probably used a quarter of a cup, and it was too much. The silly thing burned for five minutes and almost singed the children’s hair. So, let’s say less than ¼ cup brandy warmed for 10 to 15 seconds. It needs to be hot but not boiling. Make sure all guests are watching as you pour the hot brandy over the pudding and immediately touch a lighted match to the bottom. If you use too much brandy, the family will have time to sing ALL the verses of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas” before the flame goes out. If you used a paper plate to avoid having to wash the dish, the plate will now self destruct, ruining the pudding. Settle everyone at the table and divide up the brandy butter, and all will go home happy. Ideally, you’d slice the pudding and pass the brandy butter to the children first so that Uncle Jim doesn’t hog it all for himself. This isn’t going to work, anyway, because the pudding will crumble. You might as well just use a spoon to dole it out. It’s really better if no one looks at his plate while eating because the pudding looks like a mess or worse. You might start a discussion of Christmas customs in England, bringing in Scrooge and some of the ghosts if you need to scare anyone into submission.

As they say in England, “Happy Christmas!”

Alzheimer’s Watch

2011-11-21T04:12:00.000-08:00

I am inviting everyone we know to be on our Alzheimer’s watch team. One of us has Alzheimer’s disease, but neither of us knows which one. What a quandary! I’ve dreaded this day for 45 years, always assuming I’d be the one watching others for telltale signs. That was a silly assumption, but I was young and ignorant. I’m now on super alert, knowing my name is at the top of the list, right next to John’s. I know they say you don’t have Alzheimer’s disease if you are concerned about it, but what exactly does that mean? I can worry about all sorts of things, including losing my mind. It just comes naturally! There is one bright thought, however. I spelled the “A” word correctly without looking it up. That’s a vote in my favor, isn’t it?

Last night I reached for scissors in the kitchen junk drawer and came up with a bag of rotted lettuce.

“John!” I shouted. “Look what I just found! This bag of lettuce was in the scissors drawer! It’s rotten!”

I wouldn’t doubt my tone was accusatory, because I certainly don’t remember putting cut up lettuce in a drawer. Who would do such a thing?

John answered, “I was looking for that. I wanted to make myself a salad and couldn’t find it. That’s why I bought more at the grocery store today.”

His words implied he couldn’t have lost the lettuce, because he was actively looking for it.

We are at an impasse. Neither will actively accuse the other of doing something stupid, but the bag of lettuce is floating in our minds like a festering sore. There is no telling what silly thing could happen next that will make us doubt our sanity. That’s a no brainer.

Some of you might point out that we are often alone, though not always. Kate, David and Nate are in our kitchen on a biweekly schedule. Given their young ages, it would be a bit unreasonable to attach the “A” stigma to one of them. The other alternative is to label the lousy lettuce an accident. I can’t quite imagine sweeping a bag of produce into a drawer with scissors, but it is humanly possible. I hope you don’t mind, but if any of you witness us in a mindless action, please let both of us know in writing and keep a copy yourself. Thank you.

Post Script It was just about 24 hours after I threw out the rotten lettuce that John and I were standing in the kitchen when Nate came in. He opened the refrigerator door, shut it quickly and turned toward the junk drawer.

He said, “That’silly! I started to put the scissors in the refrigerator!”

John laughed out loud, while I exaggeratedly held my hand over Nate’s head and pointed down. We had to tell him the whole lettuce story. He found it amusing, but I’m not sure he understands that he will now be on the “A” list as a prime suspect when something goes missing. No, maybe not. Eleven would be a preposterous age to get “Old Timer’s Disease.”

A Chocolate Conversation

2011-11-15T12:07:00.000-08:00

In the office Margaret keeps telling me that Kevin is a stitch, but I haven’t had a chance to talk to him often enough to see his fun side firsthand. Today I did. When Kevin came up to the kitchen to get some soda, I asked, “You haven’t forgotten about the rum cake in the refrigerator, have you?”

He replied to my question, “I never forget about desserts.”

“I didn’t think I did, either, until I found a stash of chocolates one time,” I said.

He claimed, “I would NEVER forget about chocolate. I remembered about the Halloween candy from last year.”

“What about it?”

“It was locked in the little home safe we have,” he replied. I thought that was a bit extreme but didn’t say so.

“We just found the key for it.”

I asked, “Did the children remember?”

He said, “I don’t know.”

I thought about the ramifications of that for a moment and asked, “Have you been eating it?”

“Of course,” Kevin said. “They don’t need it because they now have a new supply from this year.”

I laughed delightedly at this frank revelation and said I would have done the same thing. He is a man I could see eye to eye to.

I said, “You may OD on it one of these days.”

“There is no chance of that,” he said. “There isn’t much left.”

Commuter Mode

2011-11-13T17:27:00.000-08:00

Husband John, grandson Nate and I set out for New Jersey last night after I came home from work. It was daughter Kate’s 40^th birthday, and we wanted to have a tiny celebration with her to mark the day. John is nearly always in commuter mode. I define that as being sure that you’re going to win the traffic game as long as you are moving. Last night John was in classic commuter mode, and that’s how we came to go from sea level on Long Island to New Jersey via the mountains.

Back to last night: We hadn’t gone far before John tuned the radio to traffic and weather. There was the dire prediction that we’d sit on some notorious parkway for half an hour.

“We’re NOT going to sit on the Cross Bronx for three hours. I’ll try something else.”

That was the story of the whole trip. After we were on the first alternate road, electronic signs said to expect delays. Although John is left-handed, he kept edging to the right with each successive announcement of jammed traffic. The cars on the road were not necessarily stopped ahead, but a pessimist or a true commuter would jump to that conclusion. By the time we were well north of the city, Nate was sound asleep. In the dark, no one could see that I was glassy-eyed and hardly able to focus on the hint of interesting scenery sliding past.

John crowed, “We may have put on extra miles, but we kept moving. That’s better than sitting still, looking at somebody’s bumper, isn’t it?”

Husband detected a bit of disagreement in my silence. I could tell he was feeling victorious, whereas I had lost all feeling in my back side an hour before. I finally mumbled something about I was glad he was driving and not me, which was a true statement as far as it went. By then I was dreaming of my own warm bed far behind us. I will say traffic was moving well across the Tappan Zee Bridge. I called Kate to tell her we were off the bridge and traveling south. I didn’t know it then, but we would soon be crawling, not traveling, behind a big truck on a two-lane road. We also stopped for cheap gas, because that station would be closed when we left for home. I watched the clock, hoping we’d make it before Kate and Michael’s bedtime. Their house was dark as we pulled in the drive, although there was a small light shining feebly next to the garage. Nate, now awake and eagerly wanting to present his mother with her gifts, leaped from the car and charged up the front steps. If Kate and Michael had fallen asleep, they covered it well. They were graciousness personified as they served huge mugs of hot tea and Michael’s delicious strawberry cake. The least we could do was sing Happy Birthday, but we forgot that fine point in the relief of having arrived at all. We might have outstayed our welcome before we arrived, but we settled down at the dining table as if we were wanted guests. Maybe we were – you know how the posters read – wanted, dead or alive. After an hour’s visit, we headed home, making it in one hour and twenty minutes instead of three hours it took the first time. We stumbled back in our house, and my dream of being in a warm bed came true an hour before midnight. It’s a good thing that we don’t commute to New Jersey or anywhere else on a daily basis.

Cane Drags His Heel

2011-11-11T13:50:00.000-08:00

It was only after Nancy and her dog Teddy headed home, that I noticed my cane was dragging his heel. He was only copying me, I guess. My feet were ankle deep in crisp autumn leaves, and I wasn’t prancing like a show horse. Neither did cane. We made quite a racket striding down the street, but no one could have heard us over the noise of the wind. Even though the temperature was only in the mid 40s, I was glad of my buffering windbreaker. At that, the wind repeatedly tried to peel the jacket off my back. When we got home, I was totally disheveled, but the old cane hadn't turned a hair.

Duck Talk

2011-09-25T12:57:00.000-07:00

Neighbor Nancy had already run a huge circle with Labradoodle Teddy when she doubled back to walk with me. She said Teddy seems to need both speed and time spent outside. When we were next to the water at the millpond, I heard the low grumble of male mallards. I told Nancy that my dad explained the males do the grumbling, and the females do the quacking that we associate with ducks. I did a quiet imitation.

Nancy laughed when a real duck replied behind me, “Quack! Quack! Quack!”

What on earth do you suppose I said in duck talk?

A Hoot Verified

2011-09-23T14:52:00.000-07:00

I heard the big owl while I walked from the village parking lot to the boat ramp.

“Did you hear the owl?” I asked one of the men who regularly drops by the beach area early in the morning. I noticed these men when I resumed walking in the village after knee surgery. They come from various directions, park near the boat ramp with their windows open, and enjoy chatting with each other.

“Sparky said he heard it,” Denny replied.

I was being careful not to call the bird a hoot owl. When I first heard that call years ago, I looked in the bird book for a hoot owl and found there wasn’t one. I distinctly remember my grandmother telling a tale for us children about a hoot owl. She made the story come alive by imitating an owl sound. That must have been a standard southern thing to call those nocturnal birds “hoot owls.” Another is the habit of calling a dog, not necessarily a young dog, a puppy dog. Kitty cat is more universal. Why people from the south slow their speech even more with double-named animals is beyond me. Nothing brands one as a southerner quicker than using puppy dog in a sentence. I didn’t want to stigmatize myself with colloquial speech any more than I had to. The accent is bad enough. Hoot owl would not cross my lips.

Sparky was walking down the ramp to the floating pier. He joined the conversation saying, “I heard the hoot owl. I’ve never seen it flying, but it’s got to be a big bird.”

What a hoot! Sparky called it a hoot owl! Maybe that’s what everyone says when they don’t know the exact name of the bird!

The first thing I did when I walked in the house was to get out the marvelous bird book husband John bought me. I played the clip of the Great Horned Owl, which is what I thought I’d heard this morning. The rhythm wasn’t the same, nor was the range as low. I played five or six different calls until I came to the one that matched the village bird. It was a Barred Owl, a common owl living in New York year round. I’ll have to remember the name is eminently acceptable, not barred from my speech.

Dirt Devil, Aptly Named

2011-09-07T15:10:00.000-07:00

In my mind, cleaning is just an exercise in rearranging dirt. Nothing is everlastingly clean, and whatever you do will have to be done again in an amazingly short time. I stretch that short time to the limits. Because the squirrels had been pelting our stoop with beech nut hulls, we tracked in thousands of sharp edged pieces. Most of them were scattered about the carpet inside the front door, but others made their way to the alcove at the top of the stairs and into my bedroom. For the past week I’ve swept the stoop once or twice a day to interrupt the cycle, but much damage had already been done. After my husband and grandsons went to the county park to ride steam trains, I hauled out the little Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner. It failed at the end of my last session, but husband John got it going again. I don’t think he did anything to it, except maybe glare at it. Starting with the dining room, I pushed and pulled the red machine under the table, all around and under the chairs. I stopped twice, and where I stopped, the machine deposited dirt. I might as well have been walking a dog! A dog moves around and makes deposits which you have to clean up, but at least it wags its tail and responds to you. Moving into sunlight in the kitchen area, I saw there was no dirt in the clear holder. Great! Only the dirt held by suction was actually transported to another place. The rest must have been scattered into the corners, where it will remain unseen because I won’t look. You’d better not look, either, if you know what’s good for you. I took the Dirt Devil apart and found the assembly had not been properly seated, undoubtedly because I hadn’t twisted it all the way the last time.

The Devil and I began again in the living room where the real mess was (and is). Most of the hulls were no longer evident by sight, although I’m sure a bare foot would find plenty to complain about. I was ready to stop when the vacuum stopped itself. By hand I picked up the biggest pieces left under the machine and dragged it to the kitchen. When I unlatched the holder, dirt sprayed in all directions. I emptied the now full container and saw with dismay that the Devil had dirt in its holder and all over the top. I turned the whole machine upside down over the garbage and shook it for good measure. Anger is a great help in times like this. I made sure the wicked thing was put together tightly. Plugging it in near the coffee maker, I pressed the start button, hoping to clean up the new mess I’d just made. Nothing happened. It wouldn’t go when connected in the dining room, either. Rats! I shoved the thing ignominiously under the window and went back to pick up the biggest pieces of hulls and dirt in the kitchen. And that, my friends, is why I make myself vacuum at least twice a year, whether the carpets need it or not.

Rethinking the Interview

2011-08-04T14:25:00.000-07:00

Image via Wikipedia

Perhaps I'm thinking too much about it, but for the past few weeks, I haven't been able to get the concept of interviewing off my mind. Now I've been interviewing people for over a decade. You'd think I really know all the ins-and-outs by now. I even wrote articles about how to do an interview for The Writer and Suite 101. But this summer the game (or I) changed a bit.

Am I becoming a Workaholic?

The first inkling I had that something might be amiss was when I, along with my family, was relaxing at a friend's house. I was chatting with an artist who had recently returned from Africa. Fascinating. I reached for some chips and guacamole to keep my hands from grabbing a recording device in my pocket. This was fun. Not an interview. Still, I couldn't stop my flood of questions.

I confessed my dilemma to my husband at the end of the evening when we were home. He laughed and commented that he could see I was struggling. It's those darn interviewing instincts. They just kick in! (note to self - write article on African art from an American perspective so I can follow up with a legit QA session).

Relax - It's Summer

One of my favorite parts of my job is getting to "meet" the people I interview. Sure, it's usually by phone, but I still get unique insight into their lives. Love that.

But I think I'm getting a bit too driven.

A nice conversation has turned into a whirlwind tour. For example, when I get a 15-minute interview, I generally have six questions prepared. In my last two interviews, I was done in less than eight minutes. Self-anaysis time. Why were they so short? I can think of two reasons.

1. The interviewee was not one of my favorite people. In fact, I wondered what kind of drugs were in this person's system. The individual couldn't care less about the viewing audience for the film created, and had no personal opinions. The person didn't even have a dream for what might come next in their working universe. Weird. And a total waste of my time. Good thing I liked the film so I can write more about that.

2. The interviewee was one of my favorite people. I was so excited about interviewing the person and discovered the person was as wonderful in person as I could ever have hoped for. Thanks to my excitement, and the fact that the person was so popular that I knew there was a full docket of interviews ahead in the person's schedule, I rushed it. That 15 minutes of time was allotted to me, and I blew it. And to make things worse, I probably seemed rude in the process because I didn't take time for a bit of chit-chat even when I knew time wasn't of the essence. Rudeness isn't cool.

Proactive Planning

So what did I learn from it all?

I went into the interview from choice #1 knowing the person might be like that, based on my research. Next time I have to deal with that - I'm having at least 30 questions prepared. I'm also going to break the interviewer's rule and ask some questions with yes/no answers. At least I'll get some sort of response I can print.

For interviewees like the second one, I'm going to relax and enjoy the conversation. That was a serious job perk I threw away. Never again.

It all goes to show you live and learn, even after a decade of work. That's a good lesson to remember.

At Least It Wasn't a Worm

2011-07-20T14:22:00.000-07:00

I needed to use up the filling I'd made for burritos.

I said to myself, “Anne, you may as well take this to the office because no one else is going to eat it.”

The tortilla wouldn't fit on the small china plate I keep there, so I found a paper plate in the cabinet. I avoid using disposables when I can, but I needed a bigger base for the large tortilla. Everything was fine until I took it out of the microwave. The soggy filling was dripping all over the counter. I pulled the china plate under the paper one to catch the mess and took it to my desk. It would be easy to clean up the china plate later. It was Friday when we are allowed to eat at our desks and leave early at the end of the day. All was well until I finished and noticed a small gap in the paper plate. It was about a quarter of an inch wide and an inch long. I looked for that bit of paper, but there was nothing left on the china plate -- nothing. I realized the texture of a tough tortilla and a soft paper plate were identical. I guess fiber is the name of the game. At least it wasn't a worm.

Green's Limit

2011-07-06T10:24:00.000-07:00

Digital self portrait

Tuna fish salad seemed a good idea for the midday meal, since I didn’t know when husband John would get his lunch break. We try to have our days off together, but for some reason he was working and I was not. I prepared the tuna salad, read the newspaper, heard my stomach rumble and ate at 2:00. That’s when I discovered the limit of green. The assembled sandwich had a base of one slice of whole wheat toast, topped with tuna salad and a large, crisp leaf of iceberg lettuce. I crave crunch these days and avoid the satisfying things like potato chips and crackers. There were two large stalks of celery in the salad, which was overkill to begin with. The lettuce was not only on top, it was over the top. My tongue explored each bite, trying to find an identifiable tuna taste. No luck. From now on, green will have to fade into the background. There should be a balance between “good for you” and “delicious.”

War in the Swimming Pool

2011-06-22T14:13:00.000-07:00

David, Anne, Nate

I may never walk right again, but oh! I can still swim! Our grandsons were eager for their second swim in two days and were pleased that I put on my suit. John (Grandpa), wanting to be available to the family for Father’s Day, put his suit on too, although he didn't go in the water. Their mother Kate did her duty by swimming with them yesterday. The boys seemed very pleased to have me there and were very solicitous for my welfare. David (16) stood behind me as I leaned on John and Kate for that first steep step. I cringed when my feet were in the water, and Nate (11) asked if there were anything he could do for me. I was groaning on the next step down. Nate’s advice was to move around and keep going. I was convinced I was a lunatic when the water was up to my waist. Finally I plunged in and swam to the far end and back. Then everything was OK -- no, more than just OK. I could swim as well as I did 30 years ago. It was like turning back the clock! The new knees were watertight and moving better than the originals had for the last 10 years.

The boys were playing with rings and torpedoes. David retrieved the toys from the bottom of the pool that Nate threw for him, and Nate set up torpedoes on a floating toy. It was all very pleasant and civil. I did laps on the shady side, wanting to really exercise while staying cool. I’m not particularly vain, but I was glad only the bottom ends of my hair were wet and that the top looked good. David didn’t do a cannonball when I was near, always warning me when he was going to jump in. He got out routinely to warm up, while Nate and I, with our superior insulation, never got out. As you might guess, this was very, very tame. We all became a bit careless, sometimes bumping into each other. They brought out more toys, and some of the things splashed me. For that there would be a quick, “Sorry, Gran.”

The action escalated when the splash bombs came out. “Watch out, Gran!” Splat!

Then it was, “Catch this one, Gran! Oops!”

I threw them back to Nate, trying to aim the soggy floaters so that he could catch them. That didn’t last long. I learned to throw them hard, aiming at the face for a full frontal assault. Nate hit me on the lips, and I came up spluttering. “You asked for this one, Nate!” Wham!

By the end of the session I looked like a drowned rat. The boys merely looked a bit damp.

Monkey Business

2011-05-19T18:09:00.000-07:00

In St. Paul’s day, there was a statue to an unknown god that people must have worshiped in case there was one they overlooked. I can resonate to that, only I’m thinking of worry, not worship. The second time I went to the dermatologist, he told me ahead of time that he would do a full body scan the next time. I thought I knew what was coming, so I didn’t worry about it. I should have set aside some serious time to worry. I assumed (and we all know one should not assume) that I’d take off ALL my clothes, every last stitch, and put on a very inadequate paper gown.

The day came that I hadn’t worried about. The nurse guided me to an examination room, handed me the aforementioned skimpy covering and said something that caused a deer in the headlights expression to cross my face.

She said, “Take everything off EXCEPT your underwear.”

Oh! My goodness! What do I do now? Am I wearing holey underwear? Please tell me I didn’t pick out the Halloween pair this morning. Walmart tricked me with that one. In a package of three they covered the orange pair with one each of green and beige. I wear the orange ones only when all the others are in the wash, and there is no other choice. Come to think of it, the green and beige ones are long gone, washed and worn out ages ago. Getting dressed in the dark, there is no telling what I might have carelessly slapped on my body. Am I wearing one that has runs in it and looks like a reject from the hosiery drawer? Go on, nurse. Let’s get this over with. Oh. Whew! No holes, no strings, no runs. I’ve been saved from total embarrassment.

That happened a year or two ago, but you can tell the memory is as fresh as a spring breeze. The appointment I kept Thursday was made about eight months ago. They said at the time that they’d do another body scan, so I carefully remembered that and worried accordingly. What was there to worry about this time? I’ll tell you. Avoiding holes and runs was a given. Making the choice from the best underwear in the drawer was nerve wracking. What if you chose something Victoria would keep a secret? The doctor is young and quite good looking. Go a little too lacy or a bit skimpy and you’d look like a tart ready to flirt and go into high gear. Err on the conservative side, and you’d look like a novice headed for the nunnery. I must have made the right choice, because the dermatologist obviously had eyes only for unusual bumps on my skin. His diligence was rewarded. He marked a tiny spot on my back with parentheses of indelible ink, took a digital photo of it and showed it to me.

I ended up feeling like a monkey. I don’t remember that he did it before, but this time he examined my scalp. If he were looking for lice, that would be nit hunting if not nit-picking. His fingers walked intently through my hair, and all I could think of was one monkey grooming another, only I was perched on an exam table, not a tree. Thank goodness I resisted the urge to make monkey sounds and swing off the table!

a.m.

Hats!

2011-05-01T17:41:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a society that decreed a woman should wear a hat to church and to afternoon parties. Maybe we were supposed to wear them to weddings, too, but I wasn’t invited to any. 50 years later it’s rare to see a hat. Gail in our church wears one to services, as does Joann. That’s roughly 2 out of 200 people. Hats are still in across the sea, as shown on TV at Kate and William’s royal wedding in Westminster Abbey. I don’t think I saw a single woman without something decorative on her head. The commentators mentioned several designers of women’s dresses and a couple of hat designers, but they reserved their criticism for hats. It seemed to be open season for taking a shot at hats. It doesn’t seem fair. Not a single comment was made about men’s wear, other than to say what regiment a uniform came from. No man’s tie, shoes or cuff links got a mention. Why did all the women agree to perch hats on their heads? Decorative hats are totally useless except for blocking the view of people behind you. Well, there were a few with feathers that could have been used for tickling someone, but surely that would be frowned on in church. The Muslim women didn’t have a choice, but at least their head coverings matched their clothing.

I could accept the little hats that said, “I’m sitting here on this head because they wouldn’t let my owner into the wedding without it.”

The cardinal’s hat said, “I’m good for keeping this bald head slightly warm.”

The hats of Prince Andrew’s daughters stated, “We’re here to make these young ladies look totally ridiculous. One of us is the color and shape of a raw pretzel. The other is not big enough to hide a bad hair day.”

The top hats had nothing to say. They were merely carried, never seen on anyone’s head. Talk about being totally useless!!!

Did you see the wife of a well-known soccer player? Her little round black hat, worn totally on her forehead, was almost low enough to double as an eye patch. She was evidently quite worried about it, because she never cracked a smile the whole time the camera was aimed at her. There was another bright blue hat in the shape of a canoe that looked like it was going to land on the wearer’s nose. Camilla’s headgear appeared to be a bowl helmet with a brim. The bride’s mother looked like her hat aimed at the top of her head, but got stuck on the side with superglue. Several women were wearing saucers molded flat against their hair. There were little airy things that pretended to be fake birds, hopefully house trained. Several hats were HUGE. I presume the women under them used directional signals so their pew-mates wouldn’t be wiped out if they turned their heads. If a rushing Pentecostal wind had arisen, they would have been lifted right up to the high ceiling and pinned there. I saw several dark hats that, if they were moving across the floor, I would attack with a broom – much akin to nasty varmints. Heaven only knows how some of those creations stayed on. I remember having hat pins that could double as miniature swords -- protection from a fierce attacker, presumably. The pins were dangerous to the wearer, as well. If you missed, you might puncture your skull and have brains leaking out under your hat. Maybe that’s why some hats were so tight, to contain the seepage. Frankly, I’m glad to be done with all that silly business. I do have other, more important things to think about. For instance, if I were a milliner in England, I would worry that America’s hatlessness would become the rage in England.

One of the last times I wore a hat.

Wing Nut

2011-04-27T15:18:00.000-07:00

I have one wing out of commission today. It began yesterday, repeating a malady that has hit two or three times before. Since it’s my left arm that is affected, I guess that makes me right wing – yes, a real wing nut. There was nobody with me in the house last night, and I just sat and groaned. I probably sounded like a sick whale. I knew I hadn't gotten better during the night when I woke up on my back. I never sleep on my back! I wouldn’t bore you with the trials of old age, but it’s funny. It’s funny because it isn’t happening to you. I told husband John the other day that old age always takes me by surprise. When I was young, I never imagined getting old. If I saw my mother limp, I said to myself that I wouldn’t do that. I’d walk straight. The laugh was on me, since I’ve walked with a cane since July 2010.

I never know whether to ice or heat an aching muscle, so I did both. I kept the shoulder warm under the duvet all night and exposed it to a brisk 45 degree breeze at the beach. Nothing seemed to help. I found an OTC pain killer that was only slightly out of date. (My daughter will roll her eyes when she reads that sentence.) Since I’m a pessimist, I don’t expect it to help, anyway.

Closing the car door was a real hurdle. Out of habit the left arm reached out and quickly fell back. Right arm sighed and dramatically reached across to pull at the top of the door and retract quickly before being caught. Oddly enough, using the cane didn’t hurt. Getting dressed once for walking and a second time for going to work was a struggle. If my clothes looked a little lopsided, it’s because they were. I proceeded with the hair wash cycle, easily putting shampoo in the left hand. Great! Looking down, I wondered how I could get it on top of my head. Shutting my eyes, I groaned and went THWAP! Not bad. The right hand stoically did the washing and rinsing. There were lots of useless grunts and groans as I toweled off and tried to remove moisture from my hair. I held the hair dryer in one place, trying to move my head in front of it, which wasn’t very effective. With any luck, there will be wind in the parking lot so that I can arrive at work looking fashionably windblown.

Concrete Boots

2011-04-16T15:34:00.000-07:00

While doing knee exercises prescribed by my physical therapist, I remembered I wanted to do a quick cleaning of the bathtub. I like to do it first so the chemicals have a chance to sit there and do their job before I turn on the shower.

I turned from the sink, took two steps toward the tub and asked myself, "What on earth is going on? Why is it so hard to walk? Have I had a stroke? Am I wearing concrete boots? Is the mob going to throw me in the ocean?"

Before I could look down, I remembered I was wearing ankle weights. I'm up to 4 pounds now, heading toward a maximum of 5. This makes the knees work harder without my having to do anything. I had never taken so much as one step away from the exercises and didn't know what it felt like to walk with weights. What a relief to know I could return to normal walking in a matter of minutes!

Physical Therapist Builds Aged Superwoman

2011-03-19T12:38:00.000-07:00

Gradually Rebecca, my magical therapist, added new exercises for me to do every day. My desire is to walk like a human being, not a Weeble. We concentrated on the knee and leg before branching out to core exercises for general strength. The ones I found hardest to do involved a mental hurdle – going up the driveway backwards and sideways. I did them today, quite furtively. I doubt anyone would see me, and why should I care if they think I’m crazy? I still resisted exposing myself to public scrutiny.

Last night I did an exercise that Rebecca gave me yesterday. She wanted me to do a “plank” on the bed, but it hurt the skin on my knees and shins. She traded that for leaning against the sink, like doing modified push-ups, but without moving the arms. Shortly before I went to bed, I stood well away from my dresser, then leaned on it, keeping the back and arms straight. All of a sudden I realized that massive dresser was moving slightly! Three burly men would have difficulty shifting it, and here I was just leaning on it and could feel it going away from me. Amazing! Rebecca had made me an aged Superwoman! There might be no stopping me now. As you might guess, there was more to the story than that. I looked down at my bare feet and saw they were slipping on the carpet. It was fleeting fame, gone before I made a complete fool of myself and tried to fly.

March 2010

My First Ebook is Published

2011-03-10T14:00:00.000-08:00

Everybody's doing it, so why not me? A few weeks ago I decided that come hell or high water I WOULD put up at least one ebook. I researched on blogs and forums. I asked questions. I watched video tutorials. I wrote.

My awesome writing partners helped with the edits (sadly I forgot to run the cover by them, and managed to mess it up). But I got it online and it's now in the store at Amazon in both the United States and the United Kingdom. It's entitled Beyond the Bed: Ways to Help Others When You Are on Bed Rest.

Now I have a lot of people telling me they want to read my book but don't have a Kindle. No worries! You don't need one. The Kindle program works on Macs, PCs, and numerous other devices. Simply download it from the Amazon site.

The experience taught me a lot, and I am looking forward to trying different ebook companies to see what happens to sales. It's a good start though, and I know at least one sale is from a non-relative :-)

Feel free to share your own e-publishing experiences. And extra bonus points go to those who see the error(s) on my cover. I will fix it in a few weeks, but don't want it disabled as I work on the fix since it's freshly publicized. I'm gonna turn my shame into a game...

It's a Writer's Nightmare - My Writing Confession

2011-02-13T18:31:00.000-08:00

Image From:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/erinkohlenbergphoto/5406459295

You know those little things that separate a novice from a professional? Now that I've been writing professionally for over a decade, I am (in theory) not supposed to be doing that novice stuff anymore. But I've got one serious area of weakness. It's its. Yup. I wrote that right. It's "its."

Since first grade I've thought it somewhat silly that we have to explain to native English speakers the difference between it's with an apostrophe and its without. To me, it's pretty obvious. The apostrophe is there to make up for the second letter "i" in "it is." Unfortunately, I also know the rule of possession. If something belongs to the word before it, you add an apostrophe to show possession (ex: the boy's book).

This is where my bad habits come in. Even while my brain knows that you don't add the apostrophe to the word "its" unless you are trying to shorten "it is," my fingers don't seem to get the message. I invariably, instinctively type the apostrophe to show possession (ex: They grabbed it's leg - WRONG!). To the average reader, it looks like I don't know the difference between possession and contractions.

Soooo, here is another thing to work on in my writing. If you are reading something I wrote on the Internet on Suite 101 or some other site, you are very likely to spot this error. Big sigh. At least you will know it was legitimately written by me.

Do you have any writing quirks you would like to share?

Wild Kratts Come to PBS KIDS GO!

2011-01-21T19:20:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite parts of my job is that I get to interview people who love making great shows for kids. This week, I was super excited to have the opportunity to interview Chris and Martin Kratt.

My kids grew up with Kratt's Creatures and Zabomofoo. The shows made such an impression that when I told my kids that I was doing the interview, they not only cheered, but my 17-year-old asked me to see if we could get a signed autograph. Now that's something.

My 11-year-old and I tucked in to watch the screener sent to us by the public relations firm that set up the interview, and we were immediately hooked on the live action/animated episodes. I learned so much I had never known before. My husband wasn't going to watch with us, but as he wandered through the room, he, too, was hooked. He ended up sitting through both the episodes we were watching that night.

The phone interview went smoothly, and the brothers were very fun to talk to. I know they had an insanely busy day, but they never made me feel rushed. And not only did they agree to send me an autographed image, but they actually sounded enthusiastic about it. What great guys.

As a writer, I find it particularly hard to write about things I care about. You might think that would make it easier, but I actually agonize over each word, and articles I feel the most excited about often take two to three times as long as articles I'm not as invested in. This was one of those long ones.

Anyway, the Kratt brothers gave me enough information for at least two or three articles. You can find my first one on Suite 101. If you love animals, then this series is definitely worth looking into. These brothers are the best!

Oh, and by the way, if you and your kids are into gaming and learning about animals, check out the Wild Kratt website on the PBS KIDS GO! website. You can make your own avatar and collect power suits that'll give you powers you can use in other games.

Snow Day

2011-01-20T13:21:00.000-08:00

Image by Steve Parker http://www.flickr.com/photos/sparker/3247441398/

Guest Post by Tonia Slimm

Looking out the window the other night I watched the lights reflecting off the snow as the cars drove by. As I stood there I was reminded of that warm cozy feeling I get when I’m safe and snug at home.

The morning had been one of those questionable ones, a cold winter day with snow expected. The kind of day young children love and older ones pray for. This particular morning started just as the weatherman had predicted it would, with snow.

As school cancellations scrolled along the bottom of the television I was reminded of that feeling I would get as a child when school was canceled. The first instant was of pure joy, the next moment of planning what I would fill my day with. There then followed the feeling of peace, comfort and safety; knowing I would be safe and warm tucked inside my home with my family, everyone together. I always loved that feeling.

On this day, as an adult, all those feelings washed over me again. A snow day, I was so excited. You need to understand something though, I homeschool my two younger kids (my two older ones are in college). Snow really does not affect our day at all. I still felt that peaceful, comforting feeling wash over me though. We were all tucked inside our safe warm home! My next thought was, “ What shall we do today?”

Although nothing exciting happened on this particular day, we did spend time together as a family. We read together a missionary story; an adventure from South America. We played in the snow and then cleaned the walks. We drank hot cocoa and enjoyed each other’s company. It was a good day.

As I stood that night looking out the window at the lights reflecting off the snow I let that “Snow Day” feeling wash over me again. A feeling of peace and comfort, that feeling of being tucked inside my home safe and warm with my family. That feeling that everything is all right with my world. I was happy.

A Puzzling Experience

2011-01-14T19:14:00.000-08:00

A Guest Blog by Becki Libick

Image From http://www.flickr.com/photos/bradmontgomery/4363410868/

I like jigsaw puzzles. Granted, they aren’t the most exciting hobby available. But I really enjoy a pursuit that keeps my hands busy while it leaves my mind free to wander or to work on one of life’s conundrums. Jigsaw puzzles fit that bill just about right. I don’t do the big 1,000 piece puzzles unless there’s a group of puzzlers around. The process is important, but completion matters, too. So the especially hard ones have no appeal, either– pictures of somebody’s marble collection, for instance.

My son once gave me a double-sided puzzle. It had a picture of Dalmations on the front and the same picture was on the back, turned 90 degrees. I don’t know if the gift was meant to affirm his confidence in Mom’s puzzling ability or to drive her completely crazy. It didn’t have a chance to do either; I gave it to a more avid puzzler than I will ever be. My favorite kind of puzzle has 500 colorful pieces and is pretty, not too difficult, and pleasant for the eyes. After all, if it demands my full attention, then my mind doesn’t get to wander at all.

Not every puzzler shares my perspective. My husband doesn’t care how big or difficult the puzzle is. He likes the thrill of the hunt, meeting the challenge, and the victorious finish. That’s fine with me. He can be the conquering hero of the jigsaw. When the puzzle is done I’ll bring my mind back to the present - at least long enough to choose another puzzle
.